So Enchanting (20 page)

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Authors: Connie Brockway

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General

BOOK: So Enchanting
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Chapter Twenty
Grey pounded on Quod Lamia’s front door. Beside him Hayden beamed like a coal miner’s lantern. Hayden caught his eye, and Grey manufactured a weak smile. Damn Collier for allowing him to bring the boy here. Now he was obliged to play surrogate papa, and he was ill-equipped for the job. Besides, he was furious—at her, at Hayden, at the girl, but most of all at himself.

 

He’d believed Fanny Walcott had no ulterior motives in her dealings with them.
Ha!
He’d believed she was simply the affectionate friend of a lively young girl, concerned for Amelie’s poor heart. And while he’d been so solicitously reassuring her, Amelie had been with Hayden, inveigling him.
She must have known. Fanny’d been up and about when he’d arrived at her house. No woman got dressed in ten minutes.

 

She’d betrayed him. She’d led him down the garden path and he’d followed like a puppy. Like a besotted, eager, gullible puppy.
Grey banged on the heavy door again, rattling it on its hinges. Luckily, Hayden was too lost in a walking daydream to note. Poor Amelie’s heart? What of poor Hayden’s? The boy was moonstruck by the girl.

 

Had Grey ever imagined he’d have to pilot his nephew through the first throes of love, he would never have brought him along. But who in his right mind would expect to arrive in the hinterlands of Scotland and find an attractive, vivacious girl who liked music-hall tunes and was au courant with the latest Parisian fashion? In other words, a pretty pitfall for a like-minded young man.
He pounded savagely on the door, this time winning a surprised look from Hayden. “I think the old duffer who acts as butler might be a little hard of hearing,” he explained with feigned composure. The door swung open, revealing Violet’s grubby little face.
“You back agin? Wot is it wid you showin’ up so blinkin’ early? Not that I’m unconscious of the service you done me. But still, it ain’t even nine o’clock.”
“What is she talking about?” Hayden asked.
“Who can say?” Grey answered, before turning to Violet. “Kindly inform Mrs. Walcott and Miss Chase that we are here.”
“Are you expected?” the girl asked suspiciously.
“No, but I am sure we will be welcome,” he said, impressed at how genial he sounded, “if you would only inform Mrs. Walcott of our presence.”
“No need to shout. I’ll see,” grumped the girl. “Wait out here.” The door slammed shut on them, leaving them waiting outside.

 

Grey continued to smile, inwardly seething.
Hayden’s arrival here must have proved an irresistible opportunity for Fanny. Amelie Chase was, if not precisely unweddable, an undesirable match. Her childhood had been fraught with peculiar incidents that had led to an unexpected departure from London amongst rumors of witchcraft. From there, she’d spent her entire adolescence in exile to a tiny, Gothic Scottish village. No. She was hardly the ideal wife for a baron.

 

She was lovely, yes, and heir to a respectable estate, but that couldn’t compensate for the rest. Not amongst the elite set where she might have done her husband-hunting. And none knew this better than Fanny, who’d experienced the vagaries and closing ranks of the upper class after her husband had absconded. But then Fate—with a nudge from Grey—had dumped a viable matrimonial candidate in Fanny’s lap (and he assumed it was her plan, because he simply could not picture Amelie Chase having the cunning necessary to devise an impromptu scheme).
Collier would never stand for it. Watching his father-in-law come apart under the influence of table rappers had left him with his own strong distaste for anything supernatural.

