The Painted Lady (7 page)

Then His Grace realized that he was not going to grow bored as quickly as he’d thought, for the window was slightly ajar and he could hear voices from the next room. So the little gray wren had claws. Good for her. Not so good for him.

* * * *

“I said I will not do it, Uncle, and you must not ask it of me.”

“I am not asking, Lilyanne. I have already accepted His Grace as a patient and will not go back on my word.”

Or his fee, Lilyanne suspected. She crossed her arms over her narrow chest. “Fine, Uncle, then you can be the one to march him around the countryside. I will not bear-lead a rake.”

“Nonsense. I cannot interrupt my studies. Besides, what do you know of rakes anyway?”

“I know the way he was looking at me, and that is enough. If not, he is as handsome as Lucifer himself, and most likely twice as charming. Obviously wealthy, polished, titled—I believe those are sufficient reasons why having him under our roof will destroy what little reputation I have left.”

“That is ridiculous. What do you care what a handful of country lumpkins think of you, if they think of you at all?”

By that Lilyanne inferred that the reputation of a woman so firmly on the shelf was of no concern to the villagers, or to her uncle. “What of when His Grace returns to Town, then? He might mention where he was visiting, and with whom. It is Lisbet’s reputation that will suffer, with her sister sharing a residence with a wealthy bachelor. Everyone will believe I was sharing his bed!”

“What, with your uncle in the house? You are making too much of this, Lilyanne, and I am not pleased with this display of excitability. I thought I trained you to have more control.”

“And my mother, bless her soul, taught me to be a lady.”

“A lady
...
That’s it. Lady Edgecombe is present, so your reputation is perfectly safe.”

“What, chaperoned by a woman who is considered insane by her own husband?”

“Discomposed, my dear. Remember, we do not use that other term. And you know that the lady is no such thing. She is more in the way of being a house guest, and therefore an entirely respectable chaperone.”

If Catherine did not land in Caswell’s bed herself, Lilyanne thought. They were both of a class that deemed love affairs as common as crows, at least one atop every roof. “Very well, if you will not consider my reputation, consider my safety. Caswell’s very stance and stare proclaim him used to power. The man is dangerous.”

“Fustian. He is a duke.”

“He is insane. He’d have to be, to come here.”

“Discomposed, Lilyanne. Discomposed.”

“I do not care if he is decomposed! He is too strong, too knowing, too used to getting his own way.”

“You could not be implying that he would
...
? Heavens, Lilyanne, you must not let your imagination run wild with you, else you will suffer a brain storm of your own. The Duke of Caswell is a gentleman.”

“And no gentleman beats his wife? Abuses his servants? No gentleman participates in blood sports, for the fun of it? Now whose imagination is running wild? Besides, you said Frederick Spires was a gentleman.”

“Lord Spires was not with us long enough to benefit from the course of treatment.”

“No, he left after I broke his nose with the fireplace poker.”

“Very well, Spires was an exception, but Caswell’s condition does not tend toward violence. He is deluded, merely. The duke hears voices.”

“That’s all?” Sarcasm dripped off her words. “Lord Harewood’s heir heard voices, if you recall. They were telling him to eat raw rats.”

“That was an unfortunate error in diagnosis. I should have been more concerned with his diet than his exercise. Nevertheless, Caswell is not bound for Bedlam, not by half. He is staying, furthermore, and you will help with his cure, Lilyanne. If you will not think of my reputation, my opportunity to prove myself to those fools and fops in London who would cure a headache with a hammer, then think of the money. Think of your sister, and how you want her to have new frocks for that Christmas party she will be attending, how you felt she needed riding lessons so she could fit in with the wealthier girls, how you keep after me about a presentation for her next year. Those things take money, Lilyanne, a great deal of money.”

“Money which we would have had if you had not sold off the rental farms and let the other acreage lie fallow.”

“I am a physician, niece, not a farmer.”

“And I am a lady, not a nursemaid.”

“The duke is staying. That is my final word.”

“Then let him stay in the Dower House. It was good enough for Reggie Harewood until his family came with a barred carriage to carry him off.”

The Dower House was in disrepair, used only to frighten the most incorrigible of girls into mending their manners. Sir Osgood was aghast to think of housing Caswell there. “My stars, he is a duke!”

