The Dangerous Lord (20 page)

Lady Brumley waited until no sound came from the hall, then closed the door and walked to a sideboard that held a carafe and some glasses. Hands shaking, she poured herself a generous amount of purple fluid, then took a gulp. “Do you want some port?” she asked as she lowered the glass.

“No.” What she wanted was answers.

Lady Brumley faced her, the glass clutched tightly in both hands. “You didn't believe all that balderdash Edgar fed you.”

“I don't know what to believe.”

“He's only trying to dissuade you from marrying Lord St. Clair, you know.”

Felicity sighed. “You and Mr. Lennard labor under a false assumption. Lord St. Clair has no intention of marrying me. In case you hadn't noticed, he stood up with half a dozen ladies tonight and didn't stand up with me once.”

Lady Brumley chuckled. “I'll be hanged if that's not jealousy I hear in your voice. And I haven't seen St. Clair kissing any of those ladies passionately on the balcony, my dear Miss Taylor. Or taking advantage of them as you implied he did.”

Felicity groaned. Her deception had returned to haunt her. “He didn't—What happened at the Worthings was a mere flirtation. He and I have both forgotten it.”

“I see.” Lady Brumley set down her glass. Walking to the door, she opened it. “Well, if you're not considering marriage to the man, you don't care about Edgar's tale, and certainly you needn't hear
my
opinions. So we might as well return to the ballroom.”

She waited expectantly, and Felicity scowled. The woman was a Machiavelli of the first order! If Felicity admitted wanting to know more, it would confirm her interest in Ian. Yet not admitting it meant letting this opportunity go by. How could she? Mr. Lennard's nasty assertions tormented her, and she needed to find out if there was any
truth to them. The Galleon of Gossip would be more likely to know than anyone.

Felicity sighed. “I didn't say I wasn't interested. I'm still a friend to Ian—I mean, Lord St. Clair. So of course any gossip that might hurt his reputation interests me.”

With only the twitch of her upper lip acknowledging that she'd won, the marchioness closed the door once more. “A friend. Hmm. I suppose that will do for now. Sit down, Miss Taylor, and I'll tell you what I know.”

Trying not to look as anxious as she felt, Felicity perched on the edge of a settee and folded her clammy hands in her lap.

Lady Brumley took another large swallow of port before settling her stalwart frame in an overstuffed chair by the fire. “I assume Edgar told you the same ridiculous tale he's related to the other women St. Clair courted—that St. Clair raped Cynthia and she killed herself out of shame, prompting him to flee to the Continent.”

Put so bluntly, it sounded ridiculously melodramatic. “Yes. Mr. Lennard said that the woman linked to Lord St. Clair in the paper knows the truth, which is why the viscount took her under his protection. He says Lord St. Clair ruined her.”

Lady Brumley waved her hand dismissively. “Poppycock. If anyone ruined her, it was Edgar. The woman you refer to—whose name is Penelope Greenaway—was not only the governess to Edgar's children, but was also Edgar's mistress after his wife died. He cast her out when he discovered she was pregnant with his bastard.”

“How do you know this?”

“Let's just say I make it my business to know all about Edgar Lennard and his affairs. Which is easy enough, since he pays his servants so ill that they don't mind making an extra guinea simply for giving me information.” Lady Brumley's low chuckle held a certain bitterness. “In any case, when Edgar threw Miss Greenaway out I would have
aided her simply to annoy him, but Lord St. Clair got to her first. Since he has as much contempt for his uncle as I, he saw the advantage to helping the one woman who might bring his uncle down. Besides, he has a soft heart, and her child is his cousin, after all, bastard or no.”

“You think that's the only reason he helped her?”

“Of course. No matter what Edgar claims and a certain gossip columnist has written—” She paused to shoot Felicity a knowing look. “Miss Greenaway is
not
Lord St. Clair's mistress.”

Then why hadn't Ian simply said that? “Just because she was Mr. Lennard's mistress doesn't necessarily mean she's not Lord St. Clair's now,” Felicity remarked, disappointed that Lady Brumley hadn't given her more certain proof. “If Lord St. Clair hates his uncle, it would be a fitting revenge to make her his mistress, don't you think?”

