Leslie Lafoy (3 page)

“I’ll refrain from comment on his likely perception of Jane.” He snorted and added, “And what his mother would think of his carrying on with her.”

“If she knew,” Carrie countered. Then, as usual, she turned to smile at Fiona and explained, “The dowager duchess is known as something of a terror. It’s no mystery at all why her son hasn’t married yet.”

Fiona shrugged. “He’s been too committed to his profession to take the time to find a wife.”

Drayton lowered his chin and cocked a brow. “Really?”

“His Grace is a surgeon,” she supplied, wondering how they could be unaware of what all of London and Great Britain and half of the Continent knew. “By all reports, an excellent one. I’ve read several of his published papers and they’re very interesting.”

Carrie chuckled softly and reached over to gently pat her hand. “Fiona, sweetheart, a wife doesn’t prevent a man from pursuing his interests. If Dunsford had wanted a wife, he could have easily had one and been a renowned surgeon, too.”

“Absolutely,” Drayton concurred. “And apparently his mother has reached the end of her patience about the matter. The word is that he’s under some considerable pressure from the dowager to find himself a wife by the end of this Season and get on with his duty of preserving the title. There’s a good deal of wagering going on in the clubs as to when and with whom he’ll commit himself.”

“Oh?” Carrie asked, grinning. “Is there money on Jane?”

“Not a pence that I’ve heard of,” Drayton replied, sounding astounded that Carrie would even ask.

Carrie turned toward Fiona again. “Everyone knows that he won’t choose anyone of whom the dowager would disapprove. She’s unhappy enough at his defiance of convention in becoming a physician.”

“Just a mere step up from being in
trade
, you know,” Drayton added dryly.

“If he were to marry an unsuitable young woman,” Carrie went on, “her life would be a living hell for as long as his mother draws breath.”

“No one seems to think he’s that callous.”

Of course he isn’t. Deep down, he has a very kind heart.

“And no one thinks the dowager’s nice enough,” Carrie added, “to do her son the favor of slipping this mortal coil any time soon.”

Fiona started. “Carrie! How could you say something so awful?”

“Remember Lady Aubrey?”

That wasn’t a kind comparison. “Yes. Not fondly, though.”

“The Dowager Duchess Dunsford—say that fast three times—makes Lady Aubrey look like a sweet, doting grandmama.”

“Thankfully,” Drayton added, “she’s following the Queen’s example and has gone into perpetual mourning. Society events have been much happier affairs since she’s been gone.”

Well, that did explain a bit about the duke’s cool detachment. She remembered the time in her life when pretending that she hadn’t really been there had been the only defense against the unrelenting meanness.

“So, Drayton, who is the favorite in the betting pools?”

“Lady Edith Shreeves, Viscount Shaddock’s eldest daughter,” he supplied with a disbelieving shake of his head. “Shaddock’s become a preening idiot over the whole thing. He’s certain that Dunsford will be calling on him any day now to make the arrangements.”

Caroline considered it all for a moment and then mulled aloud, “Not to be unkind, but … well, she’s not a very attractive young woman.”

“Yes, but Shaddock’s plumped her dowry to the point of making it an impossible-to-ignore lure. Dunsford’s wealthy enough already, but even he can’t scoff at pedigree
and
money.”

“Then he’d best be getting on with the negotiations for her,” Caroline countered. “His cousin was paying serious court this evening.”

Drayton stared at his wife a long moment, his jaw sagging a bit. “Harry? Viscount Bettles?”

“Yes, and do remember that Harry is the eldest and will be the marquis when his father passes.”

“But he’s incredibly shallow.”

He’s a perfect match for Edith. She’s shallow, too.

“Please, Drayton,” Carrie replied. “Calling Harry shallow is like calling a dwarf short. But he is charming and handsome, and Lady Edith is in her third Season.
And
Dunsford hasn’t so much as cast a passing glance her way.”

Drayton slowly smiled. “When did you become such an expert on peerage romance?”

“Good God, Drayton,” Carrie replied, grinning. “Watching the goings-on is all there is to do at these affairs. There are only so many ways to prepare beef and fish and fowl and assorted vegetables for the table. The novelty of dining passed away years ago. The fashion sense of everyone can only be described as either rut-bound by convention or retarded by the absolute lack of creativity. Conversations outside of our family are … Well, they make Viscount Bettles seem deep and highly intellectual.”

