Stroke of Genius (34 page)

Dorset paled, but didn’t twitch an eyelash.

“It has come to my attention, never mind how, that you, my lord, are impotent,” Washburn said with barely contained glee. “Through a profane arrangement with Hawke here, you intend to use my cousin Grace to place an ill-gotten whelp in line to succeed you. Let me assure you, sir, it will never happen.”

Evidently Lord Dorset wasn’t the only one who knew everything that happened at
Clairmont
. 

Hawke decided blood—even wrong-side-of-the blanket blood—was thicker than water. He forced out a laugh and slapped Washburn on the back as if he’d told a ripe joke. “That’s rich! Someone’s been pulling your leg. Where did you hear such a load of codswallop?”

“I assure you, my source is impeccable.” Washburn folded his arms across his chest.

“No doubt some lady who’s been scheming to get her hooks into his lordship herself,” Hawk said. “Leaving aside the fact that I’m certain Miss Makepeace would never be party to such a plan, your information about his lordship is wrong. Ordinarily, I’d never betray a confidence, but my dear friend Olympia Sharp let slip that she’d been visited by the marquess on numerous occasions when he was last in London.”

At the mention of the notorious courtesan’s name both men’s ears pricked.

“A gentleman doesn’t speak of such things, Hawke,” the marquess reproved gently, but Crispin saw gratitude in his eyes.

“Forgive me, my lord. If I may say so, Olympia was frankly agog at your lordship’s considerable carnal prowess—her words, mind you.” Crispin knew Olympia wouldn’t care if he put a few well-chosen words into her generous mouth. The marquis’s shoulders relaxed slightly. Crispin turned back to Washburn. “I greatly fear your ‘source’ is mistaken.”

“She’s not mistaken about you though, Hawke,” Washburn said, revealing his source’s gender, probably without intending to. “You’ve been so careful to cultivate an air of mystery surrounding your background, but the truth is you are the son of a trollop. A common Cheapside whore.”

“If it were true, and I’m not saying it isn’t, wouldn’t that just render my genius all the more brilliant?” Hawke bared his teeth at Washburn in a fierce parody of a smile.

“And you would yoke my dear sweet cousin with you, an upstart from the gutter?” Washburn demanded.

“Who said I was yoking anyone?”

“Oh, that’s right. You’d rather just rut her and let a decent man take your leavings.”

The smile faded from Crispin’s face and he stepped toward the baron. “Have a care with your cousin’s reputation. I might have to call you out.”

Washburn curled his lip. “A gentleman only grants satisfaction to another gentleman. As if I’d deign to respond to the braying of a whore’s spawn.”

“Very well,” Crispin said, his tone soft, but full of silky menace. “If you persist in maligning Grace, perhaps I’ll settle matters the way we whore’s spawn do in Cheapside. With a knife to your ribs.”

Clearly flustered, Washburn appealed to Dorset. “Did you hear that? The man threatened me.”

“If he hadn’t, I’d have been forced to demand satisfaction myself for your scurrilous slurs on Miss Makepeace.” Lord Dorset rose with the full majesty of the marquessate heavy upon him. “You will do nothing to sully the reputation of a guest—any guest—in my home. Do I make myself clear, sir?”

“I had hoped I could persuade the two of you to step aside for the sake of decency, but that was my mistake,” Washburn said. “Decency hasn’t had anything to do with the house of Dorset for generations.”

“Then it will not trouble you to be asked to leave it,” Dorset said.

“Willingly, my lord, but I wouldn’t want a whiff of scandal my departure would cause to dampen your house party,” Washburn said. “Unless, of course, I convince Miss Makepeace to come with me. As my fiancée.”

The baron turned on his heel and stomped out.

“When she refuses him, he’ll spread those tales about Grace,” Crispin said, rage coloring his vision as he glared after Washburn. “Is it wise to allow him to stay?”

“I can keep an eye on him while he’s in this house.”

“I meant on Earth. Some people outlive their breathing privileges, you know.”

