The Truth About Lord Stoneville (8 page)

Oh yes. Like Lord Rockton, he had a dry wit, shrewd intelligence, and a face like a prince, albeit an Italian one. His blithe unconcern for gentlemanly honor mirrored Lord Rockton’s, as did his ruthless determination to get whatever he wanted.

But she began to understand that he wasn’t entirely a villain. For one thing, he cared for his family. The way he’d spoken of his siblings and their right not to marry showed he was carrying on this masquerade on behalf of them all, not just himself.

And though he’d obviously intended from the first to present her as a whore to shock his grandmother, he’d changed his mind with surprisingly little persuasion when Maria had opposed the idea. Considering how she’d kicked him—
where
she’d kicked him—he could have had them carted off in chains. Instead, he’d repeated his offer to find her fiancé. He’d given her an out, too, by saying that if she wished to leave tomorrow, he would accept her decision.

Of course, she wasn’t sure if she believed him. He was abominably arrogant and annoying, and he possessed an appalling cynicism. But sometimes, when he got that bleak look in his eyes, she felt almost . . . sorry for him.

Which was ridiculous. Clearly there was something wrong with her to feel such a thing for the scoundrel.

“Rockton is no more Oliver than Churchgrove is Lord Kirkwood,” Lady Minerva said stoutly.

“Then why did you steal my name for him?” Oliver asked.

“It’s not quite your name, old chap,” Lord Gabriel said. “And you know perfectly well that Minerva likes to tweak your nose from time to time.”

“Stop calling me ‘old,’ blast it,” Oliver grumbled. “I’m not some doddering fool.”

“How old are you, anyway?” Maria asked him, amused by his vanity.

“Thirty-five.” Mrs. Plumtree had said little until now, but apparently the conversation had piqued her interest. “That’s long past the age when a man should marry, don’t you think, Miss Butterfield?”

Aware of Oliver’s gaze on her, Maria chose her words carefully. “I suppose it depends on the man. Papa didn’t marry until he was nearly that age. He was too busy fighting in the Revolutionary War to court anyone.”

When the blood drained from Mrs. Plumtree’s face, Oliver’s eyes held a glint of triumph. “Ah, yes, the Revolutionary War. Did I forget to mention, Gran, that Mr. Butterfield was a soldier in the Continental Marines?”

The table got very quiet. Lady Minerva focused on eating her soup, Lady Celia took several sips of wine, one after another, and Lord Jarret stared into his soup bowl as if it contained the secret to life. The only real sound punctuating the silence was Lord Gabriel’s muttered “bloody hell.”

Clearly, there was some undercurrent here that Maria didn’t understand. Oliver was watching his grandmother again like a wolf about to pounce, and Mrs. Plumtree was clearly contemplating which weapon would best hold the wolf at bay.

“Uncle Adam was a hero,” Freddy put in, oblivious as usual to undercurrents of any kind. “At the Battle of Princeton, he held off ten of the British until help could arrive. It was just him and his bayonet, slashing and stabbing—”

“Freddy,” Maria chided under her breath, “our hosts are British, remember?”

Freddy blinked. “Oh. Right.” He waved his spoon. “But the war was a long time ago. Nobody cares about it now.”

One look at Mrs. Plumtree’s rigid face told Maria otherwise. “I daresay Oliver’s grandmother cares.”

Mrs. Plumtree drew herself up stiffly. “My only son was killed fighting the Colonials. He, too, was a hero. He just didn’t get to live to tell the tale.”

Maria’s heart broke for the woman. How could Oliver do this to her? Maria glared at him, but he was staring at his grandmother with his jaw set. Why did she consistently bring out the devil in him?

Mrs. Plumtree glowered at him. “That is why I am forced to leave my business and my money to my daughter’s children. To
this
lot of ingrates.”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “Ah, but you
aren’t
leaving them to us, are you, Gran? Not without getting your pound of flesh.”

Lips thinning, his grandmother rose abruptly. “Miss Butterfield, might I have a word with you in private?”

