Barbara Metzger (20 page)

“But if you do not marry Miss Renslow after this, people will wonder what is wrong with her, you know. Ah, what
is
wrong with her, if I might be so rude to ask? Friends for ages, and all that.”

“There is nothing wrong with her, dash it. You’ve met her, and seen her.”

“A lovely little package, I’d say.”

“You had better not say it, or that long friendship of ours is in doubt. That is no way to speak of a female in my care.”

Carswell smiled. “Of course not. No disrespect intended to Miss Renslow. I found her everything charming, and as pretty as a rose.”

“Lud, don’t mention roses, either.”

Carswell straightened his cuffs and brushed at a speck of lint on his sleeve. “I believe this affair has addled your wits, old man. But tell me, then, if you feel so protective of the lady, and are so aware of her excellence—upon which I shall not elaborate, lest you toss your wine in my face—why are you gnashing your teeth and pulling at your hair? To say nothing of that second bottle of wine you have started, which would leave a dreadful stain on my new waistcoat, so do not be offended. Do you like it, by the way? I cannot decide if the dragonflies are too large.”

“Who can think of waistcoats at a time like this?”

Carswell took out his quizzing glass and inspected Ian’s attire. The earl’s waistcoat was a dark gray with a black stripe, like five others he owned. “Do you ever think of them? I wonder. But that is not the point. Marrying Miss Renslow is, or explaining why you do not wish to solve this dilemma to everyone’s satisfaction.”

“I told you, because it would not be satisfactory in the least. What, tell the poor girl she has no choice but to wed a man ten years her senior, one who has a rakish reputation, besides?”

“Your reputation is no worse than any other man’s in town, and far better than some. And women seldom have choices, you know. Think on it, Miss Renslow might have been forced to take Wiggs.”

“I would have shot him, first.”

“So you do like the girl!”

“Too well to see her shackled to Wiggs, or to me.”

“Ah, the poor lass, wed to a nobleman of ancient lineage, with four houses, more money than the prince—although everyone has more money than the prince, these days—and looks good enough to turn the eye of a blind woman. My, how she will suffer.”

“She will if I am not what she wants.”

“And I am a two-headed pig if you are not. I played Lady Throckmorton-Jones, recall. I saw how Miss Renslow acted toward you. In fact I had ought to place a wager in the betting book myself.” He half rose from his comfortable leather chair, but a vise-like grip held onto his arm.

“Try to write there and your wrist will never work again.”

“You
are
rattled, my friend. You must know I would never do anything to hurt the lady. I liked her very well.”

Ian’s eyes brightened and the creases on his forehead smoothed, leaving him the carefree, handsome gentleman he had been before Lady Paige and her loose-screw husband had entered his life. “You like her, and she likes you. You laughed together. Why don’t
you
wed Miss Renslow?”

“Gads, I have laughed with any number of females, and at a few, too. That doesn’t mean I want to marry them. Besides, I am not the one with entailed estates or a title that requires a succession of little Maddox heirs. I did not compromise the girl…and I am not the marrying kind.”

Ian pulled at his hair. “Neither am I, and the devil take it.”

*

Ian’s butler commented that Miss Renslow was a welcome addition to the household. His remark would have been a subtle reminder of Ian’s duties, except that Hull made his observation every time Ian handed him his hat, or took up his riding crop or looked through the pile of mail in the hall table. Subtlety was lost, the sixteenth time around.

“Yes, Hull,” Ian said after yet another mention of Miss Renslow’s fine qualities. “I do know that the young lady graces Maddox House, as she would any residence lucky enough to have her as a guest. A guest, Hull, do you hear me?”

Hull heard him as well as the dog did.

Roma was perfectly trained now. If Ian brought her a treat, she did not attack his footwear. Otherwise she growled when she saw him.

Ian’s valet did not growl, but he was heard to mutter that the sooner Lord Marden got on with the thing, the sooner the difficult and demanding countess would go back to Bath, and the house could stop being at sixes and sevens. “Although I must say, I have never seen Lady Marden so content at Maddox House,” Hopkins said, “as now that Miss Renslow is here to keep her company.”