“And take his uncle's leavings? He'd be too proud to do so.”

That was a good point, she thought, feeling a bit more easy.

“Besides, St. Clair wouldn't keep a mistress while he's courting. Men keep mistresses regularly, to be sure, but the occasional mama does frown on it. So why risk it, especially when Edgar seems so bent on preventing him from marrying?”

“Yes, and why is Mr. Lennard determined to prevent him? I don't understand.”

Lady Brumley tapped her fingers impatiently on the arm of her chair. “I suppose he has the usual motives—if Ian dies childless, Edgar or his son will inherit eventually. That's as good a reason as any for Edgar to scare off St. Clair's young women. But I shan't let him scare off anyone else with his sordid lies.”

“You're certain they're lies?” Felicity asked hopefully.

“As certain as anyone who knows the two men can be.
It's not in St. Clair's character to force a woman. You know it as well as I.”

She felt numb. “But you have no proof,” she said dully.

The older woman hesitated, as if debating something. Then she sighed. “I should have known you wouldn't simply take my word for it. Very well. I have some information I gleaned from Edgar's servants. It's not much, but I believe it's closer to the truth.”

Lady Brumley adjusted her turban, making the little ship brooch bob. “It's true that Cynthia Lennard died shortly after St. Clair left for the Continent. But the Lennard servants heard nary a hint that she killed herself over a rape. No, they believe her death resulted from a mutual love affair.”

Her heart sank. “You mean, between Lord St. Clair and Mrs. Lennard?”

“Yes. It's plausible, even understandable. Cynthia was twenty-five to St. Clair's nineteen. She was pretty and quite naive. Edgar swept her off her feet, but I believe she later regretted it. His age exceeded hers by some seventeen years. So it's understandable why she'd fall in love with her young nephew, Ian, and take him into her bed.”

This version didn't please Felicity any more than the other one. Although it exonerated Ian of rape, it meant he'd had an adulterous affair with his aunt. The thought twisted her insides.

The marchioness didn't seem to notice Felicity's distress. “The servants think that Ian's guilt over the illicit affair led him to flee to the Continent. And Cynthia died pining away for him. No one knows for certain, however. All the servants who worked there ten years ago were paid or pensioned off to keep quiet about the scandal.”

Felicity's blood thudded dully in her veins. This was almost as treacherous a tale as the other. In the eyes of the law, it was incest, and certainly it made Ian indirectly responsible for his aunt's death. It was also a terrible betrayal
of his father's brother and even his father. It was hard to imagine Ian betraying his family's trust.

But if he'd been in love? Her heart wrenched to think of it.

She hated to admit it, but Lady Brumley's tale explained a great deal—why Ian had gone to the Continent without telling his friends, why he'd been adamant about her staying out of his affairs, and why he hadn't wanted her talking to Miss Greenaway.

It might even explain why he'd been so careful with her that night in her bedchamber. Perhaps he'd stopped short of seducing her because he remembered what had happened the last time he'd made love to a respectable woman.

“In any case,” Lady Brumley went on, “none of it may even be true. And if it is, it's all in the past. It occurred when St. Clair was a green lad. But his six years on the Continent made him into a man, a very good man if I am any judge. That man deserves a wife, no matter what Edgar thinks or tries to do about it.”

Felicity hardly heard her. She rose in a daze, her mind awhirl. “I must return to the ball. My companions will be looking for me.”

“But Miss Taylor—”

“Please, Lady Brumley, let me go. I need to think on all this.”

“All right. Just be sensible about it. You know as well as I do that St. Clair is no violator of women. Edgar is lying—surely you can see that.”

“Yes.” The trouble was that the idea of an adulterous affair with his aunt, of him lying with his own aunt and then running off, leaving the woman to grieve herself to death, sickened her.

Of course, as Lady Brumley said, it might all be lies. Considering the sources, how could she know? Especially when he wouldn't confide in her?

She started for the door.

Lady Brumley called out, “If he
should
offer for you—”

“He won't,” she whispered, then fled the room.

