The Dangerous Lord (6 page)

“Who did she run off with?” Ian asked.

Sir Richard snatched the glass of brandy from his wife, then downed it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Our steward, Mr. Gerard.”

Their steward. Katherine had eloped with a man she must have known for some time. He suddenly had the uncom
fortable feeling he'd been duped. “Was there a prior attachment between Katherine and your steward, sir?”

“Yes,” Sir Richard said at the same time his wife cried, “No!”

“Which is it?” he asked in a frigid tone.

Sir Richard scowled at his wife. “Why don't you tell him, my dear? I don't think you'd like what I have to say on the subject.”

She glared at him, then faced Ian with a rustle of muslin skirts. “You see, Lord St. Clair, my daughter began fancying herself in love with Mr. Gerard years ago.” She cast her husband an arch glance. “I warned my husband that he should dismiss the man, but he thought nothing would come of it. ‘It's a girlish infatuation,' he used to say. ‘She'll ne'er act upon it. And I shan't lose a good steward for such an idiotic reason.'”

Under other circumstances, Ian might have been amused by Lady Hastings' uncanny ability to mimic her husband. Just now, he wasn't. “Go on.”

“Richard thought she'd grow out of it. She didn't. Then last year, the man had the audacity to ask for her hand. He was declined, of course. Clearly, he lacked the necessary prerequisites of birth and fortune.”

“Necessary to
you
,” her husband added.

She sniffed. “Don't quibble with me, Richard. You know I was right to insist on that. And you should have dismissed the man as soon as he made his feelings known.”

Her husband leaned back against the sideboard. “I thought him an honorable man. Besides, I feared that dismissing him would merely tempt him to run off with the silly girl, and if I kept him on he wouldn't risk his position. They both seemed to accept the situation.” He glanced apologetically at Ian. “When you came along and she acquiesced to your attentions I thought she'd forgotten her girlish fancy.” His attention turned briefly to his wife. “I didn't know she wasn't pleased with your courtship.”

Ian didn't have to ask what the man meant. Apparently, he'd underestimated her fear of him.

His wife waved her hand as if to erase her husband's words. “My husband doesn't know what he's talking about. Katherine was perfectly pleased with you until…”

She paused, and Ian felt a stab of unease. He could see where this was leading.

“Until that wretched article was printed in the newspaper,” she continued, two spots of color darkening her powdered cheeks. “I know young men must have their fun, but really, Lord St. Clair, couldn't you be more discreet? The moment Mr. Gerard read that column, he rushed in here, protesting that we were marrying ‘his angel' off to a profligate bounder who couldn't appreciate her.”

Ian groaned. He'd known that article would bring him nothing but trouble. Damn that scribbling witch, Miss Taylor!

Lady Hastings sighed. “Of course, I told him to mind his place, and Richard—much too late, in my opinion—gave him his notice. But it was futile. My sweet, dutiful girl was impressed by his gallantry. She ran off with him the next day.”

Ian stared at her agape. “That long ago? And you didn't tell me? Didn't even have the courtesy to notify me? The briefest note—‘Dear Lord St. Clair, our daughter has run off with the steward, so sorry for all your trouble'—would have sufficed!”

Lady Hastings bristled and opened her mouth as if to give him a proper setdown.

Her husband hastened to intervene. “You've every right to be angry, St. Clair. I wanted to tell you at once, but Agnes hoped my man of affairs might recover Katherine before the runaways reached Scotland. I've no hope now. My man sent word that he lost them. I fear my daughter and Mr. Gerard will be married before we see them again.”

A chilly silence ensued, punctuated only by the crackling
fire and the muted clopping of horses in the street outside. Ian spoke first. “Then I suppose that's that.”

“Yes. Thank you for being so understanding about this.”

Ian nodded. It began to dawn on him he was free of the insipid Katherine. Part of him hated having his plans destroyed, but another part rejoiced in his escape.

“I'm afraid we won't be going to the Worthings as planned,” Sir Richard added. “If you'd give them our apologies—”

“Of course.” He paused, then said with complete sincerity, “I wish you all the best with your new son-in-law. I'll trouble you no further concerning your daughter.” That was another advantage to this disaster—he needn't endure Lady Hastings's fawning anymore.

He pivoted toward the door, but Lady Hastings cried out, “Wait! Suppose Richard is wrong, and she
is
recovered, chaste and unharmed. Perhaps then—”

“Lady Hastings,” he interrupted as he faced her, “I don't want a wife who's in love with another man, no matter how chaste her body.”