“No, Hopkins, you must not say such things. Lady Marden is my mother, and Miss Renslow is…Miss Renslow.”

*

Troy neither gave advice nor issued edicts. He wished. “I wish my sister could marry a man like you. You’d treat her right, and she would never have to worry about going out to work. I wish I were old enough to defend her reputation so no one could say she should not have come to take care of me. I wish we could stay here forever.”

Now there was subtlety. The boy had not been taking lessons from Ian’s mother, either, when he punctuated his wishes with a sigh and a weak smile. Ian would rather the lad snap and snarl, like his dog.

*

One person might—possibly—have had the right to criticize, condemn, or otherwise call the earl to account. That person walked into White’s Club that evening.

“Been looking for you,” Spartacus, Lord Rensdale, said as he spotted Ian sunk into his favorite leather chair.

“Been waiting for you,” Ian answered. Carswell had departed for more congenial entertainment, and to show off his new waistcoat. Ian had stayed on at the club, contemplating his options and the level of wine left in the bottle at his side. Both were diminishing quickly.

Rensdale took a facing chair and signaled for a waiter to bring him a bottle and a glass. “Whatever he is drinking. On his account, too.”

The waiter looked at Lord Marden. Ian nodded. He owed the viscount that, and more. Rensdale was older than he was, with thinning hair and a thickening waist. He had blue eyes, but a pale, ordinary blue, not the startling color Athena and Troy shared. He was short of stature, like both of them, and walked slowly, favoring one leg. He took a minute to settle himself comfortably, took a swallow of his wine, and said, “You’ll have to marry her, you know.”

“I already have the special license.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to issue a challenge.”

“I would not take it.”

“Good. I’d lose, whichever weapon you chose. And my wife would likely kill me anyway.”

“Devilish things, wives.”

Rensdale raised his glass. “I’ll drink to that.” He did, copiously. Then he started to haul himself to his feet. “Glad we have that settled.”

“That’s all?” Ian wanted to know. “You aren’t going to ask about the boy, or if your sister is dishonored? You do not want to discuss my prospects, or the marriage settlements? Hell, you have not even asked when the wedding is to be.”

Rensdale sat back down and propped his bad leg on a footstool. “I’ve seen the sprat. He’ll do. Until he finds another bit of tomfoolery to fall into. Always getting some contagion or other, anyway. Saw my sister. She doesn’t look any different. Sings your praises, so she ain’t in a pet over anything underhanded. She would be, too. Always been quick to tell a chap when he’s done something she don’t approve, our Attie. No pouting and sulking and giving a chap the silent treatment, at least.” He drank to that, also. “As for your prospects, everyone knows you for a nabob. No business of mine, at any rate, nor the settlements, either. You’ll have to talk to Captain Beecham’s man of affairs, unless the captain shows up in time. And the wedding better take place as soon as possible, because I left my wife at home and need to get back.”

Ian did not care on how short a leash Lady Rensdale kept the viscount. Ian had a glimmer of hope. “The captain! Seeing you, I forgot I’d need his permission. We cannot proceed until he comes home!” He would have stood and danced a jig right there, except the room seemed to be spinning.

“Not once I explain matters to his solicitor. Can’t wait too long on these messy affairs, eh?”

Ian could have waited another five years.

“And what does a navy man know about girls and their reputations anyway? No, no reason to wait, that I can see. What does Attie say?”

“She, ah, has not said anything about the wedding date yet.”

Rensdale nodded. “Too involved with the boy, as always. Loses sight of her own best interests, she does.”

“She is devoted to the lad. In fact, she won’t want to be apart from him. Will you object if he stays on here with us, even after his recuperation?”

“Hell, no. He’s nothing but a worry. I’ll be glad to let someone else pay for his lessons and doctors.”

Ian had not offered to finance the boy, but he supposed he owed the viscount that, too. Rensdale was going on: “Likeable enough lad, but you never know if he is going to cock up his toes or not. He’s weak. My wife calls him an embarrassment.”

How could this pint-sized popinjay speak of his own brother that way? Troy was a fine young man, with more than his fair share of intelligence—and woes. Ian was outraged on his behalf. “He’s your heir, Rensdale!”

