A Perfect Gentleman (9 page)

“Why Fred?”

“They say it came from a farmer's hog what got hired out to service the sows. The farmer had Fred all washed and combed, fancified, as it were, as if the pigs cared one whit.” Timms recalled he was not at his local pub, from which he was exiled, along with the racetracks, by his vow to his young mistress. “Pardon the indelicacy, Miss Ellianne.”

She brushed that aside. “I am no green girl, you know. Go on. Tell me more about Lord Wellstone and his situation.”

“It got worse. One cartoonist even portrayed his poor lordship as Othello, the Moor of Venice. Except the newspaper captioned his likeness, ‘the M'whore of London.' A male whore, you know. It was despicable, and not true, on my word as a true believer.”

“The poor man,” Ellianne said, sympathetic to the viscount's plight, as Timms had intended. Then she thought about it, and the blue-eyed Adonis with a smile that could tempt birds out of trees, or ladies into his bed. “How can you be sure it was all untrue?”

Timms pushed his spectacles back on his nose. “I told you, butlers know everything. Besides, it is simple, really. He'd have been caught long since, were he visiting the paddock with the fillies before the races, so to speak. If he'd been serving the old mares, he would not have needed to keep half his house shut up to save money.”

“So you think he can be trusted?”

Timms nodded. “He'll give good value for your coin or have me to answer to, miss. As for your father's money—if that is what you are worried over, that he's seeking more than temporary employment—his lordship could have wed an heiress anytime.” Granted, few with so large and tempting a fortune as Miss Ellianne Kane, but the principle was there. “He didn't. The lad is no fortune-hunter, and bless him for that.”

“Good, because he'll only be disappointed.” Ellianne sat up straighter on her chair. “I do not intend to marry, as I told you.”

And she told him again, to Timms's disgust, and once again after most of the wine was gone.

“No, I am better off single,” Ellianne finished with a yawn, “than with a man who likes my money better than he likes me. Besides, the spinster life was good enough for Aunt Augusta.”

Timms emptied the bottle into his glass. “Who left her house to a blessed dog.”

* * *

So Ellianne consulted the dog. “What did you think of Lord Wellstone?” she asked as they went for a short walk in the small walled garden behind the house, all the old dog was capable of before he wheezed himself into a faint. “Will he do?”

Atlas had no tail to speak of to wag. He did raise his leg, though.

“Well, you liked his flowers.”

So had she, before the dog ate them, anyway. Despite what she'd told her aunt, she still liked the fact that Lord Wellstone had thought to bring her a token. Ellianne had received flowers before, of course. At eight and twenty, she had enjoyed her share of suitors. Unfortunately, she had not truly enjoyed them. She always doubted their sincerity, wondering how many would call, how many would bring flowers or sweets, if her dowry were less generous. Lord Wellstone did not have to bring a bouquet to win her regard; he already had her check.

None of those other gentlemen, the well-born ones who deigned to honor a banker's daughter with their attentions, or the ambitious ones who thought to ally themselves with her family, had impressed her. Not the way Lord Wellstone had.

Ellianne reassured herself that she was far past the age of being swept off her feet, not that the viscount was wielding a broom or anything. He was simply devilishly attractive, and she could appreciate that—the way she could admire a painting in a gallery without having to own it, or touch it, or sit staring at it for hours like a moonling.

She was in no danger of falling for his practiced charm, of course, flowers or no flowers. Aunt Lally was right about that. Along with the bouquets and bonbons, she'd had more than her share of hot, wet, horrid kisses from men claiming ardor while calculating her income. She'd been pawed at and pressed into corners by men claiming affection while trying to compromise her into marriage. They had shown her how revolting, how self-serving and sycophantic a man's attentions could be. The charming ones had been the worst, for she'd almost believed them, especially when she was younger and less experienced. Now she wanted nothing to do with men or their passions or their promises.

All she wanted was her sister back.

She had everything else: a busy, rewarding life, a respected place in her community, friends who shared her interests, and the wherewithal to help better other women's circumstances. Her charities were making a difference, not just holding meetings. She ran orphanages and training schools and hospitals. Ellianne Kane answered to no one and feared no one.

No, that was not true. She did fear being forced into marriage by some man unscrupulous enough to abduct her, as she feared had happened to Isabelle. Kidnapings were not that uncommon, according to Mr. Lattimer of Bow Street. No ransom note had been received, however.

Lord Wellstone would know the people she had to speak to about her sister's disappearance, and he would know just which greedy, groping gentlemen Ellianne had to avoid meanwhile. If he was not one of them, he would certainly recognize their kind. According to Timms, his lordship was circumspect in his dealings, so could protect both her and Isabelle's reputations. His size and strength alone afforded physical protection.

“So what do you think, Atlas? Will he do?”

He'd have to. If Lattimer was no help, and Ellianne could not get in to speak to Baron Strickland, Lord Wellstone was her best hope.

Atlas growled at his own shadow.

Chapter Seven

“So, will she do?” Gwen wanted to know.

“Do for what?” Stony replied. “For the farce between dramas at Drury Lane? For the interment of a truly despised relation? You may send Miss Kane to star in either, with my blessings.”

“For your wife, silly! You know that is what we intended.”

“No, that is what you intended. I would rather marry the old auntie. At least she does not speak.” The two were attending a musical evening at Lady Woodruff's, not a particular friend, and not a favorite form of entertainment. Gwen, however, had decreed that they had to go, to show their faces so no one thought they were ashamed of anything or in retreat. One of the Misses Woodruff—the unfortunate Lord Woodruff had been presented with four frilly tokens of his wife's affection, with nary an heir—thought she could play the flute, to another of her sisters' accompaniment on the pianoforte. Neither could follow the other or the musical score, so Stony was suffering through two horrible renditions instead of one. All he had to look forward to was the other untalented pair, one singing, the other on the harp. Or was that the harpsichord?

