No Place for a Dame (4 page)

She had been surprised that he had become such a raffish dandy. Despite what she said in public, in her heart she had always thought better of him. Yet each year, his notoriety grew.

But while she might have been wrong about Giles’s character, she was not wrong about his love for Louis. Of that, she had no doubt.

“You’re right,” he said now. “I wouldn’t have offered for Miss North had I known about her phobia. And I didn’t know. The question is”—he regarded her thoughtfully—“how did you? Or perhaps you’re telling me your masquerade was simply fortuitous? What if Sophia had revealed herself to be soft-hearted and thrown her arms about you and called you ‘sister’?”

She gave him a sardonic smile. “Killylea may be remote, but the mail comes regularly. I subscribe to a number of London papers and journals, both the scientific ones and… otherwise.”

“You mean you read the
rags
?” He looked politely astonished.

“Religiously,” she confirmed a trifle defensively. “They are filled with the most illuminating information. For instance, that opera dancer you involved yourself with last summer? She was not up to your usual standards.”

He raised an eyebrow. “My dear, you have no idea the sort of standards by which I measure my female companions.”

She felt herself flush but refused to be distracted. “Had
you
perused the rags,” she said, “you would have read a dozen stories about ‘Miss N’s’ aversion to ‘freaks and monstrosities.’ Last spring she fainted at the appearance of an armless juggler hired to entertain at Lord Crabbe’s fete. And any number of newspapers reported how the beautiful ‘Miss N’ caused a near riot at Bedlam this past spring.”

He tipped his head. “In what manner?”

“She and her party were viewing the inmates when some poor wretch followed an ill-conceived impulse to touch her, seeing how pretty she was. Your happily former fiancée reacted by howling so loudly and for so long that she roused the entire population of the ward to a frenzy. It took three days to settle them down.

“So you see, you
are
indebted to me. Admit it,” she said, willing him to meet her eye. “Admit you owe me whatever I request of you.”

He leaned back in his chair and regarded her with open amusement. “Good God, my girl, do you think me mad? Why ever would I give you such power of me?”

“Because you’re a gentleman. If you proposed to that vile girl just because she
might
have been pregnant with your child and then remained engaged to her even
after
discovering that she wasn’t, I expect you’ll act no less honorably towards me for getting shut of her and her repulsive parent.”

Such intimate knowledge of his affairs caused his smile to fade. “The servants’ network, I presume?” he asked after a minute.

“How else? You lords and ladies have no idea how accessible your lives are to those of us you barely note.”

“Oh, I’ve noted you,” he murmured. “And I am sure you are correct. But that’s beside the point, that being, I don’t recall asking for your aid.”

“You didn’t,” she conceded. “But if someone were drowning and I could save him merely by pushing a log out, I would do so without his having to holler for help.”

“Confounded as I am by such selflessness, I must nonetheless protest: I never
holler
.”

“I wasn’t speaking of you,” she said, “I refer to your father. I could hear him thrashing about in his grave the moment that little harridan entered the castle. You may not honor your family name anymore, but he did. So, out of both my respect and obligation to him, I acted.”

At the mention of his father, Giles’s face grew shuttered.

“Ah. I should have realized. Your éminence grise.”

She flushed as his hand hovered over the platter of sweetmeats the footman had brought in. Giles had never understood the relationship between his father and her. Nor had she, not entirely. There had been respect between them, but never warmth. Never anything like friendship. The old marquess was not a man given to warm personal relationships except, reportedly, in the single instance of his devotion to his firstborn son, Louis.

“He was my benefactor. I am indebted to him for what he did for me.”

“And what was that?” he asked a little tersely, confusing her. Then, seeing her expression, his own smoothed. “Despite what you think, I am aware of my familial obligations and those include producing heirs. Miss North comes from a genteel and unremarkable family. Believe it or not, in my own poor way I was attempting to ensure the family line.” He reached for a candied fig.

“I shouldn’t eat that if I were you.”

