It Happened One Midnight (PG8) (6 page)

“Maybe ten. Maybe one hundred.” The girl shrugged indifferently.

He rolled his eyes. “Can you even
count?
”

“Martha, how many is this?” Violet flashed ten fingers. “Will he have this many children? Or mayhap this many?” She flashed them again.

“I think more like this many.” And Martha flashed her fingers a good dozen times.

“Stop it! Stop it at once!” Jonathan demanded, aghast.

And when Violet burst into laughter, Martha, feeling encouraged, continued to do it, delighted to be so amusing. Ten, twenty, thirty, forty, fifty, sixty . . .

Jonathan flung a shilling into the empty teacup, where it spun round a few times and then clinked resoundingly, and stormed from the tent, gulping draughts of air, Gypsy laughter ringing in his ears.

Then he remembered his sister couldn’t rise without assistance, which rather ruined his exit, but he stormed back in, gently helped her up off the chair, and led her at a stately pace from the tent before he began to yell at her.

“Thank you!” she sang on her way out.

Jonathan leaned against the carriage and folded his arms across his body, and turned on her. “Why is my distress so
amusing
to you?”

“Jonathan . . . it’s just . . . why
are
you so distressed? One day you will need to care about
something
. Why not children?”

He stared at her, genuinely struck dumb. He opened his mouth. A dry squeaking noise emerged.

And when he was finally able to form words, they were all hoarse.

“I need to . . . care? I need to
care?
Does
anyone
bloody know me? Do you really think I don’t
care
about things, as you say?”

Violet winced. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Good heavens! I’m sorry! Hush! I didn’t mean to give you apoplexy. Pregnancy has addled my brain.”

He stopped and blew out a breath, yanked off his hat, pushed his fingers through his hair, and jammed it back on.

“You’re going to miss having that as an excuse for every little thing,” he said darkly, finally.

“I’ll find another excuse,” she replied placidly.

“And I’m sorry to bellow,” he added stiffly, and then bent over and spoke to her stomach: “And my apologies to you, too. I’m allegedly the cheerful Redmond. Your Uncle Jonathan. Ask anyone.”

“It’s just . . . you can’t go on like this forever, Jonathan. Gaming, balls, hunts, races, that disreputable salon you’ve been attending. Endless frivolity. Do you really find it satisfying?”

He turned a look on her that was rich with incredulity. “Why the bloody hell not? And yes, I find it ‘satisfying!’ I’m not doing any harm—”

“I suppose that depends on who you ask. Marianne Linley, for instance.”

“—I’m still young. I like things the way they are. It’s just that simple. And I don’t see any great marital happiness going on around me. Do you think mother and father are happy? Lyon actually bloody disappeared over a love affair. I see a good deal of upheaval and battle and struggle all in the name of love. And Marianne Linley misinterpreted two conversations and two dances—on separate occasions, mind you—as some sort of passionate attachment. But primarily she saw me dancing with Lady Grace Worthington an equal number of times, and you know how all the young women think of Lady Grace. I assure you, there was
no attachment,
and I implied nothing.”

“Perhaps you underestimate your powers of appeal.”

Jonathan was taken aback. “Was that . . . actually a compliment?”

“I suspect I meant it as more of a warning.”

“I’m really more interested in Lady Grace Worthington, if you must know.”

“Isn’t everybody this season? Aren’t you supposed to be?”

Jonathan paused, and then half smiled.
I know I’m supposed to,
is what Jonathan had said to Tommy outside of the Duke’s big windows—almost but not quite entirely out of deviltry—when he’d told her he hadn’t decided whether he found her attractive. She’d been shocked, then genuinely amused. By God, he’d liked that. Whoever the devil she might be, she was comfortable in her skin, and it was one of his favorite qualities in any human

“Everyone is interested in Lady Grace with good cause. She’s the girl against whom all the other girls compare themselves. She’s turned each of them into competitors, even the meek ones.”

There was
always
a girl like that. Every season.

Violet shrugged. “If you like that sort of thing.”

That sort of thing being blue eyes, golden hair, and a face like a cameo.

He shot her a dry look.

“Why are you so full of shouting and swearing today, by the way?”

He hesitated. “I may as well tell you. Father has denied me my allowance.”

A silence.

“Oh, no.” Violet was appropriately shocked.

“It gets worse. I’m to marry within six months—or at least become engaged—or he’ll cut off all funds forever. Marry
appropriately,
mind you.”

“Oh,
no
.” Now she was horrified.

He basked for a moment in Violet’s very real sympathy. Though it probably contained a shred of glee, for she did love a controversy.

“What prompted this, Jonathan?”

He considered telling her about the Mercury Club, and about Klaus Liebman and the color printing press, and maybe even Tommy de Ballesteros, but he strongly suspected her eyes would glaze, at least over all but the last.

And the last, in particular, for some reason, he wanted to keep all to himself.

“I suspect he’s trying to forestall any ideas I might have about . . . marrying for love.” He gave a humorless laugh. “One dalliance with a widow—which, I might add, strikes me as my business only—and he thinks I’m on the road to perdition.”

There had been other dalliances with other widows, but he wasn’t about to tally them for Violet.

“You know, you’d think father would learn. He’s always forbidding things or making rulings, and everyone ends up doing precisely the opposite of his wishes, or at least not acquiescing to them.”

“A lifetime, Violet. Marriage is supposed to be for a lifetime. You may be happy now. Miles may be happy now. And
I’m
happy
now
. And I intend to live a good long while. I don’t need a wife, let alone ten children. I honestly fail to see how it will contribute to my happiness.”

“Children seldom happen all at once, unless you’re a barn cat.”