Now the viscount grinned, and Ian could see a resemblance to Athena. Not her joyous smile, nor her expressive eyes, but a family resemblance, nevertheless. “Not any more, he isn’t,” Rensdale said, raising his glass again, “or not for long anyway. My wife is breeding, at last.”

“My congratulations.” Ian called for another bottle, since Rensdale’s celebratory toasts were decimating this one. “You must be very pleased.”

“That I am, that I am. A hell of a note when a chap weds to beget an heir and it doesn’t happen. But now, now there is no reason not to hope for a whole parcel of them. An heir and a spare, at the minimum. Carthaginius, I thought, for the eldest.”

“What if your firstborn is a daughter?”

“Faugh, I’ve waited too long for a son. So you see why I want to hurry home.”

“The birth is imminent?” Ian asked. Athena had not mentioned such a momentous event.

“No, months away. But Lady Rensdale is suffering the morning sickness, and the afternoon one, too. And blaming me that she can’t keep her food down. And crying all the time, when she is not shouting at the servants. On second thought, perhaps we ought to wait for Captain Beecham’s return after all. A few more days can’t matter, can they?”

“Not when you are seen to approve. Between your presence and my mother’s, we shall weather the storm.”

Rensdale laughed. “You think this is a storm? Hell, you ain’t even married yet. You’ll see what a real cyclone is, soon enough.” He raised his glass again.

So did Ian, but to oblivion, not to matrimony.

Chapter Fifteen

A man can live without love. A woman cannot.

—Anonymous

A man can live without love, but he’ll get horses and dogs, so he doesn’t know how wretched he is. A woman knows it every day.

—Mrs. Anonymous

One voice was raised in dissent. “No, she does not have to marry the clunch.” Ian would have rejoiced, but the voice was his sister’s, who had finally arrived. Dorothy’s happy declaration was unfortunately, to his ear, anyway, followed by, “She can come live with me.”

What, send Athena off to the spinster realm of raising lapdogs and roses and money for charity? He could not do it. Athena was too loving, too lively, too…marriageable. She deserved a home of her own, turquoise-eyed angel babies in her arms, a doting husband at her side. She deserved a man who would cherish her and devote his life to making her happy, because only her happiness would make his world complete. Miss Renslow would not find any of that living in Richmond with Ian’s sister. She might find the life of a reformer interesting, and the travel to coal mines and wool mills interesting, at first. She would cry to see the plight of the families, especially the children, and she would do her damnedest to see that their conditions were improved, like Dorothy did. But such a life was Doro’s by choice, not by constraint.

Lady Dorothy Maddox could stay in London as hostess for her brother, perhaps making more of a difference in the government’s policies by influencing those who voted in Parliament. A man was more inclined to listen to a female when his belly was pleasantly full, Ian had tried to tell her, than when he read her harangues in the newspapers before breakfast. But sweet persuasion was not in Doro’s nature. She was fervid in her beliefs, and anyone who disagreed was simply stupid, stubborn, and wrong.

She did not like the social values that held sway in town, either, the extravagant waste of the
ton,
while children starved in the gutters five minutes from Mayfair. She could not enjoy the lavish dinners, Dorothy had said, loudly and often, knowing so many others were going hungry. The members of the beau monde had breathed a sigh of relief when she moved to Richmond.

She could have taken up residence in Bath, keeping her mother company—at least, until they strangled each other. They had both been relieved when Doro decided to live at the earl’s Richmond estate.

Now, years later, and months since they had last seen each other, Ian’s mother and sister had started brangling almost the instant Dorothy came through the door. Lady Marden thought her daughter’s dress was unbecoming, out of fashion, and poorly constructed. Her hair was a mess, her posture was unladylike, and she had not been to visit in ages, while her poor mother was ailing.

Lady Dorothy thought her mother was dosing herself too heavily with that restorative, dressing like a woman half her age, and inflating her symptoms to make herself interesting and make her children feel guilty over their neglect.

“You see? You do admit you have neglected me shamelessly.”

“Others needed my time far more than a self-indulgent woman who does nothing but gossip and play cards. I do not know how you bear life in Bath with all those old hags.”

“They are not hags! And they are not old. Why, some of them are younger than I am.”