The two spots of color returned to her cheeks. “Yet
you
felt free to come to the marriage with the smell of your strumpet clinging to you.”

“Agnes!” her husband exclaimed in shock.

Ian narrowed his gaze on the impudent woman. “If I were you, Lady Hastings, I'd beware of believing everything Lord X writes, especially under the circumstances. The Spanish have a saying—‘Whoever gossips to you will gossip about you.' And Lord X is clearly no respecter of persons.”

Then without another word, he left.

F
elicity glanced up as Mrs. Box entered the bedroom, her hair white as a dollop of cream above her rosy face. The housekeeper had a painting tucked under one arm and a freshly washed petticoat draped over the other.

“Thank goodness it's dry,” Felicity exclaimed, reaching for the petticoat.

“Lord in heaven, you're not even finished packin'!” Setting down the painting, Mrs. Box cast a worried look at the half-filled trunk at the foot of Felicity's bed. “You should've been gone already! You should've gone last night. It'll look bad, you arrivin' at the Worthin' estate a day late for this visit.”

“Not as bad as trudging through snow at midnight would've looked.” Felicity stuffed the petticoat into the trunk. Could she manage with only two? Well, she must,
mustn't she? Just as she must continue to spend hard-earned money on attractive gowns and paste jewels. The ladies of the
ton
wouldn't invite her to their affairs if she weren't “Algernon's charming daughter” and instead became “that poor bankrupt Miss Taylor.” Then how would she get material for her articles?

But being late to a country-house visit wouldn't enhance her reputation either. Remembering
who
had made her late roused her temper. “If you must blame someone, blame that dreadful Lord St. Clair. Thanks to him, I had to sneak my article into the
Gazette
offices last night. By the time I arrived home, the snow was blowing so thick, I dared not travel, especially alone in the darkness. I swear, if I ever see that man again—”

“Be careful, luv. His lordship might be visitin' at the Worthins, too.”

Felicity gazed up at the heavens. “Please, God, don't, under any circumstances, send that arrogant man to the Worthings, or I can't be responsible for my actions.”

Mrs. Box ignored Felicity's appeal to the Deity. “I still can't believe it—the Viscount St. Clair himself pretendin' to be from the
Gazette
. And you, givin' a viscount a scoldin'! That weren't too wise, you know.”

“Wisdom be damned,” Felicity exclaimed. “I wouldn't care if he were a dratted duke! That man
deserved
a scolding. Why he was the most overbearing, deceptive, son of a—”

“And that's another thing. You ought to watch your language, luv. Picked up too many bad habits from your father, if you ask me. Those ladies at the country house won't tell you much if you're talkin' like a workman.” The servant cast her a considering glance. “Besides, I liked the viscount. He cut quite a figure. Tall, and those muscles…Lord have mercy on my soul, it made me wish I was young again. He weren't at all like the gents your father was wont to bring
home. That were no pretty boy. But even with that swarthy skin, he looked appealin'.”

“Appealing!” Felicity exclaimed, trying to forget that she too had found his rough looks and dark air disturbingly appealing. “If your taste runs to arrogant bullies, I suppose he's appealing. He thought he could best me because I'm a woman. Well, I set him straight. He won't bother
me
again.”

“A pity that. Wouldn't hurt you none to marry a viscount.”

“Stop that! You know quite well he'd never marry my kind. And even if he would, am I to latch on to any reasonably attractive gentleman who walks through the door? He keeps a mistress, for pity's sake! I could never keep silent about
that!
”

“Don't s'pose you could, bein' a forthright lass and all. Still…is he rich?”

“I'm sure he is, or he couldn't afford a mistress.” She spotted the speculative look in her servant's eyes, and added stubbornly, “I don't care if he has a dratted fortune. His character is deficient.”

Mrs. Box folded a frilly lace dressing gown and added it to the trunk. Felicity took it out. As if she'd be receiving anybody in her room at the Worthings!

Tightening her lips, Mrs. Box shoved the dressing gown back in the trunk beneath the other clothes. “A fortune can make up for a great many deficiencies in a man's character, 'specially when his face and form ain't in the least deficient. If you ask me—”

“I didn't,” she snapped, though she gave up on fighting Mrs. Box over the dressing gown. The woman would simply sneak it in again once her back was turned.

“I'm merely pointin' out that we'll soon have to sell the silver, if only to keep the boys in breeches. And speakin' of that, we oughta sell this.” The housekeeper held up the painting she'd brought in earlier.