Jonathan snorted.

“And you do understand that
you
were once a child?”

“Yes, but I had the good sense to grow up into the magnificent specimen of manhood I am today.”

She rolled her eyes. “And you do understand that
I
will be having a child.”

“I will endeavor to tolerate it.”

She smiled, knowing she could substitute the words “dote upon” for “tolerate,” and it would be closer to the truth. “How do you
know
you’re happy, Jonathan? Before I married, I wasn’t happy, Jonathan. I didn’t even know it. I could scarcely put a finger on why. It only felt like . . .”

She stopped.

“Go on.”

“Like I would go mad from the constraints of being me. And of forever being watched. Sorry, that includes
you
watching me! Jonathan, you should know that I’m happy now and never knew this kind of happiness was even possible. And, granted, a portion of that happiness has to do with imagining the expression on Father’s face when Asher asked permission to marry me. But I am. And I think I fell in love with him the moment I saw him.”

“My guess is you would have
needed
to marry him whether or not he was right for you.”

Her silence was truly of the aghast variety. Complete with a dropped jaw.

“You do get away with saying the most outrageous things! Perhaps mama
has
indulged you too much.”

They both noticed she didn’t deny it, however. And maybe it was the mauve crescents beneath her eyes, but he refrained from prying further about how she had come to know the earl, and whether she’d learned anything about Lyon being a pirate, of all things. Because being a pirate seemed the antithesis of everything Olivia Eversea, that embracer of causes, would want in a man, though of course that could be the reason. And besides, if Violet had learned anything about Lyon, Jonathan doubted she’d be able to keep quiet about it. The temptation to gloat about being right would have proved her undoing.

So he said nothing.

“All I’m saying, Jonathan, is . . . you’ll know the difference when you truly care.”

He was genuinely regretful. “Forgive me, Violet. That
was
a bit beyond the pale, even for me. Maybe Father is right. Maybe I do need reigning in. I’m glad you’re happy. I suppose I could experience a coup de foudre within Father’s time frame. Because destiny is always just that accommodating.”

“No, Father’s wrong,” she said irritably. “I shouldn’t like you to change. I don’t like change any more than you do. I like you as you are. And I wish you could stay here in Pennyroyal Green longer. Will you?”

It was alarming, this sudden display of sentimentality and need in Violet. But then she had pregnancy as an excuse.

“Of course you like me. How could you not like me? I wish I could stay, but I have to go admit a failure to a Bavarian. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

He kissed her on the cheek and to her surprise, was just able to get his arms around her in a hug. And
he
didn’t even have pregnancy to blame for that.

Chapter 5

T
OMMY HAD FOUND HIM
quickly: the duke of course stood near the racetrack rail, cushioned from the rest of the cheerfully boisterous crowd by a few Weston-clad acolytes, who intermittently nodded solemnly or threw back their heads and laughed, apparently depending upon what His Grace uttered.

How Tommy
yearned
to know what he uttered.

There was to be one race only, an entirely impromptu event organized primarily to persuade the Duke of Greyfolk of the wisdom of buying one of the horses. The track was short, straight, informal; and even though it wasn’t officially racing season, word of a fresh diversion, not to mention the opportunity to place wagers, ensured word of the event traveled swiftly, and a delighted and socially diverse (riffraff and aristocrats were represented in equal proportion) crowd had amassed. A costermonger had even wheeled a cart of apples into their midst, and was doing a brisk business.

Tommy had long ago mastered the art of near invisibility. She was small and quick and could weave through a crowd as unobtrusively as a breeze or a shadow. She’d dressed for the occasion, too, in last season’s funnel-shaped face-hiding straw bonnet, and a respectable and forgettable brown dress and cloak, and she was confident not a soul would look twice at her. She clutched the scrap of red ribbon and medal in her fist, and was just about to sidle closer to the duke when the only person who could drag her eyes away from him appeared.

She smiled slowly. There was a shivery pleasure in simply watching Jonathan Redmond move. His height, his bearing, the sleek fit of his clothing—it was a bit like happening upon a handsome wild animal in its habitat. And it was also amusing to watch him do precisely what she’d just done: take up a station at the racetrack rail not more than ten feet away from the duke.

She suspected he would artfully, strategically maneuver his position until he was within speaking range of the duke, who could not fail to acknowledge him.

And
that
was a conversation she wanted to hear.

She slipped back through the crowd, and circled around the costermonger’s cart, when suddenly she heard an outraged roar.

The barrel-shaped costermonger had seized a scrawny boy by the forearm and hoisted him, shaking him until the apple he’d stolen dropped from his fist.

And then the bastard went
on
shaking him. As if he could shake every thieving impulse from his scrawny body.

Tommy lunged toward them. But she stopped abruptly.

For someone else had gotten there first.

“Why don’t you unhand him now?”

Jonathan’s tone was pleasant, almost gentle, very, very controlled. Something about it made the tiny hairs stand up on the back of her neck. She wondered if the costermonger recognized the grave threat in it.

“ ’e’s a wee thief, ’e is!” The costermonger gave another shake. The child squeaked and his eyes rolled back in his head.

“Yes, but he’s dropped the apple, so you may as well stop shaking him. Now.” Suddenly Jonathan’s voice was velvety and sinister.

The dangling boy made a hapless gulping noise.

The costermonger thrust out his lower lip mutinously. And gave one more shake.

Before anyone could gasp, Jonathan’s arm shot out, seized the man’s wrist, and twisted it hard.

The man squawked in shock and pain and dropped the boy, who scrambled off through the crowd like a little spider.

Whereupon the outraged costermonger whirled on Jonathan and took a swing.