“Don’t be hasty.” Dorset rose and came around the desk. “If I hadn’t rushed matters this afternoon, if I had been more circumspect, none of this would have happened.” He studied the thick Persian rug beneath his feet for a moment. “Your lie about a liaison with Olympia Sharp saved my dignity. I thank you for . . . acting a brother’s part.”

Hawke shrugged and the murderous rage he felt for Grace’s cousin dissipated a bit. “It seemed the best way to irritate Washburn at the time.”

“Unfortunately, all Washburn has to do is question Miss Sharp to find me out.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Crispin said. “I can explain things to Olympia and she’ll be only too happy to fall in with my tale. But she does love to brag about her lovers, so don’t be surprised if you catch all the ladies of the
ton
gossiping about your gifts behind their fans.”

Lord Dorset’s mouth twitched.

“Olympia’s a compassionate and clever woman,” Crispin said. “If there is a way for you to regain . . . well, she has a good deal of practical knowledge. It would not be a mistake to spend some time with her.”  

“If I’m betrothed, I can’t very well spend time with a courtesan, can I?” Dorset said. “And I do intend to propose to Miss Makepeace this night. Once she is my marchioness, she’ll be untouchable. It’s the best way to shield her from Washburn’s gossip.” His lips tightened. “It grieves me that I threatened to do the same thing. I must have been mad.”

“Then you won’t mind if Grace elopes to Gretna Green with me,” Hawke said. “There’ll be a bit of talk, but it will all blow over once society believes we’ve done the right thing.” He chuckled. “In fact, it’s just the sort of romantic nonsense the
ton
likes to believe of its artists.”

“Perhaps we should let Grace decide.” The marquess extended his hand. “May the better man win.”

“I’ll shake your hand,” Crispin said, matching his actions to his words. “But, I cannot second your wish. You see, I know who the better man is. And my only hope is that Grace chooses me anyway.” 

Chapter 36

Pygmalion began to feel optimistic about his chances, but he should have remembered we all carry the seeds of our own downfall within us.

Jasper Washburn stood at the threshold of the ballroom, his gaze scanning the crowd. The sooner he found his American cousin and pinned down her acceptance of his offer, the better.

“My lord, there you are.” Lady Sheppleton skittered toward him, abruptly leaving Lady Longbotham, whom she’d cornered near the punchbowl. The lady looked relieved to be abandoned. “I have news.”

“More news? This is indeed a banner day.”

“Quite. We need to speak privily.”

She pulled him to one side, approaching the long row of curtained alcoves that lined one side of the ballroom. He set his feet determinedly before she could drag him into one. The spaces were intended as trysting spots for lovers to snatch a kiss or two, something no man wouldn’t entertain with Lady Sheppleton unless he was mad as King George.

“This will suffice,” he said. “What is your news?”

“As you know, my agent discovered a wealth of information about Mr. Hawke through a liaison with one of his upstairs maids. Now that Mr. Hawke is not in residence in London, my investigator was able to gain entrance to his home and found something truly astounding.” She stood tiptoe and whispered the salacious details into his ear.

“You’re sure?”

“It arrived today in the boot of Lord Smelton’s carriage.”

“And you’ve seen it?”

“Of course. I had to make certain of the facts.” A sly glint made her eyes bright. “It’s most scandalous, I assure you. Guaranteed ruin. What would you like me to do with it?”

Jasper ran his tongue over his teeth. Gossip always made his mouth water. Gossip with unequivocal evidence was positively delicious. This little morsel would give him the upper hand in dictating a monstrously generous dowry.

“It depends on my American cousin. Wait till the end of the evening. Then if I give you the word, I want you to present it to Lord Dorset with your compliments. It would be best to leave my name out of matters.”

“And if I do this for you, do I have your word that your sister Mary will accept dear Manfred?”

“You do indeed.” Jasper cleared his throat.
God forgive me, for Mary never will.
He spotted Grace across the long room dipping a final curtsey to her dance partner. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to have a word with my future bride.”

