A Perfect Gentleman (25 page)

Ellianne made the vaguest of comments.

“I am surprised a woman with your advantages does not hire herself a wellborn companion.”

The cousin tittered, and Ellianne wondered if Mrs. Collins were applying for the position. Ellianne would rather take a boa constrictor into her house than this biddy. “My aunt Lavinia, Mrs. Goudge, is companion enough. Aunt Lally does not care for social gatherings, but Lady Wellstone has been kind enough to include me in some of her plans, such as shopping excursions, morning calls, and the theater.”

Mrs. Collins fumed. Gwen had never invited her anywhere before this, and she was by way of being a relative. Well, a connection, anyway, by marriage. Speaking of marriage, the widow meant to enter that happy state again as soon as she found someone to pay off her bills. Living in shabby rooms on a pittance of an annuity, Mrs. Collins had ambitions far beyond her expectations. She'd been hoping to move into Wellstone House with her relatives, but they were putting up at a hotel. There was no room, and no invitation, even if she wished to put up with her beastly, bratty nieces and nephews.

There was still Wellstone himself. Everyone knew he was below hatches, playing the Fancy Fred to lonely ladies, but so what? He had this house, the pile in the country, the title, and a respected place in society. Mrs. Collins did not care how the viscount earned his keep, just that he share it. Besides, a gentleman who made his way from boudoir to boudoir could not be particular about his wife's little flirtations. Her first husband had been, and deuced unpleasant he had been about it, too, until he collapsed of a heart seizure in the middle of a jealous rage. Wellstone was young and fit and handsome, and Mrs. Collins would not mind in the least sharing his bed, at least until she had provided him with an heir. Which happy event, she knew, had better take place sooner rather than later, for while a gentleman could wait until middle age to start his nursery, a woman could not.

So Mrs. Collins had dressed with care this evening in her finest gown: a dark blue satin with scalloped hem and matching scalloped neckline, set off with her diamonds. Not even her sister knew the stones were paste. She was elegantly fashionable, she told herself, without looking fast. She did not want to give Wellstone the wrong idea, for she could find the other kind of offer on every street corner. No, she wanted a wedding band, not a bauble when he tired of her.

She had not given Wellstone the wrong impression. She had not given him any impression whatsoever. The man had eyes for no one but this mushroom, this banker's daughter. Next to her black silk, Mrs. Collins's dark blue satin might have been a servant's uniform, for all he noticed. Granted Miss Kane was dramatic looking, worth a fortune, and on good terms with the viscount's stepmother. So? She was no real lady, had no idea how to go on in the polite world, and who wanted red-haired children anyway?

Mrs. Collins waited until she could hear the men's footsteps and laughter in the hall. Then she gestured toward the pianoforte. “Such a lovely touch to an evening, musical entertainment and good conversation, don't you think?” At Ellianne's nod, she went on: “Lady Valentina must be growing weary of playing by now. Why do you not take her place, Miss Kane?”

Ellianne smiled. “I am afraid I have no skills on the pianoforte whatsoever.”

“Another instrument, perhaps?”

“No, I am afraid not, to my sorrow, and that of numerous musical instructors. They did try, I swear.”

“Then perhaps you might sing. I am sure we can convince Lady Valentina to accompany you. Such a talented, accommodating young lady.”

Now Ellianne had to laugh. “I assure you, my singing would be no pleasure for anyone in the room. In fact, Gwen's guests would all leave before the tea tray was brought in.”

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Collins said, louder than before, “I thought all young women had some drawing room skills.”

Gwen and the duchess were hurrying over, to reach Ellianne's side before the gentlemen entered. Before they arrived, Ellianne stood. She was enough taller than Mrs. Collins that she could look down on the slightly older woman, to note the few gray hairs her tweezer had missed. She pointedly touched the ruby on her chest, which glowed as it ought, not like the dull jewels around Mrs. Collins's neck. “I am afraid I was never one for useless pastimes. And before you ask, no, I am no needlewoman. I leave that to my aunt. I do not compose poetry, nor do I dabble in watercolors. I have never tried knotting a reticule, but I would likely make a mare's nest of that, too.”