“Why not—” His hand fell abruptly away. “You didn’t actually
poison
the food?”

She shifted uneasily. Perhaps she’d overextended herself. “
Taint
is more appropriate. And only the figs. She looked like a fig eater to me. Is she?”

“Is there anything you won’t stop at? You should have been with Wellington. He could have used such a ruthless advisor. The war might have ended earlier.”

How would he know what Wellington could have used
? The marquess, concerned over the fate of his only heir, had refused to buy Giles a commission in his chosen regiment. Avery had sometimes wondered whether it was only coincidence that shortly thereafter, Giles had embarked on a career of gambling, drinking, and excess. He had spent the war in London pursuing opera dancers. The marquess had been disgusted.

Only near the very end of the marquess’s life had father and son achieved an uneasy reconciliation. At least, Giles had come home for the months before his father’s death.

“
Taint
,” she repeated. “Not poison. It would have only given her a bellyache. And if I consider something important enough, I would do whatever I deemed necessary. And making sure you didn’t marry that sod-awful little trout fell into that category.”

He
tch
’d lightly. “What a vile tongue you have, Avery.”

“I’m a gamekeeper’s daughter. What else would you expect?” She hiked up her skirts and hopped up to sit on the edge of the table, her legs swinging indecorously. “The pickles are safe.”

His gaze fell casually upon her bare limbs and lingered long enough to send little frissons racing beneath her skin. Slowly, his gaze lifted to her face. He smiled and she remembered too late how easily he’d always countered her defiant demonstrations of low-class behavior, sending her fleeing with just a look, a word. But she was not a girl anymore. She would no longer take to her heels when he played at roué.

“From someone with your education?” he asked. “With the advantages you’ve known? I’d expect a great deal more.”

She resented that. Not because it wasn’t true but because she knew Giles didn’t believe it. Long ago she’d overheard him tell his father that the education he was giving her would make her an outcast at every level of society. Afterward, Avery had walked in terror of the marquess terminating her education. She needn’t have. Being the marquess, he’d had no choice but to continue. He’d given his word and a Dalton always honored his debts.

In the course of a highway robbery committed during the first week her father had worked for the Marquess of Strand, Dermot Quinn had dove in front of a highwayman’s bullet aimed at his new employer. He’d been nearly killed. Upon his recovery the old marquess had asked him to name whatever he wanted for his reward. Quinn had made a
seemingly simple request: that the marquess see to the education of his motherless, ten-year-old daughter, Avery, “until she stops askin’ all them bleedin’ questions.”

Forthwith, the marquess had hired a tutor for the girl, thinking, no doubt, that within a few months she would tire of the classroom and go back to… wherever it was she’d been before the robbery.

But she never had stopped asking questions; the questions just grew harder.

And the marquess, whose sense of honor was as unassailable as his sense of duty, and who’d adhered strongly to the belief that a deal struck was a deal met, continued to find teachers, instructors, and tutors to keep pace with her curiosity.

But an education and an intellect that far surpassed most of the ton’s prominent members, male and female, did not make her a lady any more than slumming in Spitalfields made Giles a day laborer. Giles had made that clear. It was a fact she had never allowed herself to forget.

“But I prefers the cant of me own,” she said now in her father’s broad provincial accent before segueing into the haughty tones of a lady, “to the arch drawl affected by yours.”

“You are a consummate mimic, Avery. You ought to consider a career on the stage. You’d do so well there.”

In spite of herself, she felt heat flood into her face. Though a virgin, she was no innocent. The plainspoken Cornwall folk and the marquess’s more sophisticated, but no less earthy staff had seen that she received an education every bit as enlightening as the one she’d received from the marquess’s hired teachers.

She knew there were few ladies on stage who were ladies anywhere else. Most actresses were also mistresses, their finest performances given for an audience of one on a satin-covered stage. Giles was reported to have been the recipient of many such performances.

She looked away, but not quickly enough.

