Minor Indiscretions (23 page)

"Aye, but she was just a wee lass then, and I botched it. She asked if I'd be faithful, and all I could swear was that I'd try."

Corey could well imagine Melody's reaction to a philandering husband. "And now?"

"Oh, now I'd lie. Bostwick Bartleby don't make the same mistake twice, you know. Of course, it would be easier if I could see my little girl settled first, so as I can get on with my courting without reminders of past lapses, heh heh. I don't suppose you'd be interested? A fine gent like yourself needs a pretty armful to—"

"No."

"Aye, it's a sore shame, it is, but the chit's birth is against her. Of course, I intend to come down heavy for the right man."

"If I loved your daughter, sir, her birth would not matter tuppence. Without love, all the gold in Asia could not make me a tenant for life."

"Aye, Jessie warned you were a toplofty devil. Don't see what you young 'uns are about, dallyin' around, not that I did so well in my salad days neither. Still, there is Felice to consider. A rare handful, that puss. Pretty as can stare, too. No way I can take her to London with us, her being the image of her mother. Ah well, take one hurdle at a time, I always say. What about a toast? Here's to successful wooing."

Corey nearly gagged.

Antoine's fine dinner stuck in Melody's throat. She would tell Corey, she should tell Corey, but how
could
she tell Corey that she was not baseborn after all? A lady did not simply approach a gentleman after dinner and announce that she was not a bastard, that her birth was every bit as good as his own, and therefore… and therefore what? And therefore he could tender an honorable proposal? Therefore he was free to love her as she loved him? Melody could sooner take her slippers off and dance on the tabletop through all five courses and removes.

The nabob would likely applaud, the old roué. If that overfed philanderer pinched her one more time or patted his lap for her to sit, Melody would box his ears. Could that enormous rock pinned in his cravat be a real ruby? No wonder Corey was scowling, the way Barty and Mama were carrying on like turtledoves right at his table. Perhaps this evening was not a good time to seek a private conversation with the viscount anyway.

As soon as the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after dinner, a still glowering Corey asked Miss Ashton to attend him in the library on a business matter. Miss Ashton took one look at his forbidding expression and thought she had better remain with her mother, in case that lady's delicate constitution required a daughter's care.

"Your mother is as delicate as an ox," Lord Coe declared, grasping Melody firmly by the arm and leading her from the room. "And she has as much motherly instinct, if less sense. If I don't miss my guess she and that court card pasha will be off for a stroll in the rose garden shortly to decide your future."

Melody certainly hoped the infatuated lovebirds would get on with the formalities and make the announcement soon before she sank with embarrassment. The viscount nodded curtly to his sister, who was trying to hide her smiles behind a fan. Erica smiled encouragement to Melody.

"Mama is just a trifle excitable, my lord," she started to say when they reached the library.

"My stallion is a trifle excitable, too, Miss Ashton, and I keep him on a short rein. No, don't get in a dudgeon. I did not mean to insult your mother, and if I have to wish you happy, then I shall, although I wish you will reconsider."

While Corey poured them both glasses of wine Melody told him, "But, my lord, I have nothing to say in the matter."

"I cannot believe that of you. You have been the most outspoken, managing female of my acquaintance." He held up his hand. "No matter, that is not what I wish to discuss. Another blackmail letter has been delivered to my sister this afternoon."

Melody was shaken by that. "Oh no! Just when Lady Erica seems to be finding such joy. Who could be so cruel? How did the letter come?"

"Sip your wine, Angel, you look too pale. No one shall harm Erica or Meggie, have no fear. The letter was in the basket with all of the other post and notes from the locals thanking us for the picnic. No one recalls the letter in particular. That's not important, nor is anyone's getting wind of Erica's so-called bigamous marriage to Wooster. It will be a nine days' wonder in London, till something else comes along. Erica wishes to forget about the threat and let the blackmailer do his worst. I spoke to your mother earlier, and she told me to let it drop, also. She seems to feel the nabob would know how to handle any awkwardness that might come up about the money or extortion threats."

"But we have to catch the criminal! There are other people who could be threatened, and people would keep on thinking it was Mama who's the villain."

