The Dangerous Lord (21 page)

James cocked his head. “Why?”

Gazing down at the boy, Ian shrugged. “I fought in the war.”

She was still reeling from the fact that Ian had actually admitted his war activities to her brother when James retorted, “But Lissy said you lied about that.”

“James!” She caught him by the shoulder and spun him around to face her. “I did
not
say any such thing!”

“You wrote it in the paper!” James's eyes widened with hurt. “I remember it.”

She sighed. “Oh,
that
. I didn't realize you read my column.”

“We all do,” James said. “Well, not the triplets, but me and Mrs. Box and Joseph and Cook. We read it every morning, while you and the lads are still asleep.”

The revelation startled her. She'd never imagined her audience might include her family. She knew Mrs. Box read the thing; that was to be expected. But her brother? She didn't know whether to be proud or mortified.

In either case, she must set him straight. “What I wrote about Ian was a mistake. I was misinformed. Ian did serve his country.”

“Ian?” James asked with all the innocence of a child.

She groaned. “Lord St. Clair. He didn't lie. I was wrong.”

James looked confused. “But you're never wrong. Everyone always says that. ‘Lord X has the way of it,' they say. ‘He knows the truth.'”

She sighed. What had she started, for pity's sake? When she'd irresponsibly written that last column, she hadn't thought of how far-reaching the consequences could be.

“I know what everyone says,” she told her brother, “and I do try to write the truth. But I make mistakes. No one is perfect. You mustn't always believe what you read or hear. Sometimes it's exaggerated or even untrue.”

She should listen to her own advice and treat Lady Brumley's claims cautiously, and Mr. Lennard's more so.
She glanced at Ian to find him regarding her with a guarded expression. Until she had all the facts, she would make no assumptions. Not this time.

She returned her attention to her brother. “Now apologize to Lord St. Clair. No matter what you thought, it was impolite to mention the gossip.”

James faced Ian, suitably chastened. “I'm sorry, my lord. I spoke out of turn.”

“It's all right.” Ian laid his hand on James's shoulder, but his gaze locked with hers. “I don't mind when people ask questions, only when they jump to conclusions.”

That annoyed her. “Perhaps they jump to conclusions because you don't answer their questions.”

“Perhaps their questions concern private matters,” he countered.

She raised an eyebrow. “James, why don't you fetch your brothers before they topple that sculpture?” As soon as he'd scurried off, she smiled sweetly at Ian. “The trouble with you is that you consider
everything
a private matter. I suppose you even enjoin your housekeeper not to discuss the contents of your closets with strangers.”

“Don't you? No, I suppose not, considering your housekeeper. Mrs. Box loves to talk about you. Shall I have a long conversation with her when I take you home? See if she'll tell me the contents of your closets?” His low voice hummed through her. “I wonder if one of them contains that fetching scrap of lace you wore at Worthing Manor.”

Slowly his gaze drifted down her body. Her breath caught in her throat.
Good Lord, not again
, she thought as a tumult of feelings roared through her—feminine delight, anticipation, desire…To her shock, his eyes seemed to mirror her feelings.

He bent his head to whisper warmly, “Or better yet, you could show me later, when we're alone.”

A delicious shiver tripped along her spine. He still
wanted her. Despite all the women he'd courted this week, he still wanted
her
.

She stiffened. Yes, what
about
all those women? With an arch look, she edged away from him. “We shan't be alone later. You forget that you have several women to court tonight.”

His smile—dark, sweet, and dangerous—sent a frisson of excitement clear to her toes. “Ah, but I've given up on that. I've discovered that all the women I've met and courted in the last week lack something necessary to me in a wife.”

“And what is that?”

“They aren't you.”

Her heart leapt in her chest, like a bird trapped inside a glass box. His tender words resounded through her body and sent hot need flooding her veins.

Georgie skidded up to them, followed closely by her other brothers. “Lissy, Lissy, the Separate Room is next door! Can we go in? Please?”

Thank God for her rascal of a brother, who drew her thoughts from the darkly handsome man at her back with his tempting hints about
later
and
alone
. “Now, Georgie, I told you last night that you couldn't. The Separate Room isn't for boys your age.”

“But Lissy, I'm almost twelve,” James said. “That's practically a man.”

James had a point, but there'd be hell to pay if she let him enter without the triplets. “I'm sorry, James. I think it best we end our tour here.”

“Aw, Lissy,” Georgie cried in abject disappointment. “Why can't we go?”

Ian spoke up. “Yes, Miss Taylor, why not? I don't mind taking the lads through if you have no desire yourself to enter.”

Frustration over his flirtations made her temper flare at his intrusion on her authority. “It's not myself I'm con
cerned about,” she said firmly. “It's the boys. Such things give them nightmares. Everyone says the Separate Room is gory.”

