Leslie Lafoy (8 page)

So much for the possibly of marrying a woman with eerie, mind-reading powers. Harry had always been a gullible twit. After all the years, he really should have known better than to listen to him. That issue aside, the box had been rather neatly and conveniently opened on his immediate past. As his future bride, Lady Fiona had a right to know that it was going to create some difficulties for her.

“If you’ve heard of my service to the Crown,” he said casually, “you must also have heard that my parents were appalled and embarrassed by it.”

“Actually, I’ve been told that they weren’t very happy with your decision to become a doctor.”

“To put it mildly.”
And the true start of the problem.

“Why did you decide to train as a physician?” she asked, then hastily added, “If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”

Of course he didn’t mind. He’d been asked the question at least a thousand times over the years. “I was bored with being a child of extreme privilege.”

She pursed her lips for a moment, then knitted her brows. “Perhaps that might have been part of it,” she said slowly, “but I doubt it would have been a sufficient reason to endure their disapproval
and
the difficult training. I would expect that the reason would be more personal and closer to the heart.”

How interesting. Of all the times he’d tossed out his ready answer, she was the very first to ever look past it and know there was more. That alone made her deserving of the truth. “My father owned a good number of properties, and when I was thirteen he decided that it was time that I surveyed the London part of what would someday be my personal kingdom. We rode around town in his outrageously appointed carriage, climbing out at each block so that I could meet the managers of the property.”

Ian paused as the old memory rolled past his eyes, still every bit as vivid and disturbing as the day it had been made. With a deep breath for fortification, he went on, saying, “There was one stop, a tenement house where the Irish lived. On the walk in front of it lay a man with a badly mangled, badly bandaged leg. I knew looking at it that he had gangrene.” Afraid that his voice would catch, he drew another breath and softly cleared his throat before adding, “My father stepped over him as though he wasn’t even there.”

And kept right on going, not even seeing the pain and desperate hope in the man’s eyes. The son of a bitch.

“He’s not the only man to have ever done that,” Lady Fiona offered gently.

“True,” Ian allowed, pushing the anger away. “But I knew in that moment that I couldn’t follow them.”

“What did you do?”

Underestimated the quality of my father’s character.
“I demanded that the footmen help me load the man into the carriage and take him to a doctor. My father countermanded the order and had the footmen toss
me
into the carriage.”

“And the man on the walkway?”

“He was dead by the time I found my way back there that night. It was as I watched them wrap him for burial that I decided that there was never again going to be a time when someone’s life depended on my ability to get help for them. I was going to be able to help them myself. Right that moment, without having to ask or plead or hope for a flicker of compassion in others.”

And, by God, he’d seen that promise to himself fulfilled. Despite all the nasty words and horrified outrage. Glaring at the ground between his feet, Ian lifted the cheroot to his lips and drew sharply. And got nothing.

As he considered the end of it and the rules about smoking in the presence of a lady, Lady Fiona said, “It’s hard to imagine that a parent would oppose such a commendable ambition.”

“You don’t know my parents,” he countered ruefully, flicking off the cold ash. “Well, as I’ve said, my father died last year. My mother still lives, though. In a way, he very much lives on through her. You’ll see for yourself when you meet her. Probably next week sometime. Consider yourself warned.”

She nodded in a thoughtful way and then smiled sweetly. “Well, however your parents feel about your choice, I’m sure there are a good many people who are grateful that you ignored their resistance and followed your calling.”

“A few at least,” he allowed, appreciating her determination to focus on the brighter side of things.

“Do you miss being in Her Majesty’s service?”

“I certainly felt more useful there,” he admitted. “And far more needed. No one in England is going to die if there should suddenly be one less duke.”

“Fiona! Lord Dunsford!”

Together they looked up and toward the back door where Lady Ryland stood. Beside him, Lady Fiona sighed and then stood, saying, “Time to go happily plan the social campaign of the decade.”

Ian, vaulting to his feet, quickly considered his options. “Please tell Her Grace that I’ll be along in a moment or two. My cheroot went out as we talked and it would be a criminal offense to not finish it.”

