Barbara Metzger (11 page)

Ian threw his broad body into a leather chair and ran his hands through his hair. “Deuce take it, I need a respectable woman!”

“Not your usual style, old man.”

“What, my hair?” Carswell’s coiffeur was perfect, as always.

“No, your women. Never known you to get within ten feet of a virtuous female, other than your mother and sister, of course.”

“Damnation, I am not speaking of dalliance now. I need a duenna for Miss Renslow. By dinnertime. Surely you must know a female who could come act as dogberry, just for a day or two until my sister returns to Richmond.”

Carswell shrugged.
“Sorry, but m’sisters are breeding in the country, my mother’s been gone these fifteen years, one of my grandmothers is too old, and the other is too mean to put herself out for anyone. Besides, she hates you.”

“You broke that blasted vase, not me!”

“Ah, but I looked innocent, a regular little gentleman. You were a big, clumsy oaf of a boy.”

“And I am still a big, clumsy oaf, making a hash of other people’s lives. But think, man. Surely between us we know some married woman I could ask to stay.”

Carswell buffed his polished fingernails on his sleeve. “I hear that Lady Paige is seeking a change of address.”

“Mona? I would not let that trollop near Miss Renslow! Gads, I ought to call you out for suggesting such a crime against innocence. I would, too, if I had not renounced duels. Mona Paige and Athena Renslow. That would be tossing mud into a clear well.”

“Yes, but the neighbors and passersby would see a well-dressed woman getting out of a coach in front of your house. That’s all it takes.”

“You might be right about that, but who? Not a woman with a spotty reputation of her own. Think, man. Lives depend on it.”

Carswell took a pinch of snuff, from an enameled box with blue flowers on it, while he thought. “I have it,” he said between sneezes. “You need only dress one of your housemaids up in borrowed finery. Surely your sister and mother have left gowns here for the occasional visit.”

“Wardrobes full. But—”

“It will work. Your maid hides the fancy dress under a plain cloak and heads for the stable mews, as if on an errand. Your carriage pulls out, with the curtains across the windows. An hour later it returns as if from a posting inn, windows uncovered, with your impeccably gowned chaperone inside. She steps down, you greet her outside as if she were your long lost Aunt Ermentrude, veiled against the dust of the road, and, voila, Miss Renslow’s reputation is protected. The woman is not receiving, naturally, due to the illness in the house.”

“But I do not have an Aunt Ermentrude, which everyone in London and everyone with a Debrett’s knows.”

“Hmm. There is that. Your pedigree must be as well documented as the Darby Arabian.”

“And Wiggy is bound to know all of the Renslow kin. In fact, if there were any aunts or cousins in town, Miss Renslow would have been staying with them.” Ian thought a moment, then snapped his fingers. “But I’d wager he does not know Captain Beecham’s family. A cousin is possible, or perhaps the wife of a fellow officer. Yes, that just might do! You are a genius, Carswell.”

“I always felt my talents were wasted being a wastrel. I should have taken up playwriting, don’t you think?”

Ian was too busy thinking of possibilities. “There is a problem. No maid walks like a lady or sits like one. Besides, what if the chit thought it was such a lark she told her friends? I’d be in worse straits then, caught in a lie.”

“You’d have to find an older, trustworthy one. What about your housekeeper, Mrs. Birchfield? She’d do anything for you.”

“But she is short and as thin as a rail. My sister’s clothes would never fit her.”

“There is that. Lady Dorothy is a Long Meg. Decent sort, but larger than the average female.”

“About your height, in fact. Dorothy does not have half your sense of style, of course, or your flair for the dramatic.”

“No, she does not, and the answer is no.”

“It would take a brilliant actor to carry this off.”

“No.”

“And a true friend.”

“Impersonating the opposite gender is against the law.”

“So is dueling. And I did take the blame for your grandmother’s vase, you know.”

“We were ten years old!”

“What about that monkey in Professor Dimsworth’s bed? I got sent down for a month for that prank of yours. And that is not to mention the number of times you’ve borrowed my little house in Kensington for one of your opera dancers.”

“They were actresses, not dancers.”

His friend was weakening, Ian knew, so he pressed on. “And I did buy back those letters you were foolish enough to write to that harpy, Lady Caruthers.”

“It’s not as if I never pulled your irons out of the fire, you know.”

“That’s what friends are for, isn’t it?”