Even if he did offer again, she couldn't accept. This dark secret in his past still tormented him—anyone could see that. And as long as he refused to unburden himself, it would stand between them, an ugly beast rearing up whenever she tried to come close. She would always wonder if Miss Greenaway were his mistress or if he still loved Cynthia Lennard. She couldn't be one of those ladies who pretended not to notice their husband's infidelities.

Yet despite the rumors and speculations and probable lies, despite his secretiveness, her heart still leapt and her blood quickened whenever he turned those sin black eyes in her direction.

Damn the seductive devil to hell. He'd certainly had a fine revenge. She'd just been handed the juiciest bit of gossip ever, and not only did she not want to write about it, she didn't even want to think about it. How he would laugh if he knew. With a few kisses and caresses, he'd taken the gossip out of the gossip writer. And she would never be the same.

E
ven a blind man couldn't miss the four scamps alighting from a carriage, Ian thought. Their racket actually overcame the noise in the Strand—the coaches trundling by with badly oiled springs, the workmen knocking about as they renovated a great house across the way, the vendors caterwauling. He spotted the Taylor Terrors out the window at once, a familial gaggle that Felicity attempted to keep in order while arguing with the hack driver, who'd climbed down from his perch to point at something on his coach.

With a knock on the ceiling, Ian sent his coachman driving past the hack as prearranged. Ian's second knock brought the St. Clair carriage to a halt just ahead of the
hack. Disembarking quickly, Ian clapped his hat on and strode toward his prey.

He could hear Felicity's protesting voice as he approached. “I shan't pay a single shilling for damages, I tell you!” Enveloped in a black woolen cloak that looked as if it had seen better days, she shook her finger to punctuate every phrase.

The grimy driver shut the door, which didn't latch until he lifted the flimsy panel an inch and forced it into place. Then he opened it again, letting it list down as he faced Felicity triumphantly. “You see that it's broke, don't you, miss?”

“I see only that you're trying to cheat me. I don't dispute that it's broken; it's
who
broke it that I question. It was like that before we got in!”

“No, it weren't!” The burly man crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “I take good care of me coach, I do, and that door were closing right proper when I stopped for you and yer brood. It's those lads of yours what broke it.”

“That's a lie! You probably broke the dratted thing yourself!”

“I'm warnin' you, miss—”

Ian stepped in quickly. “How much will it cost to repair the damage?”

The driver swung around, his eyes lighting up as he assessed Ian's worth by the cut of his coat and the fineness of his linen. “Well, now, sir, that depends—”

“What are
you
doing here?” Felicity's wary gaze flew to his coach not ten feet away, then back to him.

Ian tipped his hat. “Good morning, Miss Taylor. I was on my way to consult with my man of affairs when I saw the commotion. I thought I'd stop and offer my services.”

“There's no need,” she said primly. “I have the situation well in hand.”

“Yes, but you and your brothers are obviously on an
outing, and I'd hate to see it spoiled. I'll be happy to pay for the damages myself if you'll allow it.”

“Don't you dare pay this scoundrel! I won't have thievery rewarded, and he—” She pointed an accusing finger at the driver. “He is trying to cheat us!”

“Now see here, Miss Skinflint, you ain't gonna be lyin' to the gentleman about me!” the driver said belligerently.

Ian drew Felicity aside. Keeping an eye on the irate coachman, he murmured, “My God, don't quarrel with him over a few shillings. It isn't worth it.”

“But that door was broken before we—”

“I'm sure it was. What do you care?”

“It's the principle of the thing!”

He gritted his teeth. “The principle of the thing will shortly have you and your brothers embroiled in a fight.” Jerking his head, he indicated two men descending from hacks across the street and hailing their compatriot. One scowled; the other swaggered. Both looked troublesome.

When Felicity paled, he went on in an undertone. “It's your word against his, and you're a woman with four energetic boys in tow. This isn't the time or place for your bloody self-righteousness. I can trounce them for you if you like, but that's not the lesson you want to provide your little charges, is it?”

She glanced over at the triplets, who stood mute for once, looking warily from the driver to her and Ian. She winced. “No, I suppose not.”

“Then let me pay the damages. Unless you insist on paying them yourself.”

