The Diamond Key (2 page)

The dandified chap scurried ahead, his walking stick tucked under his arm. Wynn followed, Homer barked, and the woman groaned. “Not much longer, my lady,” Wynn murmured soothingly. “Perhaps your friend has something to drink in his carriage. Your throat must be parched.” Wynn’s was, and he had not been in the smoke half as long. He doubted the green-clad gossoon had anything as practical as a flask. A mirror and comb were more likely.

Wynn debated finding a glass of water for her. “How much longer?” he asked.

The smaller man was stopped at a green-and-gold carriage with a crest on the door. “Right here. I’ll take her now.”

“No, you give the driver her address, then run ahead”—he amended that, noting the fellow’s spindly legs and highly polished pumps—”no, hire a boy to run or ride ahead to alert her household. She needs cold drinks, a bath, and a physician waiting.”

The man stood by the open carriage door, his prominent eyes fixed on Lady Victoria as if she were made of spun sugar and about to melt. He gnawed on his fingers again, without stepping aside. “But I was to be the one ... That is, I should carry her home. Lady Torrie’s intended, don’t you know.”

The woman raised her head from Wynn’s shoulder and coughed to clear her throat. “Fustian, Boyce. You intend to pay your debts with my dowry, is all. Besides, I am going to marry this gentleman. I vowed I would.”

Wynn would have thrust the smoke-stunned female into Lord Boyce’s puny embrace before she could say Jack Robinson, but the jackanapes was reaching for the ribbon of his quizzing glass. “You cannot marry a lowly fireman, Torrie. It ain’t done.” Then he had the glass in place and squinted through it. “Egad, it’s Ingram.”

“Viscount Ingall now,” Wynn corrected him, finally recognizing George St. Brenner from his early school days, aeons ago, it seemed. He nodded his head slightly in acknowledgment of the acquaintance, and of the other man’s ascension to his own family honors. “Lord Boyce.”

“Great Heavens, Torrie, the dastard is worse than a bucket bearer. He’s barred from society, exited from the country, even. Marry him? Why, you cannot be seen with such a scoundrel, much less let him carry you home. His reputation—”

“My reputation be hanged,” Wynn said, stepping around Boyce. “The lady needs care.”

“But ... but ...”

Wynn was already stepping up into the coach, his weight combined with the woman in his arms making the carriage sway. He held her more tightly. Instead of placing her on the squabs, he sat with her in his lap. She’d fall off the seat, otherwise, Wynn told himself.

The dog jumped in after them, then turned and showed his teeth to Lord Boyce, whose mouth hung open. He was stilt staring through his quizzing glass.

“But ... but ...” he stammered, “she cannot go with you!”

Freeing one hand, Wynn rapped on the roof of the coach, signaling the driver to start. “Go on, Boyce. The lady is safe with me.”

As the carriage moved forward, Torrie pulled her other arm—the one that was not wrapped around her rescuer’s neck—from his enveloping coat and softly patted his cheek. “Of course I am safe with you. You already saved my life. That is why we have to get married.”

“Maybe Boyce has a flask in here after all,” the viscount declared, immediately shoving the woman onto the opposing seat, next to the dog, so he could search. At least one of them desperately needed a drink.

Marry her? Hell, he’d already lost his honor, given up six years of his life away from his homeland, and forfeited the respect of his family, all for a woman. He’d be damned if he was going to sacrifice his freedom for another flea-brained female.

Wynn Ingram, Viscount Ingall, did not trust women.

He did not like women.

He sure as Hades did not understand women.

* * * *

What seemed to be fifteen females threw themselves at Wynn the moment he crossed the open threshold of Duchamp House in Grosvenor Square. Wynn never thought he would have missed the Canadian wilderness.

There were white-faced maids, one hand-wringing abigail who swore the whole disaster was her fault, and an anxious housekeeper waiting for instructions. One woman cried, “My baby!” and had to be supported closer by a black-clad female so she could see for herself that Lady Victoria still breathed, and brushed a strand of begrimed hair off her cheek.

“I am fine, Mama, truly.” Torrie’s voice was low and raspy, but strong. “This fine gentleman rescued me in time.”

A damp-eyed butler took over then, snapping his fingers for two stalwart footmen to remove Wynn’s burden; another flick of his hand had two of the maids hurrying ahead while the menservants carefully bore their fragile cargo up the marble arched stairs.