With mischief glinting in his eyes, Ian laid his hands on Georgie's shoulders. “But boys have an abiding need to steep themselves in gore. I certainly did.”

“At six years old? They're too young, I tell you.”

“Perhaps you should let
them
be the judge of that,” Ian said.

He thought this a grand joke! Let six-year-olds decide what they could handle, indeed! Six-year-old boys thought they could fly, for God's sake. Only last month Georgie had planned to spring from the balcony armed with wings he'd fashioned from tin. Thank God for Ansel's tattling.

“May I speak to you in private, Lord St. Clair?” she said coolly.

“Certainly.” He followed her to a spot a few paces away from her brothers.

She fought to keep her tone reasonable. “I know we've had our differences, but you mustn't let that influence your judgment. James is old enough, but the triplets are only babies. They have wild imaginations and frighten easily.”

He looked at her askance. “The Terrors of Taylor Hall, as your housekeeper calls them? Trust me, boys are more resilient than you think. They enjoy a good scare.”

Her gaze narrowed. “Tell me, would your mother have let you see such things?”

“No, but then she wouldn't have let me go to a waxworks exhibition at all. Father wouldn't have approved.”

“I can see why, if you wanted to study sculptures of bloody bodies at the tender age of six.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “Whether I'd been six or sixteen, they wouldn't have let me go. I wasn't allowed to attend fairs or play games or—” He broke off. “Father considered such entertainments unproductive. He was…a rigid sort.”

The admission stunned her. It was the first time he'd spoken of his past or even mentioned his parents. She rejoiced in this evidence that he could do so. She even sympathized with his feelings. But he was wrong about the boys.

“I agree that children need entertainment, but—”

“I tell you what. Go in with us, and if you consider it unsuitable, we'll come right back out. I swear it. You, of all people, know how newspapers exaggerate to sell tickets. It probably only contains old dog bones and an ax or two.”

He had a point. She glanced from Ian to her expectant brothers. “Very well; we'll take a quick look. But if I see so much as a smashed finger displayed in that exhibit, I'll—”

They were already racing off to the opposite end of the hall where a doorway covered in a black curtain awaited them. Next to it a big sign read
WARNING
in bold letters, followed by smaller script, no doubt extolling the faint-inducing properties of the room's contents.

Uneasiness gripped her. If Ian were wrong…

She only prayed he wasn't.

“S
he's mad at us, ain't she?” Georgie whispered to Ian across the carriage, so loudly that even passersby outside could probably hear him, Ian thought. Certainly everyone inside did, including the motionless woman who sat beside the young scamp.

He couldn't see her reaction in the meager glow of the scarce streetlamps. Then a trickle of light crept across her face to dapple her cheeks with silver and highlight her fixed gaze. His breath caught in his throat. He'd never seen her look so forlorn.

He shifted on the seat he shared with James and William. His normally roomy carriage was cramped and hot with six bodies squeezed into it. “She's not mad at you.” Ian didn't bother to lower his voice. “She's mad at me.”

Felicity ignored him.

“Why?” Georgie asked.

“She thinks I was wrong to take all of you into the Separate Room.”

The boys began reassuring him that he wasn't, that they'd had a fine time.

Then Felicity spoke. “I'm not angry at any of you, unless it's for speaking of me as if I'm not here.” Her gaze scoured them all. “I'm angry at myself. I allowed you children to enter that dreadful place when I should have stood firm.”

Ian stifled an oath. Yes, stood firm against
him
. And if she wasn't angry, why did the smoke of her disapproval clog the air in his carriage?

Damn it, how could he have known the rascals would scatter as soon as their wriggling bodies entered the Separate Room? How could he have known what lay inside? All right, so they'd been met by three severed wax heads impaled on tall poles. Wax figures of criminals had lined the walls bearing bloody axes, bloody swords, bloody everything. Wax blood stained the hacked-off limbs of their victims, and wax blood dripped off the guillotine blade at one end of the hall.

Was it his fault Madame Tussaud possessed a seemingly endless vat of red wax? And a flare for the dramatic?

Apparently so, judging from the way Felicity had glared at him, then stormed about the room catching each boy by the scruff of the neck and herding them toward the entrance. By then it had been too late. By the time she'd caught Georgie, the boys had been exposed a good fifteen minutes to the horrors of the Separate Room.

Thus had begun Ian's exile from Felicity's affections. She'd spoken to him only in one-word utterances. She'd barely touched the supper of mutton pies, apple tarts, and tea at a popular cookshop, though the boys attacked theirs with gusto. Now she sat like one of Madame's cursed statues, as far from him as possible.