“I wish you would slop saying ‘duke’ as though he were a deity. Caswell is a man. A handsome, powerful, profligate man.”

“Who is troubled enough to come to us for help. Would you deny him that, my dear?”

Lilyanne had actually managed to help some of the girls whose families could not control their daughters. She’d taught the chits to moderate their behavior, to think before acting, to become more amiable when faced with adversity. Lilyanne doubted His Grace of Caswell even knew the word submissiveness. She did; she was a woman. Lilyanne nodded her acquiescence. “Very well.” She was also a woman with backbone, so she added, “But Little Henry accompanies us at all time.”

“Yes, yes, whatever you wish.”

“And he carries a gun.”

* * * *

Lilyanne found the duke in the morning room, where he was staring out the partially opened window, the afternoon light burnishing his fair hair to gold. The windows of every room of Bannister Hall were cracked on clement days, because Sir Osgood believed in the salubrious qualities of fresh air. He also believed the blond-haired, broad-shouldered exquisite in his perfectly tailored clothes was harmless, which showed how much her uncle knew. Lilyanne snapped the window shut and said, “If you will follow me, Your Grace, I will show you to a guest bedchamber. We keep country hours, but you will have an hour or more to rest before dinner.”

Caswell nodded, and let her lead him toward a dark set of stairs. Halfway up to the next floor, he asked, “Who is Frederick Spires?”

And Uncle thought he was a gentleman! A man of honor would have revealed his presence, or left the room, or shut the window. Instead, the duke had listened to every word Lilyanne and her uncle had spoken, every damning, impolite word. Thank goodness the cad was behind her on the stairs and could not see her flaming cheeks. “He is no one of any import,” she lied. Lilyanne had been terrified for weeks after the attack.

“Did he hurt you? I will call him out.”

“You cannot, for his family shipped him off to the former colonies.”

“Where you are undoubtedly wishing me at this very moment.”

Lilyanne could not insult a guest under her roof, especially not one who was paying for the privilege, and not more than she already had, at any rate, so she did not answer. “Here is your room, Your Grace. A servant will be in to assist you.”

“That would not be Little Henry, would it? I really do not require a keeper, you know.”

His voice sounded almost sad to Lilyanne’s ears, reminding her that whatever else he might be, the duke was a troubled soul in search of help. In gentler tones she told him, “Uncle’s valet Cosgrove will be the one serving you. Little Henry is our gardener’s son. They live at the old gatehouse.”

“I see.” He brushed past her through the doorway, then he walked around the room, touching the mattress, shutting the window, reading the sampler hanging over the washstand. When Lilyanne would have turned to go, he stopped her with another question. “Do you wish me to leave, Miss Bannister?”

“I... I must apologize for any words you might have overheard.”

“That does not answer my question.”

“My uncle would be devastated.”

“That is still no answer. Do you want me gone? I would not wish you a moment’s unease.”

Lilyanne did not know how to reply. She considered herself an honest person, yet dealing with Uncle’s patients had taught her diplomacy. Was this the time for tact, or for the truth? Her hesitation must have been answer enough, for the duke stepped toward her, not close enough to be threatening, but near enough to look into her eyes. “I swear to you, miss, that I would never hurt you. I might be somewhat befuddled at present, but I have never forced myself on a woman in my life.”

At such short range, Lilyanne could not help but be aware of the gentleman’s scent, all lemon and leather and horse, his impressive height, and vibrant blue-green eyes. “You likely never needed to,” she muttered to herself.

“I am sorry. I didn’t catch your words.”

Somewhere between delicate diplomacy and directness, Lilyanne’s tongue had settled on dumb. She blushed once more, beginning to fear that she was coming down with a fever, her cheeks were so constantly warm. She stared at her toes, rather than at Caswell’s firm lips and tousled blond curls.

“Furthermore, I swear that I will never try to seduce you, unless you are willing, of course.”

Lilyanne gasped, and the rogue smiled, showing dimples. “Only a rake would say such a thing!”

“If you think of a rake as a malicious collector of broken hearts or broken maidenheads, no, I am no rake. I do admire women, however, with a man’s appreciation and appetites. I see no reason not to appease those appetites until I marry, when the ladies are willing.”

“I am not willing!” she squeaked, appalled at the shrillness in her voice. Uncle would not approve.