A female who had to be Lady Duchamp turned on the steps to address Wynn, whose arms felt oddly empty. “Please stay so I may thank you properly, as soon as I have seen to Torrie. And my husband has been sent for. He’ll wish to—”

“Please do not concern yourself, my lady. Your daughter’s well-being is reward enough.”

“No, you must stay. I insist.”

Wynn recognized the same implacable air of authority and the same determined chin he’d noted in Lady Victoria. If the daughter resembled her mother in other ways, he considered, the girl was indeed an exquisite. Countess Duchamp was an elegant, graceful woman with reddish hair under a scrap of lace. She barely seemed old enough to be the mother of a marriageable chit. He choked on the mental mention of the word marriage, and Lady Duchamp pounced on the sound.

“There. You need a restorative. I should have offered sooner.”

“No, ma’am. I would not wish to be in the way at this time of great concern.”

“I will not hear of your leaving, and that is the end of it. Lady Ann, my sister-in-law, can look to your needs while I see to Torrie.” She nodded toward the frowning, black-gowned female who remained in the hall near Wynn, as if checking to make certain he did not make off with any of the silver. The aunt’s glare was so chilling, Wynn could feel his spine shivering. He never thought he’d miss the heat of Bombay, either. If Lady Torrie resembled this old dragon, it was no wonder she was unwed. Before Wynn could make a dash toward the front door, Lady Duchamp concluded: “Besides, you will have to wait for your coat.”

Wynn did not fancy traipsing through London in his shirtsleeves, in fact, nor walking back to his lodgings in Kensington. Boyce’s carriage had driven off, and Wynn would never ask to borrow a Duchamp coach. He could not hire a hackney, though, not while his purse was in the pocket of his jacket, which was even then disappearing around a corner, still wrapped around Lady Torrie. One of the maids was tucking a blanket around her, but not before he caught a glimpse of one dainty ankle.

The aunt cleared her throat and scowled at him, making him feel like a spotty-faced youth caught with his hand up a milkmaid’s skirts. “Perhaps a dish of water for my dog, then,” was all he could think to say.

Lady Ann sniffed and led the way down the hall to an opulent white-and-gold parlor. She gestured toward a tray of decanters and glasses while she gave orders to the butler, but Wynn did not stray from the entrance to the lavishly decorated room. In his present filthy state he was not fit for the intricately carved moldings, painted ceiling, and priceless works of art in every niche. In fact, he did not belong in any part of this magnificent home, and never would no matter how he was dressed. As soon as Lady Duchamp realized who he was, or her husband the earl returned, they’d be glad to see the back of Wynn Ingram quickly enough. He ought to leave before they were forced to be polite to such a pariah. He could wash up in the kitchens and perhaps have a glass of ale.

It was too late, for Homer was lapping at a crystal dish a servant had set on the floor. The little dog barely looked civilized on his best days, and this was not one of those. He appeared more black than his usual tan, and bits of cinder and strands of thread were matted onto his short curly coat. One side of his mustache must have been singed off, leaving him lopsided and more vagabondish than the viscount himself. At least Wynn did not slosh his drink on the fine Turkey carpet.

“I should leave,” Wynn told Lady Ann, who was still frowning her disapproval. Most likely her face was frozen that way, he decided. “I doubt my coat can be worn again, anyway.”

She was holding out a dampened cloth. “Did you really rescue my niece from the fire?”

He nodded yes. “But it was Homer who heard her calls and led me to her.”

Instead of handing Wynn the linen, the earl’s sister bent and started wiping at the dog. “I love my niece,” the dragon murmured, dampening Homer more with her tears than the towel. “She bears my name as her middle one. Thank you.”

Homer wagged his tail and went back to the water dish.

Lud, now Wynn was alone with a starched-up female who was old enough to be his mother—except his mother had never cried over him, not even when he left England, never to see her again. Wynn hoped Lady Torrie appreciated what she had: so many people to care about her welfare, to worry about her, to love her.

He had his dog.

“Torrie? Where is my girl?”

Wynn could hear the frantic calls even through the thick oak door of the parlor.

The earl had returned from his club, having received the news of a fire. As Lord Duchamp pounded up the stairs, Wynn could hear him calling to his wife, “Maggie, where are you?” And to the butler, “Mallen, she is all right, isn’t she? Tell me my little girl is all right.”

Again, Wynn felt that wrench on his heartstrings at the love in this family.

