Kasey Michaels (17 page)

But Justyn had been determined, just as he was now resolved to find his fortune in India. If he hadn’t chanced upon someone else like Noel Kinsey, and now was locked up in some squalid gaol, subsisting on moldy rice and beetle bugs. She had spent weeks and weeks so angry with Justyn she could barely see straight, but now all she could do was to worry about him, long to see him again. Pray she would see him again.

Callie turned away from her reflection, blinking as tears stung at her eyes. She wouldn’t think of any of that now. Justyn was fine. He had to be! He’d write again soon, tell her father and her of his grand adventure and how he was already planning his return to Dorset, having realized that running away from his home was no real answer.

And, when he did return, he would find that she, Caledonia Johnston, had taken revenge for his ill treatment at the hands of the card-sharping earl of Filton. He would be able to hold up his head and not worry that he might run into the earl somewhere and be forced to call the man out.

For, if Justyn was not a premier card player, he was miles better at whist than he ever would be at swordplay, or pistols at ten paces. While his aim was excellent, extraordinary actually, she had never seen him kill so much as a spider without feeling remorse about the thing. Aiming a pistol at a living, breathing person—even someone so evil as Noel Kinsey—was something Callie felt to be completely beyond her romantic, softhearted brother’s powers.

Which had left it up to Callie—who considered herself to be much more bloodthirsty and resolute—to rid London, perhaps all of England, of one Noel Kinsey before Justyn returned.

Which had made Simon Roxbury’s offer of assistance so irresistible.

Which explained Callie’s presence in Portland Place, her willingness to dress herself up, trot herself out, and work her wiles on the earl of Filton, distracting him while Simon slowly, methodically, depleted the bounder’s pocketbook.

Which also accounted for her being willing to listen to, and overlook, Imogene’s silly prattlings about marriages decreed by destiny and the like.

But none of that explained away why Callie was not at all worried about how she looked for her own sake, but only prayed that she looked pleasing to this same Simon Roxbury. Simon Roxbury, who had not bothered, since she had first come under his roof, his protection, to so much as knock on her door and inquire as to whether or not she had just simply and quietly expired on her bed and her rotting carcass might begin to throw off an unpleasant odor anytime soon.

Callie’s pacing became more of an unladylike stomping as she allowed the anger, the frustration of the past days to come to a boil inside her. She balled her newly soft, freckle-free hands into fists and turned to glare at the door to the hallway, thinking that possibly, no, probably—
definitely
—she and the insufferable Viscount Brockton could benefit from a private interview before Imogene could show her off like a pet goose tonight at the dinner table.

Simon stood stock-still as Silsby employed his brush to sweep away invisible threads only those with the sharp eyes of a dedicated valet could see clinging to the bottle green frock coat his master had chosen for the evening. He had taken more care with his appearance this evening than was usual for him, and he reconciled this dedication to fashion with the reasonableness of doing his utmost to appear well dressed for his planned evening, which included dropping in at no less than three routs, with a possible visit to his mistress capping off the evening.

He had not seen Lady Sheila Lloyd for several weeks, as she had been out of the city for some time, visiting with a friend who had just gone through her third lying-in. But she had been back in town for five days now and had sent round as many notes, all of them requesting his appearance at her side at any number of evening entertainments.

Simon told himself that he had not responded to Her Ladyship’s invitations because they had, to him, been couched more in the language of demands. He would be damned if he’d become someone’s tame lapdog, no matter how delectable his mistress could appear when lying back against ivory-satin sheets, her long black hair tumbling over her magnificent bare breasts, an inviting, fairly decadent smile curving her full red lips.

There had been a time when he’d thought it a terrible waste for Sheila to be chained to Lord Lloyd, who was at least seven years older than dirt. But he had come to realize that Lloyd was also richer than Croesus, and that Sheila had been more than happy to have wed him, hoping to bury him within six months. But, like so many fond hopes, this one had been fated to fail, as Lloyd had lingered on for nearly a decade now, so that Sheila’s beauty, although still dazzling, was beginning to blur as the years crept on, moving her closer to thirty, and then beyond. The lines around her mouth, once thought to be delicious crinkles, had etched themselves into ever-deepening grooves of dissatisfaction with her lot.

Not that Simon was the sort to consider only physical beauty. But, when it came to a man’s mistress, it wasn’t as if he was on the hunt for intellectual compatibility. His requirements did not include someone to curl up in front of the fire with on a long winter’s evening, a chessboard between them, perhaps. They’d had an arrangement for the past six months, Sheila and Simon, a mutually beneficial physical association with no promises given, no expectations of making theirs into a more permanent arrangement.

Except that Sheila was showing hints of becoming proprietorial. Demands for his appearance? Hardly! Simon had better things to do with his life than spend it kowtowing to a female, and that female not even his wife. It was time for Lady Sheila Lloyd to be on her way, he decided somewhere between choosing pearl studs to go with his bottle green coat and chasing a fretting Silsby out of the dressing room entirely when the valet had suggested his master remove that same coat for a more thorough brushing.

He would concentrate on the project he had so lately undertaken, Simon decided as he picked up one of the pair of silver-backed brushes that sat atop his dressing table and made another stab at pushing back under control the one unruly lock of hair that persisted in falling onto his forehead.

He would inspect Caledonia Johnston this evening at dinner, praying that his mother had not taken leave of all of her senses and dressed the girl up like some Christmas pudding.

He would put the chit through her paces while Filton was still perched atop his poor great-aunt’s bedstead like a hungry, grinning vulture.

He would take her for an early-morning ride in the park, so that she didn’t gawk like a country bumpkin when he first drove her out in the Promenade.