She flushed. “The driver wants two shillings, and I only brought enough money with me to cover the expense of the ride here and back. So if you wouldn't mind…”

“I don't mind in the least.”

“But it's a loan,” she hastened to add. “I'll repay you later.”

“Fine.”

The point would be moot anyway once she agreed to marry him. Still, her lack of money struck him as odd. She'd brought less than two extra shillings with her on an outing with four boys? Was she worried about pickpockets?

They returned to where the driver conferred with his sneering reinforcements. The man faced him with a more aggressive stance, not even sparing Felicity a glance. “Well, sir? Does the miss agree to pay?”

“Yes. Two shillings, isn't it?”

“Two guineas.”

He raised an eyebrow at the man's blatant greed. “The lady must have misunderstood.” Approaching the hackney, he bent to examine the broken door and noted the pattern of rust on the twisted hinge. He glanced up. “Two guineas, eh?”

The driver scratched one rank armpit, a hint of uncertainty in his expression. His burlier friend nudged him. “Aye, sir. That's wot it cost to fix a hinge these days.”

Ian straightened. “Then whoever repairs your carriage is cheating you. Let me do you a favor. Take your coach to Wallace's on Chandler Street, and tell him I want the entire door replaced at my expense. For two guineas, you should at least get something decent.” He drew out his calling card and presented it to the driver.

The man took it reluctantly, then blanched when he saw the name on the card. With a nervous glance at his friends, he muttered, “I only want the hinge repaired.”

“Whatever you wish. Wallace will take care of you. Fair enough?”

“Fair enough, milord.” He scowled at Felicity. “But I ain't comin' back for her and her lot like I said I would.”

Ian felt Felicity bridle beside him and laid a hand on her arm. “There's no need. I'll take the lady and her family home.”

Her muscles tensed beneath his hand and didn't relax until the hack pulled away. Then she faced him with typical
Felicity impertinence. “Well, well. It seems you understand the ‘principle of the thing' after all—at least when it's
your
money.”

A smile tugged at his mouth. “I admit it—I couldn't countenance paying off a rascal. Especially one who enjoys fleecing young women.”

Awareness of him flickered in her gaze. It sizzled the icy winter air, making him instantly glad he'd come. “Thank you for your help,” she said softly.

Then a whirling dervish of arms and legs and eager young males stampeded up to them with all the delicacy of bull elephants. Cries of “'Ods fish!” and “Aren't you the man from the paper?” and “Why did he call you
milord
?” tumbled from the triplets' mouths as they circled him. Ian suddenly felt like the bear at a baiting, surrounded by creatures a third his size.

Creatures with worn coats and tattered hose. How strange that their sister would dress them so poorly. His gaze shot to her. Come to think of it, where was the elegant, fashionable attire she'd worn at the Worthings'? Her clothing today was serviceable, but he couldn't miss the fraying edges of the woolen cloak and the faded color of her simple black bonnet, which had clearly spent too many days in the sun.

“Stop that, boys,” Felicity said sternly. “It's rude for all of you to speak at once.”

He tore himself from musings about her attire. “They aren't bothering me, Miss Taylor, but it might be better if we were properly introduced.” Ian smiled at the nearest urchin. “What is your name, young man?”

“I'm William.”

The boy had barely gotten the words out before the one next to him piped up, “This here's my brother Ansel, and I'm George. But everybody calls me Georgie. And that's James over there. He's the eldest.”

“I see.” He used his observational skills to catalog iden
tifying marks for the triplets, quickly registering Ansel's mole, the scar on Georgie's chin, and William's missing tooth. “I'm pleased to meet you all. I'm—”

“—the Viscount St. Clair,” James broke in testily. When Ian cast him a quizzical look, the older boy shrugged his bony shoulders. “I asked Mrs. Box about you that day you came to our house.” He looked defiant. “The day Lissy shouted at you. I thought maybe you'd…that is—”

“I understand,” Ian interrupted. “It's good you're looking out for your sister.” He shot Felicity a meaningful glance. “She needs someone to do so.”