“I’ll be leaving now,” he told Lady Ann. “Company is decidedly
de trop
at a time like this.”

“You will stay and be thanked like the proper gentleman you were raised to be,” the old woman told him.

No one had spoken to Wynn like that in over six years. He had braved barren wildernesses and sailed most of the seven seas. He had made his fortune in a harsh, empty land, and another in a harsher one that was teeming with life. He owned a fleet of merchant ships and held shares in a myriad profitable ventures, with more men dependent for their livelihoods—if not their very lives—on him than lived in many English towns. He’d even found time to assist the Crown with delicate financial negotiations, which was how he dared show his face in town again. He was a man now, nearing his thirtieth year.

He had wealth.

He had power.

He sat back down on the brocaded sofa.

Just to prove that no maiden aunt was going to intimidate him, Wynn raised one dark eyebrow, then lowered it when he saw that Lady Ann was too busy feeding shaved ham to Homer to notice.

At least they were both somewhat more presentable now, he and his dog. After a long drink—water for Homer, cold lemonade, then brandy for Lord Ingall— the dog had been wiped clean, and Wynn had been taken in hand by the butler, Mallen, himself. His coat had been restored, sponged, and brushed. It would never pass muster, nor would his limp neckcloth, his scuffed boots, or his stained fawn breeches, but he did appear more the gentleman and less the chimney sweep. He was almost comfortable sitting on the gold brocade furniture.

He got to his feet when he heard footsteps approach the parlor door. He would bow, refute any hint of heroism, and be gone. At last.

The major domo was also restored to his proper butlerish mien, with no traces of tears or trembling hands as Mullen regally announced,  “His lordship, Earl Duchamp.”

Wynn started his bow, but the earl was having none of it. He was not going to settle for a polite nod, nor even a formal handshake, not from the man who had rescued his only daughter, the light of his life, from a fiery death. Or a smoky one. Lord Duchamp did not have all the details yet, but one thing was certain: he owed this gentleman an enormous debt, one he would happily discharge. He rushed across the carpet and enveloped Wynn in a fierce, back-slapping hug.

What happened to unemotional British stoicism while he was gone? Wynn wondered, locked in this stranger’s embrace with no polite way of escaping. He could not recall his father touching anyone, his heir or his wife, much less the useless second son. The earl, though, was red-eyed from crying, but beaming now. Perhaps the volatility was a relic of Duchamp’s French ancestry, for otherwise he was the pure British squire, ruddy cheeks, square jaw, thin sandy hair—and bulldog determination to pound his joy and gratitude into Wynn.

Only Lady Ann’s caustic “You are embarrassing the boy, Daniel,” made the earl drop his arms and step back. He wiped his eyes and blew his nose, then waved the butler forward with his tray of champagne glasses.

“A toast!” Duchamp declared, to Wynn’s relief. One drink and then he could leave.

When they had each been served, a saucer on the floor for Homer, the earl held his glass high. “To you, brave lad.”

“To your daughter’s health,” Wynn quickly appended.

“And to her future happiness,” the earl said with a wink. “But we will speak more of that at a later date, eh? Torrie told me about her vow.”

Now Wynn’s neckcloth had wine spots on it, from where he choked on the champagne.

The earl handed him a napkin. “They’ve given her laudanum, so I’ll hear all the tidbits in the morning, but I could not be happier, my boy.”

Wynn could not be happier, either—not unless he was boiled in oil, stretched on a rack, or hung by his thumbs.
Those
were preferable fates. Before the earl could post the banns, Wynn hurried to say, “You must ignore the lady’s so-called vow, my lord. I fear she was in shock. Any other woman would have been suffering paroxysms”—to which, thank goodness, Lady Torrie had not subjected him, only this ninnyhammer’s notion of a wedding—”but she could not have been in her right mind.”

The earl’s smile faded as he sipped his champagne. “Still, never known m’girl not to know her own mind. I would have seen her shackled a hundred times over, otherwise, these three years past.” He brightened, even as Wynn’s hopes of avoiding an awkward situation dimmed. “It’s early days yet.”

Wynn carefully placed his empty glass on the tray.

“Quite. But this one grows late, sir, so you will have to excuse me.” From another drink, from a daft damsel’s pledge, and from the earl’s embarrassment when he heard the gossip about Wynn’s name. The viscount was determined to take his leave.