* * *

“Good evening, Grace,” Cousin Jasper said. “You’re looking especially lovely this evening.”

“Thank you.” She fought to keep her attention on the man before her but her gaze kept flitting about like a drunken butterfly, searching the room for Crispin. What could be keeping him?

“That last dance was quite an energetic reel,” Cousin Jasper said, bowing over her hand. Perhaps you’d like to sit for a bit?”

The suggestion was surprisingly thoughtful. She’d been afraid Lord Washburn would press her for a dance. Grace took his arm and he walked her toward the outer wall of the ballroom. But instead of depositing her on a chair along the brocaded wall, he led her into one of the curtained alcoves. Once the heavy velvet dropped behind them, the strains of music were muffled and even the furious buzz of multiple conversations was reduced to a low hum. Moonlight silvered the padded window seat in the small space.

“Really, my lord, I’d be more comfortable on one of the chairs.”

“In good time,” Jasper said. “I have a matter of some importance to discuss with you first.”

Her belly fluttered as she sank onto the tufted cushions. Surely he wasn’t about to—

Her distant cousin dropped to one knee before her and took one of her hands. She was too flummoxed to protest. In practiced tones, he recited his admiration for her, his belief that they were well-suited and finished with, “And of course, your parents will be delighted that you’ll be known after our nuptials as Lady Washburn.”

“Lord Wa—”

“Jasper,” he corrected as he pressed kiss on her hand.

She pulled it out of his grasp. “Jasper, mutual admiration is all well and good.” In truth, she found little to admire in her English cousin, but she decided it would be politic to toss him a bone. “But we’ve hardly spoken more than half a dozen sentences to each other. How can you possibly know we’re well suited?”

“How does the sparrow know how to fly?” he said grandly.

“With a good deal of trial and error, I believe,” Grace said. “I have no wish to merely hope for success on an enterprise as important as marriage.”

“Spoken like the practical girl you are. I should have known romantic gestures are lost on Bostonians.” Jasper rose from his kneeling position to sit beside her. “Very well, let us speak plainly. I have need of a baroness to serve as my hostess. And of course, one must be mindful that with privilege comes responsibility. I must produce an heir for
Burnside
one day.”

Grace swallowed hard. The heart-stoppingly intimate things she and Crispin had done together sizzled through her. The thought of doing them with Cousin Jasper instead made her want to retch.

“And there has never been any doubt that you want a title,” he went on as if Grace weren’t about to be sick beside him. “Let us each help each other.”

“Since you’ve made no mention of it, I assume my dowry isn’t important to you,” she said archly.

“There’s no need for you to concern your head with such things.” A practiced oily smile tugged at his lips. “That’s a matter for your father and I to discuss once he’s been apprised of all pertinent facts.”

“Such as?”

He shook his head. “No, Grace. Some things are best left to the men to sort out.”

“I do not require ‘sorting out,’” she said stonily.

“How you’ve missed the point! All I meant was you need not trouble yourself with anything but fittings for your trousseau. I will take care of the arrangements.”

“No.”

“Well, if you want to be involved in procuring the license and posting the banns, I suppose you—”

“No,” she repeated. “My answer is no, cousin. I will not marry you.”

“I would advise you to reconsider.” His voice had a sharp edge she’d never heard from him before.

“There is no need,” she said firmly. “I do not love you. You do not love me. It would be foolish in the extreme for us to marry.”

“Love has very little to do with such a decision,” he informed her.

“Perhaps for you.” She rose preparing to leave. “You’re right about Bostonians waving off romantic gestures, but we are practical enough to know love is essential. I thank you for the offer, but I will not accept it.”

He grasped her wrist as she started to leave, his grip so tight it was painful. “You will regret this, Grace.”

“You’ve just given me reason not to. Now release my arm or I will scream loudly enough to be heard in the next shire,” she promised, willing her voice to remain steady while her heart thumped wildly. “Wouldn’t that give the men something to ‘sort out?’”