Never a Gentleman (15 page)

“Your only job was to compromise him,” his superior reminded him in a scathingly dry voice. “Since you failed at even that,
I doubt anyone is interested in your opinion.”

The visitor huffed. “Well, how were we to know he’d actually marry the chit? Good Lord, have you seen her?”

“It no longer matters. We must move on, and Hilliard is still our best option. Our source in France says he can be turned.”

“Not with blackmail. At least, unless he kills his wife.”

“We haven’t discounted that option. For now, just keep an eye on them both. I have someone due over from France who will help
catch Hilliard for us. Hilliard is our conduit.
He is also the last person to see Bertie Evenham alive. I need to know if the boy said anything.”

“He didn’t have the verse?”

“Not when our people got there. Evenham’s father still insists that Bertie never took it, but it hasn’t turned up anywhere
else.”

“You’re sure? Could your informants have lied?”

“Not when I was the one who questioned them,” said the Surgeon, stepping out of the shadows.

One sight of him caused the visitor to blanch. “Of course. Of course. You are most thorough.”

“Most,” the Surgeon assured him, stepping just a little too close to the man before taking a seat. Easing back in his chair,
he slipped out his favorite knife and began to run it across his palm. “I would be more than happy to deal with Hilliard for
you.”

“Maybe later,” his superior promised, with a curiously sensual smile. “If things don’t work out. Or, indeed, if we need to
leave an… example to him to prove our threats aren’t baseless.”

“Lady Kate?” the visitor asked.

“Too problematic. She may be notorious, but the duchess is curiously well liked. Hilliard’s wife, I think. After all, who
would protest the loss of a soldier’s daughter?”

The visitor laughed. “Take a good look at her and tell me Hilliard would care. To be frank, you’d be doing him a favor.”

The superior smiled. “I believe the Surgeon is… proficient enough to keep her alive.”

The Surgeon frowned. “She would not be my first choice, certainly. She is flawed.”

“I imagine you’ll find a way to overcome your aversion.”

It was the Surgeon’s turn to smile. “I will devote myself to finding the perfect quote to carve across her breasts.”

The superior nodded. “Fine. In the meantime”—those long fingers were tapping again, this time atop an unfolded letter—“get
more information on Hilliard. He seems curiously well-breeched for a man whose father cut him off. I’ve heard rumors that
he isn’t averse to exchanging information for gold.”

The Surgeon turned his knife just to watch the light spill down its edge. “Which would make you wonder why he’d sacrifice
the chance of an heiress for that fright. I’ll go bail she dies a virgin.”

“I hope not,” the superior said. “Or we won’t be able to use her.”

The Surgeon sighed, impatient. “You sure we can’t just kill him and move on?”

“Not yet. It does not mean, however, that we can’t destroy him.”

D
iccan rose the next morning still unsure what to do about his wife. He knew he should check in on her before he left for the
day. He needed to share his decision with her about their marriage. But surely she was still too embarrassed to face him.
Better to give her some time. He was just slipping out of his room when he stumbled over a surprise that immediately lightened
his day. Barbara Schroeder was tidying up the sitting room.

“Well, Babs,” he greeted her with a smile. “You succeeded.”

Straightening at the sound of his voice, Babs turned to him with a delighted smile. “Well, if it isn’t Dandy Diccan,” she
greeted him, her voice soft as a secret.

Diccan couldn’t help but compare her to Grace. Grace was all angles and pragmatism. Babs was soft curves and smiles, the perfect
size to fit comfortably beneath a man’s arm.

“You were right,” she said, stepping close so they couldn’t be overheard. “All I had to do was raise the specter of being
a war widow, and I was in. I’m afraid she really is a nice lady.”

“So I hear.”

He was surprised at the scowl she gave him. “I mean it.”

He could smell the lemon verbena Babs always wore, and it calmed him. “I know. Was that little number last night your idea?”

Her smile as old as time, she shook her head. “Are you going to tell her the truth about me?”

He scowled. “Good God, no. Why would I?”

Babs stared as if he were the greatest fool in history. “She’ll find out. She has that air about her.”

“Not if you don’t tell her. Now, be a good girl and see to your mistress.” And with a swift pat on her bottom, he walked whistling
out the door.