“Of course,” she said with a demure nod and a knowing smile. “Take all the time you’d like.”

She started away, her skirts fisted in her hands, her hems raised slightly above her ankles. He watched her go, noting that her gait was even and certain, not the least affected by the different length of her legs. Perhaps, he mused, her inability to dance wasn’t as much a matter of physical imperfection as it was the lack of the right dance partner. For women, dancing involved a great deal of trust.

Halfway to the door, she stopped and then slowly turned back. Her smile was soft and gentle. “Just so you know, Ian,” she called to him, “I wouldn’t be the least bit opposed to the idea of being a military wife.”

He nodded, too stunned to form a coherent word before she resumed her way back to the house. What unexpectedly quick progress they’d made! One conversation on a garden bench and she’d called him by his name.

Maybe, if he made a concerted effort to be genuinely involved in the wedding planning, if he were a sparkling conversationalist during lunch, and if he pretended that he enjoyed the tedium of politics … She’d what? Give him a smile when he left the house? Let him kiss her hand in adieu? Be willing to talk to him when they met again that night at the Miller-Sandses’ ball?

He cocked a brow and considered his choices: a perfectly polite conversation with a quiet young miss in the presence of God and all of London society, or a breathless, mind-staggering tryst in the garden and an alcove and the carriage with Lady Baltrip. Ian sighed as his conscience clearly voted for the former and all the rest of him begged for the latter. Wondering how he could justify being a complete cad, he reached into his coat pocket for his tin of matches.

Chapter Five

Fiona sipped her punch and looked out over the edge of the Miller-Sandses’ balcony. Something bad was going to happen. She could feel a kind of darkness gathering in the pit of her stomach. Nothing seemed to be amiss with the couples strolling in the gardens below. Heavy clouds were gathering to the west and a storm was certain before the night was over, but she sensed nothing unusual or particularly dangerous in it. From behind her, through the open French doors, drifted the notes of the orchestra and the sounds of a party well and happily attended. Nowhere was there the slightest hint of something about to go terribly wrong.

She sighed, took another sip, and wondered if she might simply be hungry. Or perhaps coming down with a bit of a cold. Not that either possibility was any more than a hope, she had to admit. God, she hated times like these, times when she could sense something coming, but couldn’t say what it was or who it would happen to, couldn’t prevent it.

The movement was at the very edge of her vision, quick and fluid and instantly familiar.
Simone,
she silently groaned. Lord, if ever there was a person who could create disaster out of nothing more than thin air, it was Simone.

“What are you doing out here?” her sister asked, closing the distance between them.

“Wishing I were at home, tending my animals or reading a good book.”

“Trust me,” Simone countered, laughing softly, “I know the feeling. Well,” she hurriedly added, “the being at home part, anyway.”

Fiona nodded, leaned down to plant her elbows on the balustrade, and gazed out over the shadowed garden again. “Why do we do these things to ourselves?” she mused aloud. “It’s not as though our presence matters to anyone. Our absence, either.”

Simone leaned her hip against the granite railing and replied, “Caroline just told me that Dunsford has asked to marry you and that you’ve accepted.”

Leave it to Simone to get directly to the heart of any matter. Fiona nodded slowly. “You sound as though you don’t believe it.”

“I am surprised.”

And not at all happily. The spark of irritation was just as instant as the words that tumbled off Fiona’s tongue. “By which part? That someone would want to marry me? Or that I would accept a proposal?”

For a long moment the words hung between them in the night air, at obvious odds with the perfect notes drifting out from the ballroom. In the discordant clash, Fiona’s irritation ebbed away, to be replaced by regret. She sighed and said, “I’m sor—”

“What I can’t believe,” Simone said, gently cutting her off, “is that you’re willing to shackle yourself to a complete stranger. I’m assuming that there’s one helluva reason for doing something so drastic.”

“One woman’s notion of drastic,” Fiona countered, “is another woman’s notion of reasonable. Lady St. Regis and Lady Phillips saw me leaving Lord Dunsford’s home this morning and didn’t waste a single second in getting to the house to tell Carrie all about it. Dunsford arrived about five minutes after they’d left, having done what they could to make a completely innocent situation just as scandalous as they possibly could.”