 

By now Amelie would have informed Fanny that she’d extracted a vow of love from Hayden. She would be celebrating. At least the young jackanapes hadn’t offered marriage.
“I swear, Uncle, I have never felt like this before. I am an entirely new man.”
“Ah, love!” Grey ground out. Luckily, he knew his nephew like he knew, well, himself. Any hint of disapproval and Hayden would be hell-bent on securing that which was denied him. So, after his initial involuntary outburst, Grey had been careful to project nothing but congeniality. He planned to convey something entirely different to Fanny Walcott.
“Have you ever been in love?”
God, deliver him. Was he to be reduced to trading girlish confidences with his nephew?
“I’m sorry—it’s none of my business,” Hayden apologized, exhibiting the sappy hypersensitivity people who supposed themselves to be “in love” often did.
“Not at all,” Grey said. “I was just trying to recollect.”
“Then you’ve never been in love,” Hayden pronounced with the sanctimonious certainty of the love-enlightened. “Because if you had been you would never need to pause to recollect.”
“Ah! How instructive. Thank you.”
The door swung open again, and Violet reappeared. “You kin come in. Follow me. The ladies is out on the terrace taking tea. I suppose you’ll be wanting some, too?”
“That would be lovely, Violet,” Hayden said, bestowing such a dazzling smile on the girl that her grim expression dissolved under its power.
Grey grasped his nephew by the elbow and marched him past the smitten maid.

 

He had no trouble navigating through the cluttered hall and rooms filled with what the other day he’d perceived to be nothing but toys and indulgences. Today he saw them as the attempts of an intelligent and inquisitive mind to reach out and connect to a world beyond her prison.
Grey frowned. What else would you call a place you could not leave? What must it be like for an intelligent, agile-minded individual to be stuck here, knowing the world was transforming daily with advancements and new discoveries and that she could not be part of it? He had to admire the efforts she had gone to in order to stimulate her charge’s mind and bring what she could of the world to Little Firkin.

 

Yes, fine. The woman was not entirely without merit, but that did not excuse her from attempting to ensnare Hayden for her charge.
They exited through a set of French doors that led onto a stone-lined terrace directly below a second-story balcony. Grey looked around. The terrace had been as carefully staged as any fakir’s parlor, and very prettily done, too. Flowering chestnut trees spilled their petals onto the flagstones, and urns teeming with sweet peas and carnations lined the edges of the terrace. A wrought-iron table situated at the edge of the terrace overlooked a meadow beyond, its lace tablecloth billowing gently in the mild air.

 

But the pièce de résistance of the pretty vignette was sitting gracefully upright on a small, wrought-iron chair in profile to him, calmly sipping tea from a china cup, her face shaded by the brim of the most enormous hat he had ever seen. The straw confection of pale ribbons and mounds of brilliantly colored silk flowers sat at a pert angle atop hair piled into the most glorious disarray of black curls he’d even seen. Adding to the remarkable and unexpected allure of the thing, a single fluttering ribbon swept down off of the broad brim, brushing her cheek.
A snug, figure-revealing sheath of white lace eyelet covered her from neck to toe. She was utterly feminine, lovely, ravishing.

 