Maria glanced to Oliver, whose gaze was fixed on his grandmother.

“Why?” he bit out.

“If I wanted to tell you why,” the woman said coldly, “I would ask you to join us, which I decidedly did not.”

“Maria has barely had a chance to eat,” he said. “Leave her be.”

“It’s all right,” Maria put in. “I’d be happy to speak to your grandmother.” She wanted to know what was going on, and with any luck she could find out from Mrs. Plumtree without giving away her role. Though it appeared that Mrs. Plumtree had already guessed what Maria’s role was.

Oliver looked fit to be tied. “Maria, there’s no reason—”

“I don’t mind.” She rose and laid her napkin on the table. “I’m not that hungry anyway.”

“Do I have to go, too?” Freddy asked in a plaintive voice.

“No, Freddy,” Maria said, stifling a hysterical laugh. “I imagine that’s unnecessary.”

Mrs. Plumtree walked out, and Maria followed. As soon as they passed into a nearby parlor and the woman shut the door, she whirled on Maria with a look of barely controlled anger. “How much money do you want to put an end to this farce?”

Maria blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Come now, Miss Butterfield,” she said coldly. “I know that my grandson must have offered you money to pretend to be his fiancée until I come to my senses. I can double whatever he offered. Just tell me how much that is.”

For a moment, Maria could only gape at her. Insulting as the woman’s offer was, Maria briefly considered accepting it. With money, she could hire someone herself to find Nathan and wash her hands of this mad family. She didn’t owe Oliver anything—he’d behaved abominably so far.

Well . . . he’d saved her and Freddy from that mob at the brothel. And though his grandmother would probably make sure he didn’t follow through on his threats to have them arrested, Maria had promised to maintain the “farce” through tonight at least. She had no right to rail at him about morals if she couldn’t keep her own word.

Besides, it annoyed her how his grandmother seemed to think everyone could be bought. Weren’t the English gentry supposed to be too lofty to concern themselves with the exchange of filthy lucre? Mercy, they were worse than American captains of industry.

Mrs. Plumtree tapped her cane on the floor. “I need your answer.”

“I beg your pardon.” Maria lifted her chin. “I’m stunned by your assertion that this is a farce. Are you saying your grandson does
not
want to marry me?”

“Do not play me for a fool, girl.” Mrs. Plumtree moved toward her with surprising agility for a woman of her age. “My grandson knows you are exactly the sort of woman who would not meet my requirements of a wife for him. That is the only reason he chose you.” She stamped her cane on the floor. “And I will not tolerate it! So tell me how much money you want, damn you!”

Well! The woman had certainly made herself clear. But if Mrs. Plumtree thought Maria would turn tail and run simply because of some blustering, the lady didn’t know whom she was dealing with.

“I don’t want your money. I don’t want anything from you. Oliver ‘chose’ me, as you put it, because he had feelings for me.” Not the kind Mrs. Plumtree would think she meant, but at least it wasn’t a lie. “I’m sorry if that grieves you, but since I have feelings for him as well, you’ll have to endure it.”

“So you
admit
that you aren’t in love with him?” she pressed.

Even for her agreement with Oliver, she couldn’t lie that blatantly. “I’ve hardly known him long enough to claim to be in love. But I do like him a great deal.” When he was being genuine and not playing the bored and cynical villain. “He seems to find my liking for him sufficient and is rather eager to marry, so his feelings are the only things that matter.”

Mrs. Plumtree stepped up close, her blue eyes ablaze in the pale ice of her face. “If you think to get a greater reward by marrying him, think again. He owns this house and its contents and little more. Without money from me, he will not be able to buy you fancy gowns or take you to Paris or whatever it is your grasping little heart has seized upon. And I promise you, if he marries so far beneath him just to spite me, I
will
cut him off.”

Maria’s gaze narrowed. “I thought you said that this was a farce. That he never intends to marry me.”

