Barbara Metzger (9 page)

It was none of Lord Marden’s business and they both knew it. They also both knew he would have an answer, because he was Lord Marden.

Wiggs patted back his straight hair. “I have not asked her yet. I wished to see how she got on in London, for one thing. It would not do for a prelate’s wife to have her head turned by the capital’s frivolity. The shops and parties, you
know.”

“Might make a female resent the quieter, more frugal country life?”

“Exactly. For another thing, I was waiting to speak to Captain Beecham. Her uncle is Miss Renslow’s legal guardian, you know, so it is only proper to seek his blessing, too.”

“And perhaps discuss settlements?”

“Ah, I knew a man of the world such as yourself would understand. At the moment I am without a living of my own, although I am under consideration for a post of considerable authority and income. Lord Rensdale’s influence would be welcome, as would a sizable dowry.”

“In other words, a well-born, well-connected, well-dowered female would suit you very well?”

“To a cow’s thumb.”

“As long as her reputation is unblemished. Caesar’s wife, and all that.”

Wiggs looked uncertain, betraying his own ignorance.

“Caesar’s wife, you know, had to be above suspicion.”

“Quite. Who knows how high in the church an ambitious man might rise, with the proper wife?”

“Who knows, indeed? I regret that you will have to wait to find out, for the boy is too ill for Miss Renslow to consider her own future yet. I would hazard a few more weeks of recovery should see her in a more receptive frame of mind.”

Wiggs looked disappointed at the delay in his plans for the archbishopric. “I knew this visit to London was ill-advised. And letting the boy ride an unpredictable mount was thoroughly irresponsible, and so I shall have to report to Lord Rensdale. Why, the whelp might have his wits permanently addled from the fall.”

Ian gathered that Miss Renslow’s letter had not informed Wiggs of the gunshot, only the mishap with the horse. He could not blame her, having met the preachy prelate.

“The doctors are hopeful of a full recovery.”

“Until his next setback. All this is getting his hopes up for naught, and so I told Miss Renslow, but she would not heed my words—and see what happened. Telling the pup he can go to university. Tut.”

The boy would have his education, Ian vowed, if he had to build a school of his own for invalids and asthmatics.

Wiggs was going on: “No, Miss Renslow requires a firmer hand than Viscount Rensdale sees fit. She must face the truth, and then secure her own future.”

“As your wife?”

Wiggs puffed out his narrow chest. “I consider myself a suitable match.”

“Unless she blots her copybook.”

“Precisely.”

“Or her dowry is very large.”

“You jest, of course, but a female’s dowry is no laughing matter to a gentleman without your lordship’s advantages.”

Ian bowed slightly and apologized. “As is a woman’s reputation to any man considering matrimony.”

“So you see why it is imperative for Miss Renslow to leave your residence immediately, my lord. I knew an eminent gentleman such as yourself would understand. One evening under a bachelor’s roof might be forgiven, due to the emergency, of course. But any more and her good name is in jeopardy.”

“You seem to be more concerned with her reputation than her virtue. Not that Miss Renslow’s innocence is in doubt, of course, but I am curious.”

“Tut, tut. You are known to be a connoisseur of women, enjoying the company of the most scintillating, sophisticated beauties of the
ton.
Little Miss Renslow cannot interest you, and her dowry means nothing to such a wealthy man.” He waved his bony hand around the library once more, this time gesturing toward the paintings on the library’s walls. “Would you hang an unknown country dauber’s work among your masterpieces?”

If he liked it enough, yes.

And Ian liked Athena too much to see her shackled to this clod of a clergyman who could never come to appreciate her. The choice was not his to make, of course, so he suggested Wiggs visit with the boy. He knew that the chest wound would be covered by his nightshirt, and that Athena would hear the tuts from her own bedchamber. If she wished to see her erstwhile, ambitious suitor, so be it.

“I’ll see if the boy is awake,” he said, giving the tutor no choice.

When Hopkins reported back that the young gentleman was indeed awake, Ian went along with Wiggs up the stairs. He went half out of curiosity and half out of a sense of responsibility. Hell, he was entirely responsible. He could not throw his wounded lamb to this wolf in clergyman’s clothes. One sneer at Troy, one start of a lecture, and the self-serving sapskull would be out on his arse.

