Sally MacKenzie Bundle (248 page)

Anne’s face felt as if it were aflame.

“What do you mean?” Evie looked from Clorinda to Anne and back again. “What has counting got to do with anything?”

“Babies, Evie.” Clorinda took another swallow of brandy. She’d obviously had a swallow or two too many to be talking so freely with Evie. Anne should stop her, but she was too embarrassed to speak.

Embarrassed and something else, something hot and yearning. The thought of having Stephen’s child, a baby they’d made together . . .

“Babies?” Evie said. “You mean . . .” She looked at Anne. “But Anne would never do that before she was married.” She blushed. “Not that I know what
that
is, of course. And Anne mustn’t know either. Mama will tell her the night before her wedding.”

Anne examined her ring very closely.

Clorinda had definitely had too much brandy. “Evie, my dear, I expect while we were up here waiting, Mr. Parker-Roth was busy giving Anne a very thorough idea of exactly what
that
entails.”

“Oh.” Evie looked at Anne.

“No.” Anne cleared her throat. “No, he wasn’t.”
Not completely at least.
“But, Evie, Clorinda makes a very good point; young women—debutantes like you—need to be very careful.” She certainly did not want Evie following in her disreputable footsteps. “Men can all too easily lead you into trouble and ruin your reputation. Since I’m older and betrothed, I’m allowed a little more leeway.”

Clorinda snorted and waggled her eyebrows. Anne ignored her. This conversation had obviously gone as far—further—than it should. She glanced at the clock.

“Heavens, look how late it is!” She stood and shook out her wrinkled skirt. “The boys will be expecting an excursion tomorrow; if we leave them cooped up here any longer, they will get into any manner of mischief.”

Evie laughed. “Papa will come home to find all the knickknacks broken.”

“We will be lucky it that’s all the damage they do,” Clorinda said. “How can you bear to live with them all the time? They are exhausting.”

“They are ten-year-old boys,” Anne said. “One becomes used to the constant high spirits.”

Evie nodded. “They can be annoying—they often
are
annoying—but I can’t imagine life without them. I love them.”

“Hmph. Well, I for one hope Mr. Parker-Roth discovers a suitable tutor very soon.”

Evie blushed again. “I believe there was some talk that Mr. Parker-Roth might enlist his brother’s help.” She turned an even deeper shade of red. “And during our waltz, Mr. Nicholas Parker-Roth told me he would be happy to come by to meet the boys; if they got along, he might be able to act as their tutor for a while as he didn’t have any definite plans for his time.”

Was Evie enamored of Stephen’s brother? Anne frowned—and then mentally shrugged. Surely nothing would come of it. The Kenderly ball had been Evie’s first London social event; she would meet and dance with many more men before the Season was over. And Stephen’s brother was very young to be thinking of settling down. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the two Parker-Roth gentlemen come by tomorrow, then.”

“Oh, do you think so?” Evie leapt up from her seat, looking at the clock also. “Oh, dear. You’re right, Anne; it’s very late. We’d best get to bed immediately.” She rushed out the door so quickly she almost knocked over her brandy glass.

“What is it about the Parker-Roth men?” Clorinda shook her head. “The boy seemed pleasant enough, but nothing to set one’s heart aflutter.”

“That’s because your heart is no longer seventeen, Clorinda.” Anne put the brandy glasses back on the table by the decanter. “I’m sure Evie will fall in and out of love any number of times before the Season’s over.”

“Perhaps.” Clorinda pinned her with a sharp look. “But neither your heart nor your head is seventeen, miss. Whatever were you thinking tonight?”

Anne flushed. If only she’d hurried out with Evie. Why did Clorinda suddenly feel the need to take her chaperonage duties seriously? Had she finished all the bird books in the library? “I assure you that while things did become a bit passionate, nothing of a serious nature occurred.”

Clorinda was regarding her as if she had suddenly sprouted a second head. “What are you talking about?”

“What, ah, happened—or, rather, what
didn’t
happen—downstairs.”

“Pshaw!” Clorinda poured herself a little more brandy. “That’s not what I meant.”

“No?” Anne suddenly had a very bad feeling about this. “What did you mean?” She started to edge toward the door. Clorinda could finish her brandy in solitude.

“That dance with Lord Brentwood! It looked very much as if you two had some kind of history.”

“Gaa.”

Clorinda frowned. “Excuse me?”