Fiona brightened. “I thought it was just me.”

“No, it’s not,” her sister assured her. “I’m afraid that your prospects of finding an interesting man are abysmal, Fiona. I’m so sorry.”

Well, she could find them, but there wasn’t any reason for them to find her. And that was an important distinction. One that she didn’t mind at all; it had saved her from having to risk hurting anyone’s feelings in turning down their marriage proposals. “Then you won’t mind if I sit out the rest of the Season?” she asked, hoping for the best and a moment of sisterly weakness.

“I certainly can’t blame you for wanting to.”

Well, that wasn’t exactly permission to escape. But it wasn’t an insistence on participation, either.

Drayton softly cleared his throat. “Lord Randolph asked after your health this evening while we were gaming.”

Randolph is a walking disaster. And beneath that is a pervert.
“One of his horses must have come up lame,” Fiona ventured. “They’re the only things in the world he genuinely cares about.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, two of them have. Or at least so he says.”

He’s beside himself to help them. Two suggests that there’s a problem in the training. Poor animals.

Carrie lowered her chin. “Fiona, don’t you dare.”

She would dare and they all knew it. But she wasn’t stupid or foolish; she knew what people thought of Randolph. They were wrong, but they thought it anyway. “I’ll just make sure he’s nowhere around when I have a look at them.”

“Make sure you take Alvin with you when you go,” Drayton instructed as their carriage rolled to a stop in front of the townhouse.

“Ralph, too,” Caroline added as the footman opened the door. “And Jim for good measure.”

Fiona reined in her smile and followed them out of the carriage, up the walk, and into the house. Declining to join them for a sherry, she left them and went upstairs to her room. It really was amazing, she mused as she went, how everyone thought of her as thoroughly naive. For heaven’s sake, she knew far more about the people around them than they did. Not that she shared the information unless there was a pressing need to do so. People were generally entitled to privacy, to keep their secrets secret. Up to the point where those secrets might endanger someone, of course.

Take Jim along to Randolph’s stables. Oh, please. Randolph preferred young men and Jim was in Drayton’s employ in the hope that one of his friends would be old, generous, and looking for companionship. If she took Jim along, he was likely to latch on to Randolph and stay for as long as the old man’s pockets had money in them. Or until Randolph put him in his will and then happily and conveniently died.

Fiona dropped her cloak on the end of the bed and then stopped as realization struck home. There was the familiar indentation in the feather comforter, but there wasn’t a black-and-white cat in it. She leaned down and laid the palm of her hand in the spot where Beeps spent three-quarters of his daily existence. The cold shuddered up her arm and down the length of her back.

“Beeps?” she called, turning about, scanning the room. “Beeps, where are you?” Nothing. Not a sound, not a telltale movement. Her heart chilling, she opened the door and wandered down the upstairs hall, opening each of the guest room doors and calling for him.

Her stomach was leaden by the time she reached the kitchen. Polly looked up from her preparations for breakfast and arched a brow. “Is something amiss, Lady Fiona?”

She could barely nod, barely get her voice pushed past her sense of dread. “Have you seen Beeps this evening?”

“He was down here a hour or so ago, Lady Fiona. Cook gave him a bit of leftover fish and a saucer of milk before she went out to get a ham for tomorrow. I don’t know where he went after that.”

Went out … Fiona looked at the door leading into the rear yard. Beeps could have slipped out for an adventure. He could be sitting on the back step patiently waiting to be let back in. But he wasn’t and she knew it. As her stomach heaved and then dropped, she took the lantern from the hearth mantel and went to look for him.

*   *   *

Ian checked the arrangement of his clothing one last time and climbed down out of the carriage. It was amazing, he decided as he made his way toward his front door, how a man could be both physically spent and invigorated at the same time. Lady Baltrip’s husbands had, without a doubt, died happy men. Just as doubtlessly, she’d killed them.

Ian grinned. God Almighty, the woman didn’t have a single inhibition or the slightest aversion to risk. Between the garden tryst, the cloakroom escapade, and the carriage ride to her townhouse, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such a wonderful time at a Society event.