Corey smiled for the first time. "I knew I could count on you, Angel. I, too, would like to see an end to this business, and I do not want to see my family affairs published in the broadsides if I can avoid it. Now that I have your permission, I can proceed to lay a trap for our scoundrel."

"Wonderful. When and where? What shall I do to help?"

His lordship sat back. "But, Melody, an outlaw rendezvous is no place for a lady."

"Don't be cork-brained. Of course I must be there."

Corey got out of his chair and came around to her side of the desk. "No, my dear. I know you are pluck to the backbone, but there could be danger."

Melody stood, too. "You know very well I can protect myself. I am going." Her determined chin came up, and for once Lord Coe was not amused.

"There are other dangers. There could be a messy scandal with bailiffs and magistrates. You are not going, that's all." He pounded the desk for emphasis.

"I know what it is," she declared, pounding right back. "You don't trust me!"

"Hell, woman, it has nothing whatsoever to do with trust. I am trying to keep this thing quiet." His fist came down again, hard.

"Quiet!" she shouted.
Wham
. "What do you think I am going to do, yell it from the rooftops that you are planning to catch a thief?"
Wham
.

"You've already just notified the household and half the countryside, blast you for an interfering shrew."

"And blast you for an evil-tempered tyrant. I am going!"

"No, you are not!"

Now by this time the poor old desk was rocking. Pencils had long gone flying, papers were scattered. One more solid blow should see the decanter overturned. That final whack came as Miss Ashton turned to leave: "Then I hope the thief shoots you, and you die and go straight to hell."
Wham
.

Corey grabbed the decanter just as the door slammed behind her. "And I," he said to the empty room, looking down to see his lace sleeve trailing in the spill from the upended inkwell he hadn't caught in time, "hope the nabob has a very patient valet."

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So he didn't trust her, did he? Well, Miss Melody Ashton would just show that smug son of Satan a thing or two! She would take her good name, her first-ever silk gown, if she finished sewing it on time, and she would go to the assembly in Hazelton with the rest of the Oaks party—and she would flirt! Now that she was to have her dowry restored by the nabob, either out of generosity or a desire to get her off his hands, she could even simper like a debutante at her come-out. Yes, that's what Melody swore to do. She'd had enough lessons from watching Felice, and even from observing Mama flutter around Sir Bartleby. Melody would giggle and bat her eyelashes and hang on some man's every word, stars in her eyes and… and rouge on her cheeks. She would go find herself some nice lad who liked children and dogs. Perhaps a modest landowner, or even a farmer, anything but a sophisticated man of the world whose emotions were as shallow as his hedonistic life. Her beau would have kind eyes and a pleasant face, but not be so attractive that he had an elevated notion of himself. He would have a sturdy, pleasant build without looking like some god every woman had to worship on sight. He would laugh and dance with her, and never, ever think that Melody was a liar or a cheat or a light-skirt.

That's what she would do, go find herself a husband. Why should Melody Ashton sit home on the shelf with only her dog for company? She was barely eighteen, and she had never been to a real ball. Just because some toplofty lordling did not trust her, she did not have to sit home weeping like some third-rate Juliet. Melody wiped her eyes. Trust him, he had said. But the trust was not to be reciprocal, it turned out. He wouldn't even tell her how he could suddenly tell the twins apart. He wasn't even her friend, and her dog was a more loyal companion. She sewed faster.

Melody's dress was finished on time, if her new mantel of cold-blooded manhunter wasn't. The gown was exquisite, falling in graceful folds that hugged her slim, striking figure. The bodice was a little lower than Melody was used to, but Mama assured her she would be out of the mode in a high-necked creation. In fact, there had simply not been enough fabric. That was why the sleeves were mere puffs, and the skirt was narrower than Melody would have liked. Tiny green leaves had been painstakingly embroidered over the cream silk wherever there was a water stain, and an ivory silk rose with three green leaves was fixed at the
décolletage, bringing her charms to immediate attention. Another rose was fixed to the gold victory crown on her head, with her chestnut curls, shining from every potion known to a houseful of women and a great deal of brushing, gathered up and threaded through the circlet to fall in waves down her back. That was no angel's halo tonight, but the golden lure of a temptress.