Athena was in the boy’s room, and Ian frowned. She should have been resting still. She did look refreshed, however, with her hair piled atop her head in a becoming fashion, a few fair curls left to frame her face. She was wearing a different gown; he’d sent a footman to fetch her trunks from her uncle’s house, since she would not be leaving soon. He had also sent for the groom, Alfie Brown. Alfie had not arrived; the trunk had. This gown was of sunshine-yellow muslin with blue ribbons, and was more stylish than either of the previous. It was not up to London standards, of course, obviously being country made, but it did have the current fashion for high waist and low neckline.

What the gown left exposed also exposed Ian’s stupidity. Miss Athena Renslow was a woman, by George—a lovely young woman with a lovely figure. She was petite but perfectly formed. If she was presented to society, dressed in silks and jewels, she’d be called a Pocket Venus. Such a little bit of perfection was never meant for a prig’s pocket.

The dog leaped off Troy’s bed and raced to the door. Ian stepped behind the reverend, who shouted at the dog to desist its attack on his boots.

Ian said, “The dog is deaf, sir.”

“I know that, my lord.” Wiggs shouted louder.

Having grown wise to Roma’s ways, Ian tossed a macaroon in the dog’s direction so they could enter the room.

“I always said that animal should be drowned,” Wiggs muttered, waiting for Lord Marden to go first this time, too low for Athena to hear.

“Because she is deaf?”

“Because she is mean and a menace and no fit companion for a lady.” With his next breath, Wiggs turned from ranter to Romeo. “How do you do, my dear Miss Renslow? I am appalled at the grievous shock you must have suffered, and I wish I had been nearby to comfort and console you. But you are looking lovely this morning, if I might say so. A breath of springtime in this darkest hour.”

Athena tugged the covers higher on her brother’s chest, so no hint of bandages showed at the neck of his nightshirt. Then she welcomed Wiggs as if she owned the house, offering him the most comfortable chair and a cup of tea.

“How kind of you to come, sir. And to worry about my welfare. Isn’t Troy looking well?”

Wiggs must have expended his brief effort at wooing, for he said, “No, he is not, as a matter of fact. He is looking as if he’d been trampled by a horse, instead of merely falling off one.”

“Tut, tut,” Ian said, winning him a quick glance from Miss Renslow, whose lips twitched slightly upward. “The lad is vastly improved. With such a rapid recovery, he will be putting my jumpers through their paces in no time.”

“Jumpers?” Athena clutched her brother’s shoulder.

“Jumpers? Ridiculous. The brat will kill himself for sure. Lord Rensdale will forbid such a thing, I daresay.”

But Troy said, “Jumpers? Capital!”

The corners of Wiggs’s lips almost touched his chin. “Acting in Lord Rensdale’s stead, I cannot permit such dangerous activities, my lord. You have raised impossible expectations.”

“Nothing is impossible with prayer, I have always heard. Is that not true, sir?” Ian said, challenging Wiggs.

Troy gave a weak smile, which angered the man more. “You, my lord, are precisely what I suspected: a bad influence. Miss Renslow, may we speak privately?”

“What, without a chaperone?” Ian countered. “Tut. That is not at all proper.”

Before Wiggs could go on about how he was a man of the cloth, and acting as guardian for the young lady, besides, thus exempt from the conventions of Polite Society, Athena interrupted. “Whatever you wish to say, Mr. Wiggs, can be spoken in front of Lord Marden. No one could have been kinder or more generous, and it would be a poor repayment, indeed, to be telling secrets behind his back.” Besides, she had no desire to be alone with the man, for another of his lectures.

Mr. Wiggs’s protuberant Adam’s apple bobbed a few times over his plain neckcloth as his narrow eyes shifted between his host and his hoped-for bride.

“And you are not my guardian, sir,” Athena reminded him.

“Very well,” the man said. “I shall be forced to speak bluntly. I was dismayed to learn how far my pupil was from your uncle’s residence, and that he had to be transported to this gentleman’s house. Lord Renslow will be upset when I tell him.”

“Ah, but you need not bother.” Athena smiled sweetly in Ian’s direction—Thunderation, he thought, she was a beauty when she smiled—and explained, “His lordship has already informed my elder brother of Troy’s mishap.”