Everything had gone so well until then. He couldn't be
lieve he'd ruined his plans for the evening with so heedless an act.

James spoke up from beside Ian. “Well, you shouldn't be angry about me, Lissy. I'm old enough to go in the Separate Room if I like. I'm not a child anymore.”

Ian stifled a groan when Felicity flinched. Wonderful. Why must James choose this inopportune moment to assert his independence from his sister?

James continued in the unevenly pitched voice that amply illustrated his youth. “It's not as if you're our mother or anything. If I hadn't been forced to leave Islington Academy, I could have gone on my own to the exhibit, you know. And then no one would have prevented me from seeing the Separate Room.”

At the mention of Islington Academy, a silence as heavy as this year's winter snow fell on the carriage. Even the triplets stopped fidgeting. Ian glanced at Felicity, whose eyes had gone wide with clear alarm.

He turned to stare at James. “Why were you forced to leave Islington Academy? You're a bright lad and well-mannered. Surely they'd have no reason to throw you out.”

Panic made the boy jerk upright in his seat. “Well, I…I—”

“You misunderstood him, Ian,” Felicity interrupted. “He didn't leave. He's merely home on holiday.”

“Yes, th-that's it,” James added, stumbling over the words. “For Christmas.”

The brother lied as badly as his sister. Ian stared down at the beardless lad whose defense of his family was so transparent. “You know it isn't right to tell tales, James. I want the truth—did you leave the academy because your sister needs money?”

James shot his sister a helpless glance. “Lissy—”

“It's all right, James.” The lamplight caught Felicity's shuttered expression. “Really, Lord St. Clair, there's no
need to badger the poor boy. If you want to know something, ask me.”

“All right. Do you need money?” He crossed his arms over his chest. “If you don't tell me, I'll find out the truth anyway.”

She glanced out the window, her fingers clutching her reticule as if to protect it from a thief. “We don't need…that is…at the moment we're short of funds, because we're waiting for Papa's estate to be settled. But as soon as the money comes to us—”

“Settled? But he's been dead over a year!”

“Yes, it's some legal mess. The lawyers will sort it out. In the meantime, my columns support us.”

He snorted. As if that could support a household as large as theirs. “Perhaps you need someone to intervene on your behalf and hasten the process. I could speak to your father's trustee—”

“No! You've no right to interfere. We're fine, I assure you.”

“But Lissy—” James began.

“We're
fine
,” she gritted out, casting her brother a warning glance. “I'm sure the money will come through any day, and James will be back at Islington Academy.”

“Very well. Do as you see fit.” He dropped the subject. No point in annoying her further when a few words with Mrs. Box would tell him what he needed to know.

Though the boys seemed to relax, Felicity began to fidget. She fiddled with the clasp to her reticule. She fussed with Georgie's clothing, plucking a leaf from his hose and finger-combing his hair until he grumbled. The one thing she didn't do was look at Ian. There was more to this than she'd admitted. He intended to get to the bottom of it tonight, but how could he wrangle an invitation inside when she was so uneasy?

Minutes later, he got his answer when something dropped onto his legs. He looked down to find William
fallen over in sleep, his head nestled comfortably in Ian's lap. The poor lad; it must be nearly his bedtime. An idea struck Ian suddenly.

“Is William asleep?” Felicity asked, leaning forward. “Do you wish me to take him from you?”

“No, he's fine where he is.” Ian kept his voice low, not wanting to awaken his little ticket into the Taylor house. “I suppose it was a long and tiring day for him.”

“I told you it would be.”

“You also told me it would be boring, and it was anything but that.”

A thin blade of a smile cracked her reserve. “I doubt anyone could find the Separate Room boring. Appalling perhaps, but not boring.”

“What's ‘appalling' mean?” Georgie asked.

“It means that all the blood horrified your sister,” Ian answered before she could.

“It wasn't
real
blood, Lissy.” Georgie patted his sister's knee reassuringly. “'Twere only wax. You mustn't be frightened by it.”

Ian couldn't help it—he laughed, though softly to keep from awakening William. Soon she joined him. The sound of her muted chuckles warmed him clear to the heart, and made him yearn to reestablish their earlier closeness.

When the laughter died off, he cleared his throat. “I'm sorry about the exhibit. Even if I didn't agree with your reasons for refusing to take them in the Separate Room, I shouldn't have pressed you.”

She acknowledged his apology with a wry smile. “It's all right. You couldn't have known what it would be like.” She looked down at Georgie. “And I daresay this little rascal would have found some way in there anyway, permission or no.”

“Probably,” Ian said, feeling a little better about the afternoon.