Grace must have fallen asleep after all, tucked up in the armchair by the dying fire. She woke to the murmur of voices out
in the sitting room. Rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she stretched out the kinks and climbed out of her chair.

It took only one foot on the ground to prove how ill-advised her sleeping position had been. Her knee seized up and sent a
lance of pain shooting down her leg. For a moment she could do no more than stand where she was, her hands clawing at the
back of the chair.

As always, the cramp passed. This time, though, she couldn’t pretend it was nothing. It was a reminder of what it had cost
Diccan to marry her. He hadn’t only been saddled with a plain woman, he had been tied to a cripple.

The cramp had long since passed before she could move on with her day.

By the time Schroeder scratched on the door and
entered, Grace was carrying out her ablutions as if it had been any other morning. She ignored the raised eyebrow at her cotton
nightgown. She was too busy planning her next meeting with Diccan. They had to get past what had happened the previous night.
And if there was one thing Grace knew, it was that men hated to be faced with their mistakes. So it would be up to her to
set the tone for their future.

“Has Biddle woken Mr. Hilliard yet, do you know?” she asked as she finished pinning her hair.

The pretty blonde frowned. “I believe Mr. Hilliard has already gone down to breakfast, ma’am.”

Grace sighed. She would much rather have faced him alone, but she wasn’t about to pass up this chance to ease his mind. Thanking
Schroeder, she gathered her lists and carried them down to the dining room to find Diccan reading the
Times
over coffee and a beefsteak.

“Good morning, Diccan,” she greeted him, relieved that she could sound so prosaic.

Just the sight of him sent her heart stumbling about in the most alarming fashion. He was perfectly groomed in tobacco brown
jacket and biscuit breeches, his hair tamed to a soft wave rather than the half-wild curls of the night before. This handsome
man had been hers, she thought, even if only briefly.

“My dear,” Diccan greeted her, jumping up to pull out her chair.

Grace almost flinched at the strain in his eyes. He could barely look at her. For just that pregnant moment, what had happened
hung between them, and Grace couldn’t breathe. She felt him inside of her, she swore, that wondrous, stunning sensation of
completion. She was flushed with every forbidden feeling he’d ignited. But he looked so distressed.

“Thank you,” she said, trying to sound unaffected as she sat. “Oh, that steak looks wonderful.”

A waiter materialized at her side. “Steak, madame?” He sounded faintly alarmed.

Setting down her lists, she smiled. “Oh, yes. Rare, please. And eggs. And, oh, scones, with clotted cream and jam. Tea, and…
hmmm, possibly some fruit. Do you have oranges? I became very partial to oranges in Spain.”

The waiter bowed and departed. Diccan retrieved his own seat with a dry smile. “Are you certain you don’t want the man to
simply drag a steer over to the table and be done with it?”

She chuckled. “I fear I’m not one of those frail beauties who eats like a bird.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve seen Andean condors consume almost as much.”

She chuckled. “Sometime I would love to hear about it. But for now, please feel free to finish your paper. If you have a few
minutes later, though, I would appreciate your opinion on a list of available properties I’ve obtained. I had hoped to begin
visiting them today.”

Anyone else would have seen only the droll amusement in Diccan’s eyes. Grace saw the initial distress flicker into surprise
and then relief. She had a feeling he had chosen the dining room for their first meeting so she couldn’t confront him about
the night before. Hopefully, he was reassured. She had no more interest in discussing what had happened than he did. Her body
was enough of a reminder of how foolish she’d been. Her breasts actually ached, and her limbs still felt weak.

“You simply exhaust me, madame,” he drawled with a nod toward the pages she’d laid out on the table. “What shall you do after
lunch? Plan an invasion?”

“Not yet, I think. At least, not until my wardrobe arrives.”

“You should be seeing Kate today or tomorrow. I can have her look over the properties, too.”

Returning, the waiter poured her tea. Grace focused on the taste of the bitter liquid rather than the unfairness of Diccan’s
words. “Why wait?” she asked. “Don’t you trust your own taste?”