“So?” Simone posed with a dismissive shrug. “It’s not as if we’ve never been gossiped about or scandalized. Carrie and Drayton didn’t twist your arm behind your back and make you say yes.”

“Of course they didn’t. But then, you and Carrie are made of sterner stuff than I am.”

Simone snorted. “What a load of rubbish!”

It was the truth, but Fiona refused to waste the time and energy in arguing with her sister about it. “Weathering a scandal, however minor, is exhausting and painful and I refuse to be responsible for causing anyone grief. Dunsford offered to spare us all from the gossip. I certainly can’t be any less considerate than he’s being.”

Simone sighed and, after a long moment, asked, “Were you at Dunsford’s all night? Or did you just pop over at dawn to see if you could sell him some raffle tickets to the Orphan Canine Mission?”

“Half the night,” Fiona explained, ignoring Simone’s sarcasm. “While we were at the ball last night, Beeps got out of the house. Somehow he broke his leg and when I finally found him, I knew that if I didn’t get him to a doctor, he was going to die. So I took him to the Duke of Dunsford for surgery.”

“And?” Simone asked breathlessly.

“His Grace is a highly skilled surgeon and he honestly did the best he could. Beep’s leg couldn’t be saved, but he’ll manage just fine on the three he has left.”

Simone gently laid her hand on her shoulder, saying, “Oh, Fi. I’m glad he’s going to be all right. I know he means the world to you.”

“Thank you.”

Her sister reached up and smoothed a curl off her shoulder. “I’d really like to think that the man you’re going to marry means just as much to you as your cat does.”

Yes, well … in a perfect world, in girlish fairy tales … “It will work out for the best,” Fiona assured her.

Simone pursed her lips for a long moment and then slowly arched a raven brow. “Is that conclusion based on pure optimism, or is it one of those things you sometimes know?”

Optimism? No. Resignation maybe. Or perhaps it was more a stoic sort of guarded hope.

“Never mind,” Simone said. “I can see the answer in your eyes. Carrie said that the engagement is going to be announced at her and Drayton’s annual ball. Which gives you three weeks to make sure you really want to do this. Backing out after that would be possible too, of course, but a lot more difficult. Especially considering your aversion to scandal.”

“Scandal or not,” Fiona countered, “I’ve given Lord Dunsford my word, Simone. I’m not going to change my mind.”

Simone’s brow arched higher. “In that case,” she drawled, “I’d like to meet my future brother-in-law. Is he here this evening?”

The chill that had been confined to Fiona’s stomach suddenly spread into the marrow of her bones. Simone and Ian together? Simone who had never once in her life behaved in a manner even close to circumspect? Ian who was so keenly aware of appearances that he was willing to marry a physically deformed stranger to keep them from being tarnished?

“I promise to be nothing short of thoroughly proper and delightfully congratulatory,” Simone cheerily offered, slipping an arm around Fiona’s shoulders and giving her a quick hug. “Since he’s obviously not out here,” Fiona went on, turning her away from the balustrade, “he’s probably in the ballroom. At least that would be my first guess. Shall we?”

Fighting the inclination to dig in her heels, Fiona allowed her sister to guide her toward the French doors. Maybe, she offered herself as she blinked into the bright light of the ongoing party, she might be lucky and Ian had already ducked into one of the males-only gaming rooms. If she were really lucky—and there was a truly benevolent God—Ian had decided to stay home this evening.

And if she wasn’t lucky … “Perhaps we should freshen ourselves a bit before we start a serious search.”

*   *   *

If a bird in hand was worth two in the the bush, what, Ian wondered, was a duke in the palms worth? “Not much” seemed to be the only answer, and it so disgusted him that he stepped out into full view of God and every professional gossip in London. He’d no more than made one passing glance around the ballroom and snagged a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter than Harry was at his side.

“Where have you been all day?” his cousin asked. “I’ve looked high and low for you.”

“You didn’t look at Lord Ryland’s townhouse.”