Carswell thought a minute, then smiled. “You know that new chestnut you won off Graham?”

“The gelding? Damn, that is extortion.”

“No, extortion is if I asked for your matched bays. A deal?”

“If you stay to have dinner with Miss Renslow and me, in costume, so she won’t have to lie to Wiggy or the boy, the gelding is yours.”

“Done.”

They shook hands, sealing the bargain, but then Carswell grinned. “You will never make a good trader. I would have done it for nothing.”

“That’s all right,” Ian said. “I would have given you the bays.”

Chapter Eight

A woman needs a husband.

—Anonymous

A woman needs a rich father, an honest banker, and a good butler.

—Mrs. Anonymous

There you are, you dear, dear man,” Lady Throckmorton-Jones called out in a voice so loud and shrill it could be heard halfway across Grosvenor Square. Then she stepped down from a shiny coach with yellow wheels, the finest for hire in London. The lady herself was a vision in hyacinth satin, with furs adorning her somewhat broad chest, and a wide-brimmed bonnet trimmed with feathers and cherries and silk violets and a stuffed bird sitting upon her head. “How can I thank you enough for taking in the dear captain’s poor orphaned kin?”

Then she grabbed Ian and pulled him forward, kissing first his right cheek, then his left.

“You are overplaying your role, dash it,” the earl hissed in Lady Throckmorton-Jones’s ear.

“And the gelding has a hitch in his gait,” the lady whispered back, dabbing at her lips with a lace-edged handkerchief.

“You don’t say,” Ian replied, offering his arm.

“Besides, you want people to notice my arrival, don’t you?”

By this time, Ian’s footmen were unloading her ladyship’s trunks—and bandboxes, tapestry bags and jewelry cases.

“Good idea,” the earl admitted. “I should have thought of that. Now the servants will have more to report.”

“Is it worth the bays?”

“Not quite, but I do have a spavined mare. What’s in all those cases, anyway?”

“Books, rugs, the laundry. I thought that while I was here…”

They were passing through the portals of Maddox House. Whoever was going to report back to Lord Rensdale or Wiggy had seen enough. Now Lady Throckmorton-Jones had to pass muster with Ian’s servants, and with the Renslows. The butler’s disapproving nostrils were flared enough that a small coach could have driven inside his head, but Hull bowed and said, “Welcome, madam. I shall inform Miss Renslow that her, ah, cousin—did you say?—has arrived.”

“Cousin to the dear captain, on the other side.” The lady’s piercing falsetto voice could be heard in the kitchens.

“Which side would that be?” Ian asked when Hull had left them in the drawing room.

“The right side, dear boy, starboard.”

Lady Throckmorton-Jones gave Athena the same greeting she had bestowed on the earl, a hearty embrace and a salute on both cheeks. The embrace went on until Ian cleared his throat.

“How lovely to meet you, my dear, after hearing all about you from the dear captain.”

“I am sorry, my lady, but Uncle never mentioned you.”

“Isn’t that just like Barnabas?”

“Barnaby,” Ian whispered, pretending another cough.

“We call him Barnabas the Barnacle in jest, don’t you know. And the silly man intended my presence to be a surprise for when you got to town, so you might have someone to guide you about the shops.”

Athena looked askance at the lady’s overembellished bonnet.

“Admire it, do you? I know where we can find one just like it for you, my dear. Wasn’t it fortunate that I stopped by my cousin’s house, today, dear girl, and discovered your direction?”

“Exceedingly fortunate, ma’am,” Athena agreed, “and quite the coincidence.”

“Yes, indeed. And to hear of the dreadful tragedy that had befallen the captain’s nephew, why, how could I not write, offering my assistance? When the dear earl wrote back inviting me to stay at Maddox House to lend you countenance, how could I refuse such a generous offer?”

“How, indeed?” Ian muttered, putting a glass of ratafia in the lady’s hand, so she had to release Miss Renslow’s.

The lady took a fit of coughing when she took a swallow of the fruit-flavored liqueur. “What is this swi—? That is, what a delightfully sweet beverage.”

“If you do not mind, I believe that young Renslow would like to make your acquaintance, Lady Throckmorton-Jones. He will rest easier knowing that his sister has such a charming, capable chaperone. If, that is, you feel up to the stairs?”

The lady patted her fur-covered chest. “A moment’s indisposition only. Of course I wish to meet the dear, brave lad. I brought him a book on horse racing from my library.”