“I did not mean to imply that you would ever—”

“Ever what? Become a paramour?” She lifted her chin. “I suppose not. I should make a most uncomfortable mistress, since in all likelihood I would be a great deal more intelligent than my so-called protector and categorically unwilling to mask that fact in order to preserve his self-importance.”

He inclined his head. “Allow me to apologize for my unfortunate comment.”

His composure only made her more flustered and words tumbled out before she could stop them. “I daresay you would be happy to have me taken off your hands. As would I.”

“You are overreacting.”

“Am I? Shouldn’t you like to come to Killylea without worrying about encountering me?”

“I never worry.”

She steeled herself against the unexpected stab of pain his words caused.
Of course he wouldn’t worry; why should he spare any thought to her at all?

“And this is your home,” Giles added.

“No. It is
your
home and it is high time I arranged for my future elsewhere.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He sounded curt and she felt again the same unworthy pang of pleasure she’d had in provoking of him when she’d been a twelve-year-old girl. The realization rattled her. Would she ever grow up where he was concerned?

“Who will take care of your father if you leave? Where would you go?”

His words caught her by surprise. “But… my father no longer works for you. He married Madame Turcotte. They retired to her native town in Normandy six months past. He wrote you…” She trailed off, her eyes narrowing. “That old dog. He
didn’t
write to you, did he?”

“
He married my cook?
”

Her indignation fell prey to the humor in the situation. “I’m so sorry.” She was trying not to smile. Her dad always had done whatever he deemed necessary to win the desired results. She supposed she was like him in that. “He swore he would, even though he was worried you’d try to dissuade Madame Turcotte from accepting his offer.”

“Damned right, I would have.”

His tone was so honestly aggrieved she could not keep from chuckling. “Perhaps that explains his reluctance to inform you. Poor man knew his charms would not stand up to the lure of a doubled salary. So, now you see that I no longer have any excuse to live here.” There. That was better. Reasonable. Calculated. Thoughtful, not like some panicked girl throwing out threats in the hope that someone would tell her not to be silly.

“That’s ridiculous. You don’t need an excuse. My father—”

“Your
father
has been dead these four years,” she interrupted calmly. “And you have more than fulfilled any obligations he may have undertaken. Besides, I have plans.”

“Oh? Off to foment a rebellion in some unsuspecting principality or other?”

“Very amusing.”

She had spent fourteen years living on the marquises of Strands’ charity and might have done so indefinitely had she not read the announcement of Giles’s upcoming marriage. She’d blinked at the page like a blind woman suddenly developing sight as it had slowly dawned on her that Giles would be bringing his wife to Killylea. That he would raise his children here.
Her
children.

She had never considered Strand marrying before, or if she had, had relegated it to some vague future, a possibility that one must acknowledge but not necessarily anticipate. Like the plague.

But in that instance she’d realized that of course Giles would marry—and soon, if for no other reason than to secure the line. She could not stay here when he did. The new marchioness was bound to take exception to finding an unmarried woman in an unidentifiable position living in her new home.

Or worse, she might not.

And then what would Avery be? An uncomfortable phantom haunting the netherworld between upstairs and down? A topic of post-dinner conversation? A means to congratulate the new marchioness on her forbearance or exalt Giles’s father on his odd sense of fair play?

No. She could not stay. She must find employment somewhere. Not as a governess. She could not imagine herself being dependent on the sufferance of recalcitrant children. But she’d heard mention of new types of schools opening in London and abroad, schools catering to older female pupils who desired to learn academic subjects. Perhaps one of these would hire her. Or she might apply to one of her former instructors to fashion the new lenses she’d designed. It wasn’t the same as being a milliner—hats apparently being the one item ladies were allowed to manufacture without social censure—but then she wasn’t a lady.

No. She did not doubt her ability to make a living for herself, but she recognized that once she left Killylea there was little likelihood she
would ever again have the freedom or opportunities to learn, to explore, to
discover
that had been hers.