“It’s not me…” Abruptly, he stopped, and she saw that she’d flustered him. He thought his wife was a bumpkin, and he didn’t
want to tell her. Well, suddenly his wife wanted to force him into it.

“It’s not me, either,” she said briskly, rifling through her lists. “I understand that you’re more used to Lady Kate’s taste,
but she isn’t going to be living there. We are.”

She looked up, expecting to see irritation. She felt her heart stumble again, because what she saw was regret, loss; and it
was sharp. Brief, of course. Diccan was a master at shielding his emotions. But she’d seen it, and it hurt.

But Grace also had long experience of masking her own hurts. Fortunately, her breakfast came, the waiter depositing a laden
plate before her. It was a good way to fill the next few minutes, even though she’d lost her appetite. Diccan returned to
his
Times
and she returned to her lists.

“I have an appointment this morning at Whitehall, or I’d check the properties with you,” he eventually said. “I only suggested
you consult Kate because she knows London. I meant no insult.”

Grace bit back a sigh. “Of course you didn’t. How could you know that my taste wouldn’t make you bilious? I will wait for
Kate if you prefer, but I hate to wait. A hint about your taste would help.”

“You first,” he countered, setting down the paper. “Do you have an idea of what you want?”

For a heartbeat, she fought a surge of grief. Oh yes, she did. She’d spent her entire life preparing her home at Longbridge.
But she’d meant it to be hers, and hers alone, a place where she could be herself without fear of ridicule.

Considering the sparse black-and-white attire Diccan usually preferred, though, she didn’t think he would be ready for the
home she’d dreamed of. She wasn’t sure he ever would be. Maybe when she knew him better, or trusted him more, she could bring
out her majolica or golden Ganesha. She could introduce him to Banwar Singh and test his palate with curries. For now, she
needed to remember that her plan was to be what Diccan needed.

“Well,” she said, buttering her last scone, “I would prefer that our house doesn’t look like a cow byre or bombed-out church.
I can’t say I preferred either decor.”

He lifted a wry eyebrow. “A cow byre?”

She smiled. “Very warm in the winter. And cows make most undemanding houseguests.”

“No cows, no matter how complaisant they are. Mayfair hostesses tend to frown on livestock.”

“Ah, something we agree on, then. Anything else?”

He looked as if he were actually considering the matter. “With my job, I haven’t had a chance to put down roots. But I imagine
that if you use Kate’s style as a template, it would serve.”

“Clean lines, not too much fuss.”

“Precisely.”

She nodded, scanning her list of furniture makers. “I agree. Crocodile feet belong in a river. Not on sofa legs. Any family
treasures you want to have a place of prominence? I
understand you have an estate in Gloucestershire. Is there something there you’d like to transport here?”

“Heavens no. It’s a dark, grim place, and the only painting is of my Great Uncle Philbert, who was even darker and grimmer
than his house. I was always certain he’d shove me in an oven and roast me for dinner. I can’t imagine what effect he’d have
on another generation of children.”

Grace began to chuckle. When she looked up, though, she realized that Diccan was silent. He was staring at her, his expression
stark. And suddenly, she understood.

“Children,” she said, knowing she sounded stricken. “I hadn’t considered…”

Certainly not before he had visited her the night before. Just the thought incited fresh blushes.

“Do you
want
children?” he asked as if he meant to say
bedbugs
.

She blinked, a war of emotions set loose in her chest. Hope, dread, fear, amazement. “I never…”
could have hoped for children
, she thought. She had long since understood that no man would want to father a child on her, and had pushed the idea away
where it couldn’t hurt her. She didn’t know what to do with it now. “What about you?”

He scowled. “Thank you, no.”

She wondered what his response would have been if she’d been a different woman.

“At least for now,” he suggested, sounding pained, “It might be better…”

Firmly quashing the hope she’d briefly courted, she nodded and returned to her lists. “Of course. I’ll take care of it.”

Oddly, she seemed to have shocked him. “My dear Grace, that is a most indelicate notion.”

She tilted her head, suddenly amused. “That I would know how to prevent pregnancy? Did you think only soldiers ever needed
my help? Believe me, there are few things more dangerous than giving birth on the march. The more sensible women do their
best to prevent it. I helped where I could.”