“How kind of you,” Athena said, “and how peculiar for a lady to have such a volume on her shelves.”

“Oh, I believe my late husband borrowed it from some ne’er-do-well or other, and forgot to return it.”

Ian gritted his teeth. Now his prized tome would belong to the boy.

Athena was asking, “Was your late husband a naval officer like my uncle?”

“No, he was merely a gentleman of wealth and breeding. A girl should never settle for less, my dear.”

*

Troy blinked at the bonnet, but he greeted the lady with grave courtesy. “Thank you for the book, my lady. All I have here are fusty old schoolbooks. And thank you for coming to look after my sister.”

“Think nothing of it, my boy. It will be my pleasure.”

Not if Ian had his way. He did not like how Lady Throckmorton-Jones was holding Miss Renslow’s hand and leaning on her. He did not like the way the old lady was inhaling Attie’s lilac scent, or how she reached out to tuck one of those wispy blond curls back behind Attie’s ear. “I believe dinner will be served shortly.”

He gave the chaperone the place of honor at the dining room table, across from him down the mahogany length. He seated Miss Renslow at his right hand.

“Oh, no, this will never do,” Lady Throckmorton-Jones shrieked. “How can I get to know my dear young relative?” She directed the footmen to reset her place, at Lord Marden’s left side. “That is much better, isn’t it? Now we can have a comfortable coze and discuss your wardrobe, my dear cousin Athena.”

Athena was wearing a sprigged muslin gown, cut simply but attractively. She had a few violets tucked in the ribbon holding her upswept hair and she looked exactly like what she was: a sweet country miss. Ian did not want to see her change. He glared at his latest guest and raised his glass in a toast to stop the conversation. “To Troy and his recovery.”

After that, he made sure the footmen kept filling Lady Throckmorton-Jones’s plate, so she was too busy chewing to natter on about fashions and furbelows. Then he realized that Athena was trying not to stare at the vast quantities of food her cousin was devouring. “I admire a woman who enjoys her food. You must agree, Lady Throckmorton-Jones.”

The chewing stopped, and a blush suffused the lady’s powdered cheeks. “Why, yes,” she said, recalling the falsetto that had disappeared during one of her diatribes on the depth of a young female’s décolletage. “I do appreciate fine cooking. My own cook is nowhere as talented as yours, Lord Marden. You must compliment the kitchens for me. And I did miss my nuncheon this afternoon, busy as I was with the packing and such.”

“Of course. But do save some room for the syllabub.”

“Ah, my favorite.”

“Somehow I guessed it was, and had Cook prepare it specially.”

“You dear, dear, boy,” the lady said, patting Ian’s hand. “Now about those pastels considered de rigeur for a young lady…”

After dinner, Athena stood to leave the room. Lady Throckmorton-Jones and Lord Marden got to their feet also, of course. “We ladies will leave you to your port, my lord, and repair to the drawing room,” Athena said.

Ian bowed. “I’ll just have a small glass and a brief smoke, then join you shortly.”

Lady Throckmorton-Jones was eyeing the port decanter so longingly that Ian took pity on his friend, whose right bosom was sliding toward his waist. “On the other hand, I would not wish to forego a moment of the scintillating conversation. I believe I shall bring the port bottle into the drawing room with me, with your permission, Lady Throckmorton-Jones?”

“Granted, my dear boy. Too considerate. I do like a sip now and again. A taste I acquired from my dear late husband, may he rest in peace.”

“Amen.”

Athena smiled at both of them. “Since you have each other for company, I shall rejoin my brother above. I do not like to leave him too long. But thank you again for coming to my rescue, Lady Throckmorton-Jones, and thank you for being such a generous host, Lord Marden. I shall see you both at breakfast, shall I? At eight, I believe Hull mentioned.”

“Eight…in the morning?” the older woman said with a gasp. “Hell, no. That is, Heavens above, a lady needs her beauty rest. And then I shall have to prepare for the calls I need to make, and a visit to my bank. And I do enjoy an afternoon nap. So I shall see you at dinner, my dear.”

Athena curtsied. “I shall look forward to that. Good night.”

*

“Attie, did you know that your chaperone smells of snuff?”

“Yes, and she needs a shave, too. Wasn’t she wonderful, though?”

“Top of the trees,” Troy said, looking over at the book at his bedside table. “Almost as nice as Mr. Carswell.”