“He did? That is, of course he did. Correct thing for a gentleman to do. That is as may be, but I daresay he did not mention to Lord Rensdale that you are at Maddox House without adequate supervision.”

Athena drew herself up to her less than imposing height, but she could have been a duchess for her dignity and the way she put down the prig’s pretensions. “Young children and animals at the menagerie need supervision, sir. I assure you, I need no one to tell me how to go on.”

Ian wanted to clap at the girl’s show of spirit. He would not have to come to anyone’s rescue, after all. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the mantel, ready to enjoy this confrontation.

He did not have long to wait.

“You misunderstand, my dear. I do not mean that you require a nanny or a governess. I am merely concerned
that you are without female companionship in a gentleman’s residence.”

Athena fingered the skirt of her freshly pressed gown. “Mrs. Birchfield and the maids have been as attentive as one could wish. Far more so, I might add, than the female staff at my brother’s home.”

“And I daresay you have befriended them all. We shall not speak now on unsuitable associations, although I believe dear Lady Rensdale has tried to teach you the rudiments of ladylike conduct. What I am speaking of, of course, is the fact that you have no chaperone, here in a bachelor’s dwelling. And not just any bachelor, either, I might add, but one whose reputation does not—”

Athena held her hand up. “I am lady enough to avoid gossiping about my host after I have eaten his food.” She turned her eyes to the half-empty plate of poppyseed cake beside the tutor’s chair. “And Lord Marden has shown himself the perfect gentleman, besides being the perfect host.”

“Nevertheless, you are here. He is here. Tongues will wag.”

“Only yours, sir.”

“I did not take you for a fool, Miss Renslow. A headstrong young woman, perhaps, but not a fool. People will talk.”

Athena snapped her fingers. “That is what I care about idle talk.”

“And will you care when your reputation is destroyed and you are not accepted into Polite Society? Will you care when no decent gentleman makes you an offer? An honorable offer, that is. No gentleman will accept damaged goods, pardon the expression, for his wife.”

“How dare you! I am not and never have been—”

“You will be, in the eyes of the world. That is why I must insist you come away from this place with me now. I shall return you to your uncle’s care, and no one need be the wiser.”

“What, and leave my brother?”

“You said he was improved. You also said his lordship’s staff was attentive.”

“I shall not leave my brother to servants, no matter how competent.”

“Then I shall not be responsible for the outcome, madam. I shall have to reconsider my—”

Ian deemed it time to step in, before Miss Renslow burned her bridges. “The young lady’s duenna will be here before nightfall.”

Wiggs seemed more relieved than Athena. He needed Viscount Rensdale’s patronage if he was to advance,
and
the chit’s dowry. “On your honor, my lord?”

Ian held up an arm. “As God is my witness.”

“God is
my
witness, heh heh. The word of a gentleman is ample enough.”

It had not been, before, but Ian nodded. “I would invite you to take dinner with us, to see for yourself, but my mother will be fatigued after her journey from Bath.” Ian would invite this insect to his table when donkeys donned tutus and danced at the Royal Ballet.

“Another time, perhaps.” The promise of dinner with a countess—one who might sponsor Miss Renslow into society—was enough to make Wiggs smile. At least his lips turned up a bit, and his
tuts
turned to
hehs.
“Forgive my harsh words, my lord. But a woman cannot be too careful of her reputation, heh heh, especially if she hopes to attract a notable husband.” He threw his puny chest out like a bantam cock, silently declaring that he was the best candidate for the position.

Heh heh.

Chapter Seven

A man looking for a wife has to be careful.

—Anonymous

A woman looking for a husband has never had one.

—Mrs. Anonymous

“Do you mind?” Ian asked after Wiggs left. They had both accompanied him to the door, Athena out of courtesy, and Ian to make sure the clunch of a cleric really left. A maid and a footman were both watching Troy drift off to sleep, and the dog had found an old slipper of Ian’s and was cheerfully shredding it to bits. Ian invited Athena to the morning room for a cup of tea, purposely leaving the door fully open.

Athena did not pretend to misunderstand, either his question or the open door. “What, do I mind that the rumormongers might slander my name if I stay and your mother does not arrive in time? I mind more that now I am imposing on your relations, too.”