“What was so awful about Miss Kane? Nothing that cannot be improved, I am convinced,” Gwen whispered, but a matron on her other side glared at her. An aunt of the Woodruffs', undoubtedly.

Stony waited for the obligatory applause between pieces. “Even you would be appalled. She is a long Meg, for one, thin as a rail, and with the fashion sense of a simian. I have no idea of her age, but she might be rather old for childbearing, which renders her useless to a man seeking an heir. She has manners, but only when she remembers to use them. She is awkward and addlepated, at the least.”

“Yes, but money can fix a great deal.”

Stony raised his eyebrows. “Her height? Her age? Her lunacy? I think not.”

Gwen's eyes started to fill with tears of disappointment.

“Deuce take it, you are not going to cry here, are you?” Stony pulled out his handkerchief. “Cough instead.”

So Gwen coughed, and Stony excused themselves to those seated nearby. The viscount and his stepmama fled to the adjoining room, where servants were setting out bowls of punch. Gwen's tears instantly disappeared, fortunately. They could still hear the music, unfortunately.

Placed in a much more comfortable chair than the hard-backed wooden seats in the music room, Gwen tried again. “Surely the young woman cannot be totally ineligible, dear. You have always been able to discern and enhance the best qualities of those females in your care.”

“The best quality about Miss Kane is that she is
not
in my care. Rid yourself of the notion of her as a daughter-in-law, Gwen. Even if I were interested, which I swear I am not and never could be, were her father King Midas or a coal miner, she is not looking for a husband. She says she has no intention of attending balls and such, and the way she dresses could only discourage the most ardent suitor, rather than attract any.”

“Then what does she want with your escort?”

“I have no idea, and never will find out, now. That is, Miss Kane does not want me as an attendant.” Which still rankled, despite his relief. “She decided not to engage my services after all.”

“Oh my. She must truly be peculiar to decline your company.”

Stony patted Gwen's hand in thanks for her gratifying but biased opinion. “Worse yet, she seems to prefer the attentions of a Mr. Lattimer, who is nothing but a Bow Street man.”

Gwen had never met one of the new policemen. “Perhaps she developed a
tendre
for the gentleman who was investigating her aunt's death, and that is why she has no interest in finding another suitor. After all, the Kane Bank heiress can wed wherever her heart wishes, without needing to consider income or social standing.”

“But a Runner, who is hardly considered a gentleman? No, I do not think Miss Kane bears affection for the fellow.” Stony had seen signs of infatuation aplenty in the young girls he'd chaperoned. Miss Kane showed none of those indications: no lilt to her voice when she mentioned Lattimer's name, no blush of color at the thought of her beau, no oblivion to any other gentleman's existence.

“Worse,” Stony went on, “I believe she is considering that old reprobate Strickland to fill whatever need she has.”

“The baron? He is not so bad.”

“How can you say that, Gwen? Everyone knows he gambled away his entire estate years ago.”

“As your father would have done, if the property were not entailed to you. And, as you say, that was years ago. He has never been in debtors' prison, has he?”

“He has been in enough houses of ill repute to make up for that.”

Gwen did not need to mention Stony's father again, or as he was before her time, of course. “No more so than many gentlemen.”

Stony frowned. “Why are you defending the man, Gwen?”

She fanned herself, so that anyone coming into the room would believe she had been taken ill. “He has always treated me courteously enough, the few times we met. He looked lonely, I thought. If your Miss Kane is as old as you think, she might find Lord Strickland attractive.”

“He is fat, in his fifties, and wears his breakfast to dinner. Great gods, how could any woman be attracted to him?”

Gwen fanned harder as the applause became louder and more enthusiastic, signaling the intermission. Soon the other guests would pour into this room for much needed—and well-deserved refreshments. “If Miss Kane is as odd as you say, she cannot afford to be so choosy.”

Stony bowed and nodded to the members of the audience who'd run fastest out of the music room. Gwen coughed a few times, discouraging anyone who would have approached them. “Still,” she said, behind her fan, “it is a shame, your not securing her confidence.” Or her hand, although Gwen could not like an attics-to-let spinster for a stepdaughter-in-law. If they were barely holding on to their position in society now, who knew what a vacant-headed viscountess would do. “I know you could have used the money. But just think, dear, that if Miss Kane is so impossible, you are well rid of her.”

“Who said I am rid of the woman? I have every intention of returning to Sloane Street in a day or two.”

Now tears truly came to Gwen's eyes. She hated the thought of her dear stepson debasing himself, begging for work from a harebrained heiress. “If it is about the money, I could sell—”

“It is not the money,” Stony said, surprising himself more than Gwen. “It is the woman. I think she needs help.”

“Oh, Aubrey, not another lost lamb?”

He nodded. “How could I sleep at night, thinking of what could happen to a woman of great means but little sense? You said it yourself, but she would not be a lamb going off to slaughter here in London. She would be stew. Once I see that someone honorable is looking after Miss Kane, then I can rest easy.”

No matter what Stony said, he slept perfectly fine, despite a green-eyed crow flying through his dreams, screeching in distress. That screeching was Miss Woodruff's singing, yet he managed to sleep right through the second half of the musical program.

*

The day following Lord Wellstone's call, Ellianne tried once more to speak with Baron Strickland. She had gone to his house the first day she arrived in London, of course, since he was the most logical person to ask about Isabelle. Hadn't he been a friend of Aunt Augusta's? Hadn't Isabelle mentioned his name in her last letter? Hadn't he seemed a slimy toad eight years ago when Ellianne came to town for her own so-called presentation?