“Not even a little?” Kasey teased, just to see those bright spots of color on the little wren’s soft cheeks. “You are certain there is no way on earth you are going to let yourself be seduced by a scoundrel like me?”

“None. Never.”

“Ah, that is too bad, for now I might have to withdraw my vow not to try. It’s the challenge, you see, a rogue’s honor and all that.” He reached out and touched her cheek for one brief, butterfly instant. “Never say never to a rake, Miss Bannister.”

“Are ... are you flirting with me, Your Grace?”

Kasey placed his hands over his heart and grinned at her. “Never, my dear. That would cause too much Turbulence.”

Chapter Eight

Sir Osgood eschewed excitement with a vengeance. He began Kasey’s course of mind-quieting moderation at dinner that evening. The doctor’s saying of grace was so long Kasey could see the clear soup cooling in front of him. Osgood praised the Provider more profusely, in fact, than Kasey deemed the meal deserved. Boiled beef was followed by boiled mutton and boiled chicken. With boiled vegetables alongside. Then a boiled pudding.

Dinner conversation was just as bland, consisting of amen, and please pass the—only there was no salt. Seven grains of the stuff reposed on a tiny salver in front of each diner, for Sir Osgood deemed salt unhealthful, too.

Ah well, Kasey thought, he could stand to lose a few pounds. London during the Season was overflowing with rich foods and heavy sauces, and the Christmas holidays would be worse, with all the festive fare and parties at which to enjoy it. Caswell’s own chef was an artist of the spice shelf, flavoring each dish with palate-pleasing panache. The only thing appealing here was the peas.

Miss Bannister did not have an ounce to lose, he considered, without appearing on the verge of starvation. Lady Edgecombe, on the other hand, and on his other side at the small table, was remarkably well padded for a woman on such a plain diet. He watched her take a second serving of an unidentifiable, liquid dish.

She caught his gaze and said, “It doesn’t get any better later, you know.” The pressure against his ankle, though, promised that it did.

That sure as Hades was not Miss Bannister playing touch-me under the table, and Sir Osgood was too far away, frowning at the viscountess. Lady Edgecombe had changed for dinner into a cerise lutestring gown whose neckline would have been daring at a London gathering. At a country dinner, it was nearly indecent except for the scrap of lace hastily and, to judge from the lady’s earlier petulance, unhappily added. She was also disgruntled because Sir Osgood had not let her quiz the new arrival about life in Town.

“His Grace has left the city to get away from the noxious fumes there, both of the coal fires and the gossip,” Bannister had said, clearing his throat. “We shall not be reminding him, Lady Edgecombe.”

Obviously the threat of being returned to her husband’s care—or worse—held great sway with the viscountess, at least while Sir Osgood was present, for she had since addressed herself to her meal, not the duke. Some few years older than he was, Kasey surmised, the lady was ripe for an affair. Overripe. He moved his legs away, accidentally brushing against Miss Bannister’s foot. Well, it was almost an accident. She dropped her fork.

“My apologies.”

She colored up, her uncle cleared his throat, and Lady Edgecombe scowled. Kasey smiled. Dinner was not going to be half as dull as he had feared.

After the meal, fruit and nuts were served. Kasey savored a juicy, crisp apple, until he noticed Sir Osgood’s frown. His Grace tried to eat more quietly, with less enjoyment, lest he be given nothing but soft, mushy pears tomorrow. He hated pears.

The ladies never got up to leave the men alone over coffee. What for? There was no coffee. There would certainly be no cigars or pipes or brandy, and no vulgar discussions of wine and wagers and women. No, there was a walk.

In the cold? In the dark?

One needed the exercise to digest dinner properly, Sir Osgood explained, as the foursome trooped back and forth on the flagged terrace, where lanterns made sure they did not tumble off into the rosebushes. Lady Edgecombe claimed Kasey’s arm and started asking about fashions and friends and Prinny’s latest flirts.

“Ahem. I think we have had enough exercise,” Sir Osgood declared, leading his company back toward the drawing room and the welcome fire. While the ladies readied their needlework, the physician began to read aloud from an improving treatise. Kasey thought he’d use his time to think about improving the lot of Lancaster miners, and the income from his Suffolk farms. Instead, he could not drag his thoughts or his eyes away from Miss Bannister at a small spinning wheel, swaying over it as she fed a pinch of wool into the wheel and a strand of yarn came out to the waiting spool.