His eyes narrowed and he mentally rubbed his hands. She’d donned battle gear.
En garde.
“What is that on your head? It looks like you ran amok in your greenhouse,” he said, striding forward.
She slowly turned toward him, lifting one dark, winged brow in his direction. “Ah, Lord Sheffield.”
Her gaze climbed his form with the negligible interest of the casual buyer. “Gracious as usual, I see,” she murmured softly. “This is a hat. It is au courant in Paris. Not that I would expect you to know that.”
“It”—he paused—“is strangely becoming.” He took a seat, crossing his legs. “Indeed, most captivating.”
Her eyes widened in confusion at his compliment. She wasn’t alone. That hadn’t been what he’d meant to say. From a nearby flowering tree birds began to warble, adding their melodic charm to the scene.
He recollected himself. He was not here to pay this woman compliments. “I expect you know why I am here?”
“To thank us for dinner the other night?” she asked sweetly. “I’m afraid I didn’t receive your note.”
He blinked, caught off guard.
“No?” she said. “Well, then as this is not a courtesy call, why
are
you here?”
“Look, Grey!” Hayden called. “Miss Chase has been painting a watercolor.”
Grey turned toward his voice. He’d all but forgotten about Hayden and Amelie. The pair was standing a short distance away, Amelie looking coy and Hayden holding up an indifferent study of a rabbit and a pink flower.
“Most delightful, Miss Chase,” Grey called back, and then, still smiling, muttered, “If you think you are going to manipulate my nephew into a situation where he has no choice—”
“You are truly becoming quite an artist, Amelie,” Fanny shouted sunnily, interrupting him. “I’ve never seen a prettier carnation.”
“It’s a
rose
. Like all the rest!”
“Ah, yes. I see it now. And speaking of which, darling, why don’t you show
dear
Lord Hayden the other pictures you painted? They’re on the table.”
Dutifully, the pair drifted off, Hayden’s head bent attentively over Amelie.
Fanny watched them with all the appearance of a fond doyenne—if one’s doyenne happened to be a ravishing beauty with flashing eyes and a figure that would tempt a saint—while the birds in the tree redoubled their singing efforts.
As soon as the couple was out of earshot, Fanny turned to him. “
Me
, manipulate
your
nephew into a situation?” she said. “
You
guaranteed
me
that your nephew would not act the cad! And here he’s making declarations of love to the girl!”
“Don’t pretend you aren’t pleased. You have been contriving from the moment we arrived for a match between your charge and my nephew.”
“Oh!” she huffed, her black eyes snapping. “I assure you I have no wish to see Amelie jeopardize her future for the sake of a pretty-boy layabout!”
He gaped at her. “Hayden is
not
a layabout.”
“Ha!” she countered. “Has he an occupation, a career? What has he done of merit or value for anyone other than himself?”
Damn the woman, she had a point. She made him feel as if he were applying for the queen’s blessing to a very questionable union, one she had no intention of bestowing. She should be the one trying to win points for her suit.

 

“He’s young yet,” he countered, for in truth, Hayden didn’t have a career or employment, or a vocation, or even an avocation—except for impeccable grooming—nor any desire to have any of the aforementioned, as far as Grey could tell. Still, Grey had hopes that in spite of his not needing to make a livelihood, Hayden would develop purpose and ambition as he matured. He was still young. Which would be a strong objection to Hayden’s wedding to this or any other girl.
Hayden wasn’t ready to take a wife. Why, in Grey’s opinion he himself was barely of an age to consider matrimony. Not that he was considering it. He might end up married to a termagant like Fanny. And what would that be like? To see the battle lights gleaming in the seemingly cool depths of her eyes? Each night to stoke an altogether different fire. . . .

 

The woman had him at sixes and sevens. He turned away to collect his thoughts and saw a pair of rabbits frolicking on the spring meadow beyond, a calming sight. They were obviously a fond pair, close enough to—
Damnation.
Why, the rabbits were copulating like . . . like rabbits.
He looked away.
Bloody hell.
Under the chestnut tree, another pair of the beasts was having at it. Wherever he looked was he fated to be reminded of his celibate state?

 

“How long will it last, do you suppose?” Fanny asked.
Grey’s head snapped around. “Excuse me?”
“I asked how long Lord Hayden intends to use youth as an excuse for idleness.” She looked him over. “Apparently one can do so for quite some time.”
He was awed by her nerve. No one of his acquaintance had ever dared to question his value, either materially or socially. He wasn’t applying for some position. He didn’t owe her one word of explanation. “Madam, as you well know, I have an occupation.”
“Oh, yes. I recall. You annoy ghosts. No, that’s not exactly right. You annoy people who annoy ghosts. How could I forget, when the world is so much safer for your efforts? Indeed, your very name must be anathema to the criminal underground.”
Again, she dumbfounded him. She was mocking him, suggesting his avocation was petty and unimportant.
“Has anyone ever told you that you are the most sarcastic woman they have ever met? No. Wait. Don’t answer that. I already know the answer,” he said. “No. But that would be only because you haven’t
met
anyone in what? Six? Seven years? At least, no one who’d dare stand up to you. You’ve gotten too comfortable playing lady of the manor. It’s made you feel important. It’s given you airs.”

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