He would show her some of the sights and point out that having one’s mouth agape while passing by some of the more interesting buildings in London was really not “done.”

He would give her instruction on such things as the rudiments of protocol, the strict rules of Almack’s, and—he sincerely hoped not—even oversee lessons in table manners if the need arose.

In short, he would now take over where his mother had left off, smoothing out the edges on this admittedly young, undoubtedly naive child he had—in some mad moment he could not now quite remember with any real clarity—somehow thought to hoodwink with a foolish plot meant to serve up to the earl of Filton a whopping helping of his just deserts.

He owed the chit some fun after lying to her so thoroughly. Once Filton had been dealt with, he had to be sure Caledonia was up to snuff so that he could placate her by giving her just a bit of the Season he’d promised. He owed her that much as a reward for keeping his dearest mother occupied for a few weeks, and off the subject of stays and earls.

The diversion meant to keep Caledonia safe, his mother occupied, and his own plan on course was, however, also sure to prove expensive. He supposed he deserved that, and he was getting it, in spades. His mother had been flinging orders about willy-nilly, and the parade of tradesmen in and out of Portland Place had been unrelenting. The cautious Emery even had been pushed to take his employer to one side and suggest that the possibility of both a tighter rein on Her Ladyship’s flights of fancy and a swift snapping shut of His Lordship’s deep pocketbook would not be beyond the realm of reasonableness.

What Simon had not bothered to explain to his most loyal retainer was the fact that, since the advent of Caledonia Johnston into the mansion in Portland Place, his dear mother had not once broached the subjects of corsets or dower houses. She had kept silent on her entirely mad notion of landing herself an earl before her son could utterly destroy her life by up and marrying the first female to fall into his lap during the Season. Whatever the bills, whatever inconveniences he and the servants might have to endure, they were as nothing compared to watching his mother diet herself into starvation, dye her hair the same hue as a buttercup, tart up her face with rouges and creams, drown herself in scent, then set off for an evening’s “hunt.”

Yes, having Caledonia in the house, having his mother’s idea of the “ideal wife” in the house, had already shown to be more profitable than any niggling economies Emery could think up—and the man had been born to pinch pennies.

Not that Simon thought his mother really believed that Caledonia Johnston had been sent to them by some quirk of providence, to become the daughter-in-law she had always dreaded but now welcomed as one did the flowers in May. However, knowing his mother—and, God help him, he did—she might also have already drawn up an agreement with Caledonia, stating that she would not allow Simon to drag her to the altar until such time as Imogene grew more accustomed to the idea of being termed the Dowager Viscountess Brockton.

But it was all of no matter, no importance. Caledonia would keep his mother occupied for the remainder of the Season, Imogene would keep Caledonia busy with shopping and dress fittings and lessons in deportment. And he, Simon, would be left free in his pursuit of Noel Kinsey’s social and economic demise and banishment.

It wasn’t really all that shabby a plan, actually.

And then Caledonia Johnston could have a few weeks of fun traipsing about in Society. Why, she’d be so thrilled to be dancing at Almack’s, flirting with half-pay officers, that she wouldn’t even be angry that Filton had been punished before she could excite him into besotted stupidity and rash behavior.

And then he, Simon Roxbury, would forget that same Caledonia Johnston the moment he waved his last good-bye as her coach rounded the corner at the end of the street.

Simon gave his cuffs one last inspection, feeling quite pleased with both his appearance and his brilliant, flawless plan, then frowned into the mirror as he heard a scratching at the door leading to the hallway.

“Silsby!” he called out impatiently, sure his valet had returned, begging to have one last inspection of his employer’s attire for the evening. “If you don’t understand the word
retire
when placed in the context of departing a room when your presence is no longer requested, perhaps you are anxious to
retire
in earnest, from my employ!”

The door opened a crack even as he glared at it, willing it shut. A moment later, he involuntarily drew in his breath as Caledonia Johnston’s head appeared in the opening. Or at least he
thought
it was Caledonia Johnston. She certainly didn’t
look
like the half-grown girl he had last seen in his drawing room, dressed up like a young man and appearing, for the most part, as if she had been dragged through a hedge, backwards.

“You’re in your usual good humor, I see,” Caledonia said as she pushed at the door and eased the rest of her body into the dressing room. “I thought we might have a small talk before we go down to dinner, my lord,” she explained.

Simon’s brain only registered every second word. He was much too occupied in biting his tongue, that longed to say such things as: “My God, can that glowing chestnut halo really be your hair?” and “I knew your eyes were large, but they now seem to fill your entire beautiful angel face,” and, most damning of all if he had been so much of a nodcock as to allow his mouth to open, “You have
breasts
?”

Not being a nodcock, and drawing on years of self-control, Simon scolded instead, his tone cool and detached. “You possess the social sense of a flea, don’t you, brat? Whatever makes you believe it is even vaguely permissible for you to enter a gentleman’s dressing mom?”

She only shrugged, clearly not cowed by his tone. Her movement immediately drew his gaze most automatically to the slight shadow between her breasts—just as his mother had planned, damn her for knowing her son so well. Callie then replied reasonably, if maddeningly, “As you weren’t in your bedchamber, I just looked in the next most obvious place. Surely you don’t think we need a chaperone, my lord. Or do you harbor plans to ravish me?”

“I heard voices, my lord,” Silsby said, popping into the room through the open door to the hall to stand behind Caledonia, and earning himself his employer’s undying gratitude by dint of this intrusion. “Is something amiss? Did Miss Johnston become confused on her way to the drawing room?”