Anne swallowed and tried to get her heart to slow down. “I mean, where would I have met the marquis?”

“That’s a very good question.” Clorinda raised her eyebrows.

Anne raised her hand and rested it on the doorknob. She would rather fry in hell than tell Clorinda the tale of her initial meeting with Lord Brentwood. Thankfully Clorinda didn’t press her.

“Well, what did you and Lord Brentwood talk about?”

It was all a horrible blur. “Er, dressmakers and, ah, my betrothal.”

“Lady Dunlee said it looked like a lover’s spat.”

“It was definitely not that!” “Love” and “Brentwood” did not belong in the same sentence—in the same paragraph. In the same library. “I’m sorry to offend you, since I know Lord Brentwood’s mother is your friend, but I cannot like the man.”

“
That
was exceedingly evident.” Clorinda shrugged. “Frankly, I thought Mr. Parker-Roth was going to discuss the issue with you tonight—he was obviously in a pet when we got home—but”—Clorinda eyed Anne’s drooping bodice again—“apparently he was more interested in other topics.”

Anne gripped the doorknob rather than pluck at her poor bodice again. Could she leave now? No, Clorinda was shaking her finger at her.

“You don’t want to get the gabble-grinders in a frenzy and annoy Mr. Parker-Roth, Anne. You’re quite lucky to have snagged him, you know. If he’s not quite rich as Croesus, he’s very well to grass—splendid head for investments, Dickie told me tonight. He’s been quite the catch on the Marriage Mart ever since he made his bows.”

“I see.” So the man was not only handsome but rich as well. No wonder all the women were glaring at her tonight.

“I confess I thought your betrothal was all a hum at first—the man reeked of spirits when Lady Dunlee dragged you both into the study—but now it does look as if he means to have you.” Clorinda gestured at the betrothal ring glowing on Anne’s finger. “What I still don’t understand is how you formed this tendre.”

“Ah.”

“And don’t fob me off with that tarradiddle Evie told me about you being introduced to him at a house party ten years ago. Really! Only a child could swallow that tale.”

“Ah.”

“So?” Clorinda looked expectant.

“So?” Anne smiled. How was she going to get out of this room?

“How
did
you become attached?”

“Ahh . . . it’s rather complicated.” Anne turned the doorknob at last. “Far too complicated to discuss now. I really am exhausted. Thank you for the brandy; I’m afraid I must be off to bed now. Good night.”

She opened the door and fled to the safety of her room.

Chapter 14

Stephen whistled as he rapped on the door to Le Temple d’Amour. The morning had been extremely profitable. Knightsdale’s information was correct, of course—Lord Brentwood did owe many, many people money. He grinned and patted his pockets, stuffed full of the IOUs he’d just purchased. But now the marquis had just one creditor—him.

Once Anne told him what Brentwood had done to her, he would decide on the most appropriate way to use the man’s vowels.

He rapped again, harder. It was early, but Mags would just have to bestir herself. She was one more link in the chain he intended to draw tight around Brentwood’s neck.

He finally heard a stream of invectives on the other side of the flimsy door and then it was flung open.

“What the bloody hell do you think—oh.” Mags’s jaw dropped. “It’s you.”

“It is indeed.” He stepped past her; he didn’t want to give her the opportunity to slam the door in his face. She was wearing a faded blue dressing gown and a nightcap that might once have been white but was now a dingy shade of gray. She looked significantly older without all her rouge and powder, but he found he liked her better this way. She seemed more human.

Mags closed the door behind him. “And what are you doing here? All my girls are still asleep—as I was before you started banging on my door.” Mags made a sound of disgust. “Not that I think you’re here for the girls. Mags’s place ain’t good enough for you, is it?”

“Mags, you know I don’t frequent brothels.” Though if he did, this one would be at the bottom of his list. It wasn’t that it was rundown; it was that no one—neither Mags nor her girls—cared much about cleanliness. Picking up a few lice would be the least of his worries.

Mags, looking extremely mulish, crossed her arms. She clearly wasn’t going to offer him a seat. Just as well. He’d prefer to remain standing. Any manner of vermin might infest the furniture.

“So why are you here, Mr. Too-Good-For-Me Parker-Roth ?”

“I wish to speak with you about the Marquis of Brentwood.”