The children were awestruck, even Pip beginning to realize how grown men could make such mooncalves of themselves. Mama never noticed Melody's appearance, fussing with her own before Barty's arrival, but Felice said something cutting about sparrows dressed up as swans, so Melody knew she must look as good as Harry said, bang up to the mark. Even Nanny said she'd do, and she'd better not. Nanny's gift of a gossamer-stitched shawl, made from the viscount's green wool and draped charmingly over her arms, made Melody feel even more like a Siren and less like a schoolgirl—if only her knees weren't turned to pudding.

The nabob simply pinched Melody's cheek as usual when he came to collect them, having quickly learned that Lady Ashton grew liverish if he paid fulsome compliments to any other female, even her own daughter. Instead of going into raptures over Melody's appearance, he bowed at the shrine of his ladylove's beauty. Mama's chest inflated with pride. She did not even hear her cavalier's corsets creak. She had found the cabbage-rose gown after all and made a perfect match to her gallant in his yellow pantaloons, red-and-black striped waistcoat, puce brocaded coat, and enough gems to make a dragon drool. If Mama looked like wallcovering, Melody decided, then her new steppapa-to-be looked like upholstery. That thought carried her to Sir Bartleby's hired coach, where she took her seat between Felice and Miss Chase. The governess had been convinced to attend the assembly, thus stretching the conventions, only after Melody's nervous pleas for moral support at her first ball, combined with Major Frye's entreaties and her own heart's desire. The major was waiting with the two carriages of the Oaks party at the main road, so they could all travel together for safety on the hour-long journey.

The hour was too short for Melody, who worried that no one would ask her to dance. No matter, she wouldn't remember the steps anyway. Or she would stumble, or her hair would come undone, or Mama would overindulge in the ratafia. A thousand things could go wrong, like Viscount Coe not noticing her.

She need not have worried. Melody drew his eyes like the only candle in a cavern, except there were acres of people between them, many women more sumptuously dressed, most with more jewels, fuller figures, or more confident smiles. She was the only one he saw.

By the time the viscount could get to her side, the orchestra was tuning up for the first set. Damn, he thought, he was too late. That fat old fop would have her first dance for sure. Corey could not turn back without looking churlish, so he continued to where Major Frye and his cousin Rupert had joined their ladies. Corey was resigned to having the first dance with Lady Ashton. After the usual greetings, however, when he bowed over that overdressed old beldam's hand and requested her company for the opening quadrille, the nabob got piqued.

"Here now," he huffed. "That little lady is mine. I've been waiting twenty years for this dance, and I don't mean to be cut out by any jackanapes in funeral garb. This newfangled style of only wearing black and white must go with the sober-sided way you do your courtin'. Get on with it, lad, and leave Lady Jess to me. Frog bonnets, boy, the gel's like to die of embarrassment if you don't stand up with her."

The old fool was after Lady Ashton all along, not Melody? Angel wasn't going to marry this overblown bank account? The smile that broke over Corey's face could have lighted the darkest night. It did for Melody, blushing furiously, when Corey turned to her and said, "In that case, may I have the honor of the first dance with the most beautiful woman here tonight?"

"Can't," Bartleby called back over his shoulder. "I already do."

At which Peter Frye, taking Miss Chase's hand, chivalrously countered, "No, I do."

And his cousin Rupert, standing by Felice, could do no less than repeat, "No, I do."

All those "I do's" were sounding remarkably like a death knell in Corey's head, and the icy hand of fate was tapping him on the shoulder. No, the hand on his shoulder belonged to Jamie Murdock, begging an introduction to Melody. Murdock was a London acquaintance with a country estate somewhere hereabout, the viscount recalled. He was also darkly handsome and the very devil with the ladies. "No," Corey answered, sweeping Melody away on the first strains of the dance.

This was not Miss Ashton's longed-for country swain, no biddable boy who would never shake the foundations of her very being. This was Corey, and Melody shook. She floated into his welcoming arms.