The companionable silence that ensued was strangely
soothing. Who would have thought that rumbling along in a carriage with three little hellions, a scholar-in-the-making, and their prim sister could be so pleasant? He hadn't been around children in years, not since his youth, when he'd spent time with his young cousins. To his surprise, he realized he missed it.

The carriage shuddered to a halt and he glanced out to see bright lamps illuminating the Gothic entrance to Taylor Hall. The carriage door opened, and the boys climbed out, uncharacteristically drooping. With the help of the coachman, Felicity disembarked, then turned to reach for William. Ian stayed her with his hand. “I'll carry him in.”

“I hate to inconvenience you,” she protested. “The nursery's two flights up.”

“I don't mind, and besides, you have to look after the others.”

From her grateful smile, he guessed she hadn't been looking forward to hauling a child of four stone or more upstairs. She stepped aside as the coachman took William, allowing Ian to climb down. When the child was once more in Ian's arms he uttered a little sigh, then snuggled against Ian's chest with a sleepy expression of trust.

Ian gazed down in awe at the small fist balled against his cravat and the smooth cheeks smeared with remnants of apple tart. A surge of tenderness made him clutch the boy close. One day, it would be his son he held in his arms. His and Felicity's.

The thought hit him like a whirlwind. After today, he had no doubt she would be a good mother. But could he be a good father? He wanted the chance to find out.

Striding up the outer steps, he entered the hall. “Where to?” he asked Felicity, who was handing her cloak to the footman, a spindly creature woefully inadequate to handle the physical demands of his position. Was this the man Felicity had threatened to have throw him out the last time Ian was here? The thought made him smile.

“Follow me,” she said, lifting a candelabra and heading for the main staircase.

I've breached the fortress
, he thought with satisfaction as the massive oak doors closed behind them. Shifting William from arm to arm, he shrugged out of his greatcoat so the footman could take it.
Now all I have to do is stay inside long enough to make headway with Felicity
.

Mrs. Box hastened into the hall. “Well, good evening, milord.” The last time he'd seen the woman, Felicity had been railing at him. Yet the housekeeper showed no surprise at his carrying one of her charges into the house bold as brass.

He greeted her, and she smiled broadly at him. He had just enough time to register that she still liked him before she went right to work shooing the boys up the stairs. “It's long past your bedtime, lads. Come along, and don't give me no fuss now.”

As they climbed, James related to Mrs. Box the day's events. When the boy spoke of how Ian had bought them supper and taken them home in his carriage, Mrs. Box said, “Now ain't that gentlemanly of his lordship.” On impulse, he winked at her. When she winked back, he smiled.

Well, well, he had an ally. Good—he needed all the help he could get in arranging time alone with Felicity without the children. Especially when Felicity seemed overly eager to be rid of him. Staying well ahead of him, she raced up the steps.

As he studied the slim, erect back encased in a woolen gown and guarded by a long row of pearl buttons, his mind indulged pleasant thoughts. He would undo all those little buttons and peel back the well-worn dress to find the thin chemise. She wore no corset, he was fairly certain. The chemise he would dispense with at once, so he could see her fine shoulders and kiss down the ridge of her spine to her adorable derriere.

He went hard at the thought.

Oh, yes, he'd do all that and more, perhaps even tonight. Once her brothers were settled, she'd either accept his proposal or he'd seduce her into accepting it. But one way or the other, he'd end this farce before he left Taylor Hall.

It shouldn't be too difficult to convince her to marry him this time. Ample support for his suit lay all around him. The banister creaked beneath her hand, showing itself badly in need of repair. On the first floor, one of the paintings that had hung on the wall near her study on his last visit was now missing, with only a darker square of wallpaper to mark its passing. They'd decorated the house with holly and ivy cuttings for the season, but even those couldn't hide the threadbare condition of the drapes or the paint peeling off the moldings.

He'd wager his estate that the downturn in the Taylor finances had begun long before her father's death. Indeed, he questioned the size of their inheritance. And if they needed money, they needed him. That wasn't his first choice for a weapon—he'd rather use seduction—but he'd rely on it if necessary. First, however, he must get her alone.

James obliged him by going off to his own bedchamber as they left the first floor. Now there were only the triplets to squire away, an easy task with one of them already asleep, and the other two trundling along drowsily.

As soon as they reached the top floor, Felicity ushered him into a nursery with three identical beds. She hurried to turn down the covers on one. “Lay him here, please.”

After he set his warm bundle down, she faced him, looking suddenly awkward. “Thank you, Lord St. Clair. I appreciated the help. And thank you for the supper and the ride home. We all enjoyed it.”

She shot Georgie and Ansel a quick glance. “Tell his lordship thank you and good night.”

They obeyed at once, with Georgie giving broad hints concerning future outings. A word from his sister, however, silenced him.