“Ah, you must be a reader then. A bluestocking.”

“No, I read what interests me, nothing more. I am sure you are far more accomplished than I, Mrs. Collins.”

Ellianne would have moved off then, to join Gwen or Lady Valentina, since she could not fly to the door to seek Wellstone's comforting presence. Before she left, though, the impertinent Mrs. Collins asked, in a tone sure to carry to the rest of the room, and the gentlemen just entering, “But what do you do, then?”

“What do I do?”

“Yes, you must do something to fill your days and nights. I am certain you do not do your own cooking and cleaning.”

Gwen's cousin's wife smothered another titter with her hand.

Ellianne hardly had a moment free between the bank and meetings with her investment counselors, trying to keep up with all the papers they presented for her consideration, trying to stay abreast of the latest news that could affect the local and national economies. If she said she oversaw her investments, however, that she monitored the bank's workings to guarantee no one would swindle them again, she would be a pariah, a social outcast. Ladies did not lift their fingers to anything heavier than a teacup, certainly not a bank ledger. She was a banker, and proud of it, but tonight she had discovered she also enjoyed being a part of society, being a desirable woman, being her mother's daughter as well as her father's.

Gwen was wringing her handkerchief already. The duchess, usually the most kindhearted of ladies, was scowling. Ellianne raised her chin a notch higher. She was literally looking down her nose at the widow who so obviously wanted Wellstone for herself. “I do have one skill, Mrs. Collins, whether you consider it a ladylike virtue or not. I am good with numbers. Very good. So good, in fact, that I spend hours managing the charitable foundation I have established to aid less fortunate females. We now have a training school, a hospital, and a home for orphans. Perhaps you would wish to contribute? If not, we always need volunteers. But of course you already give a portion of your income and your time to the needy. All ladies do, don't they?”

Mrs. Collins turned three shades of purple that did not match her gown, and Gwen let out an audible sigh of relief. She instantly suggested they play a few hands of cards, rather than let the sharp-edged conversation continue.

Lord Strickland rushed to claim Ellianne as his partner.

Surprised and disappointed, for he wanted to be the one to ease Ellianne's tension, to tell her that one jealous cat should not destroy her enjoyment of the evening, Stony raised his brow.

“You heard her,” the baron answered his unspoken question. “The gal is good with numbers. Deuced good, according to her aunt and Lady Augusta's man of business. Who would you rather have as a card partner? A pretty widgeon who can caterwaul and pound the keys, or one who can count?”

Stony thought the baron had given up gambling. He must have given up his fears of Miss Kane instead, although he did keep his chair as far from the table as possible. Or perhaps Strickland's self-imposed rules did not pertain to such low-stakes games as found in a lady's parlor. Or else he bet only on a sure thing.

They won. And won. And won.

Strickland had never been known for his proficiency with the pasteboards; he might not have lost his estate if he'd had half this much card sense. But it was not his mastery, nor even his luck, that kept the baron chortling over the point count. It was his partner who seemed to know every card that had been played and the odds of each other one appearing. The lady could calculate.

Hell, with Ellianne as a partner, Stony thought, he would not have to be in the escort business. Of course, if he was not in the squiring service, he would not have met this woman who continuously astounded him. A goddess and a cardsharp? Who ever would have thought that, meeting the dowdy, uppity heiress? Not the viscount. He'd thought he knew women. By George, he admitted to himself, he was as stupid as a stone.

