Leslie Lafoy (4 page)

If only the London gossips were even slightly interested in learning the truth of the situation, the utter impossibility of a salacious relationship. But they weren’t and he needed to make arrangements that would preserve both their reputations. If only his mother were the sort to have a bit of compassion. Or the sort to make accommodations for anyone. Sending Charlotte to her at Revel House simply wasn’t possible; the girl had been through enough already.

He could buy her a London townhouse of her own. Or rent one for her. It would solve his problem with the rumormongers as long as he never went anywhere near the property or Charlotte. But doing so seemed a bit too much like warehousing her for him to be entirely comfortable with the solution.

The other alternative was to simply ride out the whispers until he found a suitable woman and hauled her into the house as his wife. Not only would the gossips stop speculating, but he could hand the day-to-day management of Charlotte off to his bride. Women did tend to know how to handle the messier and more dramatic aspects of people.

As for picking the lucky woman, maybe he should just have Harry write all their names down on little slips of paper, put them into a hat, and then blindly draw one out. God knew he didn’t care one way or the other for any of them. One would do just as well as the next. They were all daughters of privilege; they knew how to run households, could ably fulfill the expectations of society, and would do their duty in terms of providing the necessary heir and a spare or two.

Beyond those simple requirements, as long as he provided adequate financial support and was reasonably discreet with his lovers, she would be the picture of perfect wifely contentment and all would be well in the kingdom. Both his and the Queen’s.

He sat back in his leather chair and considered a possible timetable. Harry would call as usual at ten. Ian checked the clock on the mantel. Eight hours from now. It would take only a few moments to fill a hat with names and pull one out. After that, he could trot out to inform the father of the bride-elect of his good fortune and make arrangements for an engagement announcement at Lady Miller-Sands’ that evening. On the way home, he could stop by the apothecary shop for the letters.

Yes, quite doable. All of his problems would be solved. His mother would be pleased to hear that he was tending to his duties. The gossipmongers would cease their prattling over Charlotte’s presence in his house. And somewhere in a dark corner of the Miller-Sandses’ property, before the betrothal announcement was made, he would lift up Lady Baltrip’s skirts, press her hard against a wall and assure her that his pending marriage was only going to add another very nice edge to their relationship. She would be delighted by the prospects, of course. Lady Baltrip liked edges every bit as much as he did.

Ian lifted his brandy glass in salute to himself and the sheer brilliance and perfect workability of his plan.

*   *   *

Certain of her course and determined to quickly see it through no matter the cost, Fiona shifted the bundle in her arm, freed her hand, and repeatedly slammed the knocker on the door. The sound pounded out into the silence of the sleeping neighborhood and succeeded, within only moments, of getting the door thrown open to her.

Dr. Ian Cabott literally rocked back on his heels at the sight of her. “Lady Fiona?” he choked out as he recovered his balance.

“Pardon my intrusion at this late hour, Your Grace,” she said hastily, the seconds ticking away in her mind, “but there is an emergency and I desperately need your help.”

“What sort of emergency?” He looked past her and out to the empty street. “Has there been an accident?”

“This is Beeps,” she said, pulling the edge of her bundled cloak aside just enough to reveal his head. “His right rear leg has been badly broken.”

He blinked down at Beeps, then looked up at her, chewing his lower lip. “Lady Fiona,” he said kindly, “I can appreciate your concern and sympathy for a suffering animal, but I don’t know what you expect me to do about it. Unless,” he added even more kindly, “you’re hoping I will put it out of its misery for you.”

Do and you’ll be the one in misery.
She swallowed down her anger and her fear. “I’ve read your papers on the experimental pinning of broken limbs. I want you to do that for Beeps.”

He cocked a brow. “I operate on humans, Lady Fiona. Not animals. I’m sorry.”

There was nothing to be done but force the issue. She reached under her arm, slipped her hand around the butt of Drayton’s pistol and hauled it out, saying simply and honestly, “As am I, Your Grace,” as she pointed the muzzle at his heart.

He stared at the maw for a long second and then, slowly lifting his hands, brought his gaze up to hers. “You can not be serious.”