The prospects for the balance of the Season were considerably brighter now. Tomorrow night was Lady Miller-Sands’ ball and Lady Baltrip—with a wink and a slow caress as she’d climbed off of him and dropped her skirts—had promised to see him there. He’d promised her that he’d make a trip by the apothecary shop beforehand to purchase an inexhaustible supply of French letters. She’d been delighted. He’d been hardening again as he walked her to her front door and reconsidering her invitation to try out the swing in her bedroom.

But duty and obligation had asserted themselves in the moment of final decision and he’d deferred on the swing until tomorrow night. Between now and then—well, between now and when he arrived at the Miller-Sands’ mansion—he’d have to find out what the hell her given name was.

Calling her his wanton was certainly accurate as statements went. She was the very definition of wanton and, in the moments when they were physically joined, she was indeed his. But it tended to imply a possessiveness and an emotional attachment that he didn’t feel in the least. She was a wonderful romp and he sincerely appreciated her easy willingness, but that was as far as it went. And as far as it was ever going to go. Terms of endearment, however tawdry, were likely to give her an entirely wrong impression of his intentions.

The door opened before him and he walked in past the footman to find the butler waiting for him in the foyer. Given the look on the man’s face … Rowan was a sour-face even on the best of days. At the moment the corners of his mouth were practically under his chin. So much for basking in the delightful memories of Lady Baltrip.

“Welcome home, Your Grace.”

“Hello, Rowan,” he said, handing off his cloak, hat and gloves and deciding to be optimistic. “I see the house is still standing. I take it that it was a fairly quiet evening?”

“Miss Charlotte refused three dinners, Your Grace.”

So much for optimism, too. “I assume it involved the usual pitching of china and silver?”

“It did.”

Ian sighed. “There’s more, isn’t there?”

“Unfortunately, yes, Your Grace. Sally has quit. She packed her bags shortly after nine and departed the house.”

And that wasn’t all of it, either. He cocked a brow and asked dryly, “What role did Charlotte play in her decision?”

“Miss Charlotte also flung the contents of her chamber pot, Your Grace. Sally was not removing the debris from the third dinner quickly enough to suit her.”

Good God. He was going to have to deal with this. It was clearly over the line. “Has Charlotte retired for the evening?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Without supper?”

“No, Your Grace. Cook was finally able to prepare something to her liking on the fourth attempt.”

He could storm up the stairs and … and … Hell, he didn’t have the foggiest notion of what he ought to do beyond crisply saying,
Bad, Charlotte! Bad!
and slapping the end of her nose with a rolled up newspaper. Since she wasn’t a puppy and he’d been given a reprieve of sorts in her having retired, he took it. A crisis among the servants he could ably and confidently manage, though. “Do you know where Sally went?”

“I would imagine to her sister’s store in Bloomsbury, Your Lordship.”

Good, still in London. “Please send her a month’s wages in the morning along with a note offering her a housekeeping position on the staff at Heathland. Please express my regrets for the incident this evening and advise her that, if she’ll accept the Heathland position, she’ll not be expected to provide service of any kind for my ward in the future.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Rowan. That will be all.”

The butler bowed and Ian walked off toward his study. Yes, that would be all for this evening. Unfortunately, the sun would come up again in a few hours and they would all begin yet another day of Charlotte’s tantrums. How long was one supposed to allow a person to behave badly in the name of grief and rage? he wondered as he got himself a brandy.

It had been just six months since Charlotte’s world had come crashing down and all of her hopes for a normal life had been extinguished. Her parents were dead, her legs were useless, and she had been shipped across the world to be thrust like damaged freight upon the kindness of a complete stranger. It would be difficult for a grown woman to adjust to such radical and unexpected changes of circumstance. For a fourteen-year-old girl …

Her body was broken and would never be whole again. Because of that, her spirits were fragile and her emotions raw. In time, she would come to an acceptance of her limitations and life in a wheeled chair. Until then, though … he simply had to be patient and understanding. To demand that she accept on his schedule and for the ease and convenience of his household staff would be insensitive to the point of cruelty.