He was not playing. The comte and the duchess were continuing a discussion started during dinner, of which Stony heartily approved. If Her Grace took pity on the Frenchman, then perhaps Stony wouldn't find the impoverished émigré at his own table so often. With Lord Aldershott resting in the library, the tables would have been uneven if Stony had participated. Instead of making his guests change partners with every hand, Stony volunteered to sit out. He truly did not care for games of chance, which they were, since he lacked Miss Kane's skill. And if he could not sit at the table with her—or on the couch or the love seat—then he could make certain that Strickland treated her with the proper courtesy, while the dreadful Mrs. Collins kept her distance. He maneuvered the widow into partnering Sir John Thomasford. The greedy and the ghoulish; they were the perfect match.

As the gracious host, Stony circulated among the four tables, seeing that the guests had fresh decks and fresh glasses of wine. He tried not to single out Strickland and Miss Kane's table, but somehow found himself watching their play far more often than he did, say, Lady Val's and Charlie's, who were already bickering over their bids like an old married couple.

By standing behind Miss Kane, looking over her shoulder, Stony could not only admire her skill, but he could admire her bosom, only half-hidden by the gauzy black lace. That narrow space between her ivory breasts was a great deal more fascinating than the back of Lord Strickland's balding head. And that red down at the nape of her neck, below the upswept style, was tantalizing. And her scent….

She threw out the wrong discard.

“Go away, Wellstone,” Strickland ordered without modulating his voice, so half the card players turned to look. “Can't you see you're making the lady nervous hovering over her like a bee in a clover patch?”

Ellianne's blush started at her toes. She glared at Strickland, and then she glared at Stony for good measure while their opponents laughingly begged him to stay. Feeling like a schoolboy caught stealing tarts, Wellstone went to watch Gwen lose her monthly allowance.

As soon as her pin money was gone, Gwen called for an end to the card playing. As the various scores were tallied and debts settled, everyone could hear Strickland boasting of his winnings. He did give credit where it was due, showing Miss Kane more respect than he had when he was courting her. In fact, Stony feared he was thinking of putting his luck to the test again, she was that dab a hand at cards. Then she said, “Oh, I always give my winnings to charity. Shall I add yours to mine, Lord Strickland?”

The baron scurried over toward Gwen and the tea tray.

Stony was too late to get a seat near Ellianne. Lady Aldershott wanted to discuss the training school, and Mrs. Harkness-Smythe was inviting Miss Kane to her card party the following week.

There was a vacant seat next to Mrs. Collins on the sofa. The woman tilted her head and cooed. Stony took his tea and stood near the fireplace. He liked his pigeons baked in a pie, not stuffed in satin.

Deuce take it, he thought, he'd hardly had a chance to say three words in private to Ellianne all evening. Here she was in his own house, and he might be one of the china dogs on the mantel, for all the time they'd spent together. First she was being introduced, then sitting beside Sir John at dinner. Cards with Strickland, now this, surrounded by females and would-be card partners…and the undertaker.

She was a success, he thought, half with pride, half with regret that soon she would not be needing him anymore. Of course, they had not located her sister yet, but with Ellianne's success would come exposure to wider circles. Someone would mention Isabelle. They'd talk about it on the ride home, he planned, when he would have her all to himself. Whatever else Stony was planning for that short drive wasn't ready for words, just a smile of anticipation.

The duchess, unfortunately, saw that smile. She declared she would see Miss Kane home in her carriage. Since it was on her way, there was no need for Wellstone to call out his own coach for the short drive to Sloane Street.

“But I brought her.” Damn if Stony didn't hear a whine in his own voice. He squared his shoulders and spoke with authority, not agony. “So I shall take the lady home. With one of our maids in attendance, of course.” The servant was going to ride up with the driver this time, he promised himself.

“Well, your maids have enough to do, cleaning up.” And then Her Grace issued the unkindest cut of all: “Who leaves the fox to guard the henhouse, anyway?”

Et tu,
Duchy?

Chapter Nineteen

He wanted her. But what did that mean? Ellianne wondered. Did his heated looks mean he liked her, or that her gown was cut too low after all? Perhaps he admired her, or perhaps he believed that red hair went with loose morals. Surely he did not believe she would become his paramour, did he? Was he hoping to increase his earnings by increasing her dependency on him?