“I will assist you in the surgery,” she countered firmly, taking a deliberate step forward. “Kindly lead the way. And please keep your hands up where I can see them.”

To the credit of his good judgment and sense of self-preservation, he stepped back, turned and slowly headed across the foyer, his hands up and saying, “I can’t assure you of a positive outcome, you know.”

“Better to try and fail than to not try at all,” she said, following him and fighting back tears as Beeps shifted weakly against her. “He’s my very best friend and I will not abandon him or hope.”

One tiny little meow was all that broke the silence of their passage through the darkened house. They’d reached a room at the far end when Ian Cabott cleared his throat and said quietly, “While I light a lamp, place him on the examining table, please.”

The outlines of the metal table glinted dully in the scant moonlight wafting through the room’s windows. Fiona carefully, gently did as he instructed as a matchstick flared. The gun in one hand, she trailed the fingertips of her other reassuringly over the top of Beeps’ head and watched the doctor put fire to a lamp wick. The match out, the wick adjusted, he turned with the lamp and met her gaze.

Yes, this moment was why she was supposed to have met him at the party. Fate had known that she’d need his medical skills before the night was done, had known that his sense of compassion would make it impossible for him to deny her request.

“Put the gun away, Lady Fiona,” he said, setting the lamp down on the table and gently opening the cloak in which she’d hastily wrapped Beeps. “It’s not necessary and you need to scrub your hands. I’m going to need both of them in the effort.”

She laid the gun on the desk in the corner on her way to the wash basin, absolutely certain that she’d made the right choices and that everything would turn out not just fine, but as it was supposed to.

*   *   *

Ian sat in the chair and watched Lady Fiona Turnbridge sleep, her beloved black-and-white cat bandaged and nestled in the blanket on her lap. She had been a remarkable assistant, her knowledge of general anatomy on par with any of the colleagues with whom he’d shared an operating theater. Not only that, she hadn’t flinched once, nor turned pale or green. Her eyes had welled with tears when he’d announced that the bone was too badly crushed to be saved, but she’d pushed past her sadness, squared her shoulders, and ably assisted him with the necessary amputation.

Beeps was one very fortunate feline to have such a caring mistress. Beeps was also fortunate to have a world-renowned surgeon willing to risk his reputation in working on him. The cat would never walk on four paws again, of course, but then, as a pampered member of the Ryland household, it wasn’t as though he were ever going to have to hunt for his own meals or go hungry. Three legs would serve him well enough to live a long and full life.

But now that the surgery was done and it was obvious that ol’ Beeps had at least one more life allotted to him, there was the question of what to do about the fact that Lady Fiona had spent the night at the home of a single man. Odds were that no one was going to consider Beeps a proper chaperone.

Chapter Three

Ian checked the time on his pocket watch, slipped it back into his vest pocket, then took a thick medical periodical off the end table beside his chair. Holding it out in front of him, he looked over at the hearth to make sure that all was still well with the esteemed Beeps, and then over at Lady Fiona sweetly slumbering in the huge leather chair.

Time to begin.
He opened his hand and let the periodical fall. It struck the wooden floor with a perfectly crisp
whap!
that, just as he’d intended, instantly awakened his cat-carrying, gun-wielding little guest.

“Good morning, Lady Fiona,” he said as she blinked and blankly gazed around the room.

She looked at him, furrowed her brow in obvious puzzlement for a second or two, and then started in full realization. “How—?”

“Beeps is fine,” he assured her. “Still a bit woozy for the trauma, of course, but he’s managed to totter over to a food bowl and then lap up a bit of watered cream.” He gestured toward the gently crackling hearth. “I made a nest for him by the fire and he’s taking a comfortable nap.”

She stretched and uncurled. Slowly, leisurely and in a stunningly, startlingly seductive way. “What time is it?”

To reappraise.
He cleared his throat softly and took up his plan again. “Half past eight.”

“Oh, dear. I have about ten minutes to get home before I’m missed.” She pushed herself out of the chair, adding, “I truly appreciate all your help last night, Your Grace. If you’d care to send around a bill for your services, I’d be more than happy to see it paid.”