“It is.” A hard smile touched Mrs. Plumtree’s face. “But men follow their cocks.” While Maria was struck speechless to hear a woman using such a vulgarity, Mrs. Plumtree went on with no hint of shame. “A
clever
woman, as you appear to be, will use her beauty and her close proximity to ensnare even a wily gentleman like my grandson.”

“Oliver? Ensnared? You clearly don’t know him very well if you think he can be coaxed into doing anything against his will.” That’s what had brought about this whole mess in the first place—Mrs. Plumtree’s foolish belief that she could force his hand.

“I know my grandson better than you. He has vulnerabilities that you cannot even begin to imagine.”

The words echoed hollowly in her chest. “What sort of vulnerabilities?”

Mrs. Plumtree snorted. “Do you think I would tell you? So you could use them to get him in your clutches? Not on your life.” She loomed closer. “For the last time, Miss Butterfield, will you reconsider my offer of money?”

Tired of being painted as a schemer, Maria stared her down. “I will not.”

“Even though you won’t ever get a penny—”

“I don’t care.” Though she wasn’t marrying him, she was just willful enough to resent his grandmother’s high-handedness and just compassionate enough to sympathize with his determination to thwart the woman. “I don’t break my promises.”

“Do not let Minerva and the others fool you. You would never be fully accepted in this family, never be accepted in good society, never—”

“If Oliver doesn’t care, I certainly don’t. This discussion is done, Mrs. Plumtree.” Turning on her heel, she walked back the way she came, seething. And she had thought
Oliver
insulting! At least now she knew where he got it from. Heavens alive, what a family!

She almost felt sorry for him, having a grandmother that condescending. No wonder he had thought his plan would work.

In that moment, she decided to see this out. If he wanted to thwart his grandmother, she would help, as long as he held up his end of the bargain and hired someone to look for Nathan.

She was doing this for Nathan alone. And no amount of nastiness from Oliver’s grandmother was going to stop her from following through.

I
T TOOK EVERY
ounce of Hetty’s will to hold her stern expression until she was certain Miss Butterfield was gone. Then she allowed a smile to break over her face.

Strolling to the brandy decanter, she poured herself a healthy amount. The girl was perfect. Perfect! Draw a sword on him? Take him to task for implying that she was a whore? Then refuse any amount of money that was offered to betray him?

Hetty sipped her brandy. She supposed the girl really could be some grasping wench hoping for a fortune in the end, but it was unlikely. Hetty hadn’t risen in the world without learning how to read people, and she would swear that Miss Butterfield was a woman of character. The young lady hadn’t claimed to be madly in love with Oliver, even though it would have been to her benefit to do so. And she had shown pride and backbone in standing up for herself.

Oliver had obviously manipulated the poor girl into playing out this farce—something havey-cavey was going on behind the scenes. But that did not mean it couldn’t still work.

For one thing, Miss Butterfield was his preferred physical type—blond, buxom, and blue-eyed. And he was clearly attracted to her. While Oliver was attracted to many women, he generally avoided innocent young females, wary of being “ensnared.” And this girl was definitely an innocent young female—her shock when Hetty used the word “cocks” clearly showed it.

Yet Oliver had chosen her over one of his opera dancers or some whore, which would have been more typical of him. He clearly thought that the girl’s flawed background would make Hetty admit defeat. Hah! He didn’t know his Gran very well. She would marry him to a fishmonger’s daughter if it meant getting the man settled.

But she was not about to let him know that, or Miss Butterfield, either. A little opposition from the scary matriarch whom Hetty so enjoyed playing was guaranteed to have those two joining forces against her. Joining forces meant private conversations, learning to trust each other . . . even falling in love, if she were lucky.

She owed Oliver that much. Thanks to her own mistakes, he had spent too long building his castle of wickedness, believing it was the sum total of who he was.

She knew better. He was capable of greatness, if only he allowed himself to find it within. Miss Butterfield would help him with that—Hetty just knew it.

And she was never wrong.