Felicity rolled her eyes. “We've kept his lordship long enough, boys. I'm sure he has more important matters to attend to.”

Before he could protest, Georgie cut in. “Can't he come with us to the exhibit?”

Nervously straightening Georgie's collar, Felicity said, “Lord St. Clair has a meeting and no time to waste with us.”

“My meeting isn't urgent,” he said. When her gaze shot to his, he added, “And I've never seen a waxworks exhibit. Besides, I promised to take you home in my coach.”

“He did. I heard him.” James assessed Ian with eyes as green and sharp as his sister's. “And it'll save us half a shilling.”

Ian began to wonder if the Taylor finances were as secure as he'd been told.

Felicity's anxious laughter only heightened his suspicions. “Don't be silly, James. Who cares about half a shilling?” She faced Ian. “Truly, Lord St. Clair, there's no need for you to bother. I'm sure a day with us would bore you terribly.”

“Not as much as a day with my man of affairs, who considers tallying figures great entertainment. Take pity on me, and don't sentence me to a morning of arithmetic.” When she still hesitated he added, “I tell you what. Let me
come along, and I'll buy tea and mutton pies for everyone's supper afterward.”

The shameless bribery worked perfectly, making the boys clamor for him until Felicity sighed. “Very well, but you'll regret it. These four can be very wearying.”

“I'm sure I'll survive.” Oh, yes. He planned to ingratiate himself so well with the Taylor boys that their sister would be forced to reconsider his proposal of marriage.

As the six of them headed for the entrance of the exhibit hall, Felicity pulled James aside and whispered in his ear. He nodded, then hurried ahead to catch his brothers and whisper in
their
ears.

It was all very mysterious and made him struggle to keep from laughing. So they had secrets, did they? Felicity was a fool to think a few words of admonishment could prevent him from prying a secret out of her brothers. Even the Terrors of Taylor Hall were no match for a man who'd once loosened the tongue of Napoléon's senior advisor.

By the end of the day, he'd know everything. Then he'd use it to make her marry him. Most assuredly.

 

It took three hours and the realization that they neared the end of the rented hall for Felicity to finally relax. But it had gone well. The boys had let nothing else slip concerning their finances. They'd behaved themselves like gentlemen's sons…most of the time, anyway. It had even been pleasant, despite Ian's intrusion.

She surveyed her companions. Georgie, Ansel, and William knelt before a wax sculpture of a Scot, peering under the kilt to determine if the conventional wisdom was true. Ian and James stood in front of her, reading the placard that went with an impressive wax version of Bonaparte.

Look at those two
, she thought with a smile,
standing so much alike
. Both Ian and James stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, and both rested their weight on one foot, keeping the other knee slightly bent. They even
looked a bit alike. James's straight brown locks resembled Ian's thick black hair, and both of them tended to dishevel it by running their fingers through it when agitated. They could almost be father and son.

She swallowed, a sudden longing curling down into her belly. Ian and a son. Her son. The idea intrigued her, warmed her. What would Ian be like as a father? Judging from his behavior today, he'd be wonderful. He'd halted Georgie's impetuous impulses with a word, humored William's fancies, and squelched Ansel's deplorable tattling.

But it was her sober brother James whom Ian had captivated despite the boy's initial suspicions. From the moment Ian described in riveting detail the events of the French Revolution while standing before the sculpture of Robespierre, he'd held the bookish, history-minded James in the palm of his hand.

She watched as Ian read a line aloud in French, and then translated it for James. His French was expert, far better than her smattering learned from a long-forgotten French tutor. But then Ian had lived on the Continent, spying for the British or something, for many years. The thought sobered her. She didn't know what he'd done there, because he wouldn't talk about it. Or anything else, the secretive wretch.

Last night's conversations burned through her brain. She'd tossed all night, wondering how much was true. Ian couldn't have committed rape, but seduction was believable. Was he capable of such selfishness? Perhaps not now. But at nineteen? She wanted to know. She
needed
to know. Maybe if she simply asked—

“How do you know French so well?” James asked Ian suddenly.

Ian gazed up at the sculpture with the wooden, aloof expression she'd grown to recognize. “I spent six years on the Continent.”