He waited until she was swirling her cloak over her shoulders to rise to his feet and call her attention back to him. “Lady Fiona?”

“Yes?”

“It occurs to me,” he said with calm control and a cocked brow, “that rushing home with your cat is not a particularly viable course of action at this point.”

She stopped and considered him. “Are you suggesting that I leave him here to recover further?”

“Oh, he’s perfectly capable of withstanding a reasonably gentle transport without ill effect.”

“Then why are you—?”

“You have, my dear lady,” he interrupted, “spent the night in my home, in my company.”

She shrugged. “In your surgery, saving the life of my cat.”

“The facts of the situation don’t matter,” he pointed out. “Appearances do, however, and your reputation has been compromised.”

“Assuming that anyone ever finds out that I was here. Which,” she quickly added, as she moved forward to collect Beeps, “they won’t if I say nothing, you say nothing, and I leave right this moment.”

“No, Lady Fiona,” he said, stepping between her and the hearth. “It’s ridiculous to even consider the idea of you dashing across streets and yards and vaulting fences in an attempt to reach the family breakfast table before your night of adventure is discovered.”

She looked up at him and slowly arched a pale brow. “I was planning to walk down the sidewalk at a brisk pace.”

Lord, in the daylight her eyes were even more stunningly green than they had been last night. “To arrive in your brother-in-law’s dining room still wearing your ball gown from the night before?”

She looked down at herself and then back up at him. “I’ll have to walk a bit more briskly to allow for time to change my clothes.” She moved to step around him, adding, “Now if you will excuse me, Your Grace.”

Again he blocked her path. “Might I make a proposal?”

She sighed and the smile she gave him was polite but tight. “Quickly, please.”

Actually, now that he considered the whole of her face, she was decidedly beautiful. Flawless skin. Perfectly shaped lips. Their children would be the most handsome and gorgeous in England. “I will have my carriage readied, transport you and Beeps home, and explain the circumstances to His Grace.”

“It would be easier on you,” she retorted with a dry chuckle, “to simply get out of my way and let me go alone.”

“Yes,” he allowed, nodding, “but then I’d have to wait until calling time, present myself at the door, and then make some sort of preparatory speech before getting on with the asking for your hand in marriage.”

She took a full step back. “Excuse me?”

Since there wasn’t any point in dodging and dancing about the matter, he simply replied, “I need a wife. You’ve been compromised. It works out well for both of us.”

She knitted her brows and stared at him for a few moments before saying, “With all due respect, Your Grace, you’re out of your mind.”

No, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. She was supposed to be concerned about her reputation and honored that he was willing to marry her to preserve it. In fact, she should have been honored by the proposal, period. He was the prize of the London Season. “Why would you say that?” he asked, truly mystified by her response. “I’m a duke. You’re the daughter of a duke, the sister-in-law of his successor. I fail to see what’s the least bit insane about our marrying. Actually, it’s really quite appropriate in terms of our social ranks and family prestige.”

She nodded and edged sideways away from him. Rather in the way, it occurred to him, that people tended to escape mentally defective beggars on the street.

“We barely know each other,” she said as she inched toward her cat.

“That’s what engagement periods are for,” Ian countered, again blocking her way. He smiled broadly. “I’ll start. My favorite color is blue and my favorite meal is roast beef, cooked rare, with pan-roasted potatoes and carrots on the side. Your turn.”

She studied the floor, pursed her lips, and then drew a deep breath as she brought her gaze up to his. With a sigh, she lifted her chin a notch to crisply say, “My mother was a maid in the employ of the Duke of Ryland. He fathered me and tossed her out before I was born. She took up prostitution to feed us and then left me in the care of impoverished, ignorant, and not particularly kind or caring relatives when she was stricken with disease and dying.”

“How horrible,” he offered, thinking that that wasn’t quite the sort of information he’d had in mind.

“I was rescued by Drayton after my father died,” she went on as he was wondering if green might be her favorite color, “and the Queen’s men had performed some sort of paper miracle to make me a legitimate child.”