Mags spat into a corner. “That piece of dung? I don’t know nuttin’ about him and I care less.” She stuck her nose in the air. “He don’t want to dirty his precious little cock—and it
is
little—dipping it into the likes o’ me when he’s got a fancy lady who’ll spread her legs for him. Talk to your whore, Lady Noughton. She’s the one he’s swiving now.”

“Lady Noughton is not my anything.” It was revolting to consider he’d ever visited Maria’s bed. He’d let his cock do his thinking for him, but now even that organ cringed at the notion of having anything more to do with the widow.

“That’s right. Brentwood said he pushed you out of her bed.”

“Mags, do I look like I would let Brentwood push me anywhere?”

Mags looked him up and down. “Well, no.”

“Of course not. Lady Noughton and I parted company months ago; Brentwood is welcome to her—they are birds of a feather.”

“Aye, you can say that again.” Mags’s lips curled. “They can burn in hell together.”

Mags’s reaction was only slightly more violent than the men from whom he’d bought Brentwood’s vowels. Brentwood was most unpopular, but then bullies usually were. Everyone was eager for him to get his just deserts. “So you wouldn’t be unhappy should poor Lord Brentwood encounter a spot of bad luck?”

“Unhappy? I’d stand up and cheer, and that’s a fact. All the girls would.”

“Then perhaps you and they would like to whisper in your customers’ ears that Brentwood’s pockets are to let.” Brentwood had hidden his penury well; not only would he be furious when the truth got out, he’d find his credit cut off immediately.

“He’s really in Queer Street?” Mags looked simultaneously skeptical and hopeful.

“He is. He’s been punting on the River Tick for months. I’ve got his vowels to prove it.” He pulled the wad of papers out of his pocket far enough for her to see it.

Her nostrils flared. “The bloody bastard. I’d like to boil his cock in oil. I’d never have let him in the front door if I’d known that. The lying whoreson told me he was going to buy me a new house closer to Mayfair. Make me one of the top madams.” She snorted. “I should have known it was all talk. Half the time he didn’t pay me for my night’s work—and it
was
work. Maybe Lady Noughton don’t mind his tiny prick, but if I’m giving a man a free tumble, I want something out of it, if you know what I mean.”

She looked pointedly at Stephen’s crotch. “And I’m sure you know what I mean. Lady Noughton must be colder than ice if she’s happy with Brentwood after having your—”

Stephen yanked out his pocket watch. “Look at the time!” He had no desire to discuss Brentwood’s—or his—performance in the bedroom. “Sorry, but I’ve got to run—promised my fiancée I’d take her young brothers to see some of London.”

“So I can’t interest you in a quick ride? I’ll not charge you for the pleasure.” Mags grinned at him, revealing several missing teeth. “It’d be
my
pleasure.”

“Thank you, but no.”

Mags frowned and looked as if she might take offense. He didn’t want to insult his new ally, but he was not at all interested in her generous offer. How could he—of course. He was betrothed now—he would hide behind Lady Anne’s lovely skirts.

“My fiancée would not approve.”

Mags’s frown turned immediately into a shout of laughter. “That’s rich—the King of Hearts is to be a hen-pecked husband!”

“You’ve found me out.” He took the opportunity to step outside. “But I hope I may prevail upon you to keep my secret.”

“Aye.” She dimpled at him as if she were a coy, young miss. “I’m more interested in spreading the word about a certain penniless bastard.”

“Splendid. I encourage you to do so at every opportunity.”

He grinned and bounded down the steps. Mags’s girls entertained all manner of men—peers temporarily under the hatches as well as footmen and tradesmen. The news of Brentwood’s distress should spread from all directions and be common knowledge in a day or two.

Stephen was very much looking forward to watching the marquis squirm.

“What are you grinning about, big brother?” Nick was in Stephen’s study, sprawled in one of the wing chairs by the fire, a glass of Madeira dangling from his fingers. He did not look happy.

“I’ve had a profitable morning.” Stephen poured himself some Madeira and sank into the other chair. “What’s gnawing at you? I thought you’d be chomping at the bit to get to Crane House.”

Nick shot him a wry look. “Mama and Da are here.”

“What?”
Stephen jerked upright, spilling a few drops of Madeira on his breeches. “Damn.” He pulled out his handkerchief and mopped at the spot, before looking back at Nick. “They can’t be here.”

Nick rolled his eyes. “Well they are. They’ve gone off to the Pulteney.”