“No,” Felicity said, as soon as she saw what it was. “Not that one.”

“It'll bring a pretty penny,” Mrs. Box coaxed.

It probably would, even though the artist wasn't of any consequence. Still, she couldn't bear to part with it. The oil painting had been Papa's favorite. It depicted a sultan and his harem in rich, dark reds and golds. Papa had claimed to like it for the colors and the lines, but she suspected he'd mostly liked the scantily clad women.

Nonetheless, it was her secret favorite as well. She hated to admit to such wickedness, but she mostly liked the scantily clad
sultan
. He was so different from Englishmen, swarthy and handsome and proud…

Good Lord
, she thought with a groan.
He's the very picture of Lord St. Clair
. No wonder she'd found the viscount so fascinating yesterday. Perhaps she
should
sell it.

“I'll think about it,” she said.

“You'd better do more'n that. You scarcely have enough ready change this week to pay the vails at the Worthins.”

Felicity gritted her teeth. “I'm not paying the vails.” When Mrs. Box's face mirrored both horror and disapproval, Felicity added, “I'll never return there, so what do I care if the servants think ill of me when I leave without giving them a farthing?”

The woman gave an exasperated sigh. “Child, you can't go on this way. If you'd just set your cap for some young chap at the Worthin's—”

“‘Find a nice gentleman to marry'—that's your only solution. I've tried, you know. But no acceptable man marries a penniless woman with four brothers to raise, and the unacceptable ones are…well…unacceptable.”

“You mean unacceptable by your grand standards,” Mrs. Box said with a sniff.

“And whose standards should I use?
I'd
be the one living with the wretch and sharing his bed—not you or the boys.” If she could find someone to love, perhaps…But no, men
didn't marry women like her for love. They married blazing beauties or delicate flowers or fine-boned china dolls. Not sharp-tongued spinsters.

Not that she wanted to marry, she told herself testily. No indeed. “There are only so many things I'll sacrifice for my family, and my happiness isn't one of them. As long as Mr. Pilkington pays me regularly and doesn't quibble about what I write, I shall continue to produce my column and earn what I can from it.”

“A pittance. It barely staves off your father's creditors. They're startin' to doubt me when I lie about your father leavin' you an inheritance. How long can I keep them believin' that your inheritance is slow in comin' to you legal-like?”

Mrs. Box had come up with the useful lie about the “inheritance” after they'd first discovered that she and the boys actually had an inheritance of one hundred pounds per annum, an old carriage, and a mountain of debt. Of course, James had inherited the house, which was entailed upon
his
heir, if he ever had one, and the house was mortgaged to the hilt. So far Mrs. Box's lie had kept their creditors at bay, but how much longer could that work? Yet if her choice were to marry for money…

“Once those nasty wretches get wind of how lackin' in funds you really are,” Mrs. Box went on, “you know they'll swarm over this place like flies, forcin' you into bankruptcy. Your brother will lose the house that your poor father designed himself.”

Tired of the old argument, Felicity slammed the trunk shut. “If that happens, the boys and I shall join the circus.”

“Be serious, luv. You must start plannin' for the future.”

What future? She had none. They both knew it, though she wasn't ready to face it yet. “I tell you what,” she said lightly. “Rumor has it that Lord Worthing used to be a pirate. While I'm at his estate, I'll ask him to put in a good word for us with his fellow miscreants. The boys would
make good pirates, don't you think? Swaggering about with sabers in their belts and climbing the rigging…”

“Lord have mercy, the navy would surely stand up and take notice of that.” Mrs. Box crossed her arms over her ample chest. “What you ought to ask Lord Worthin' is if one of his friends needs a wife.”

“You mean his pirate friends?” When Mrs. Box glowered at her, Felicity added impishly, “I shouldn't mind marrying a pirate, you know. As long as he bathed regularly and kept his wooden leg well polished. Or perhaps I could find one with an eye patch—”

“Enough of your nonsense,” Mrs. Box grumbled. “All I'm sayin' is, if Lord Worthin' and his wife like you well enough to invite you to their estate—”

“They only invited me because Papa designed their house, and they want me to see it now that it's finished.” The invitation had taken her by surprise, for she barely knew Lady Worthing and knew nothing of the woman's husband except rumor.

“I still say you ought to make the most of it.”

“Oh, I will, don't worry, especially at tonight's ball. I'm sure to hear enough gossip for a scandal bouquet. Only wait until I write my
next
column—”

“You and your scandal-broths and gossip—as if that'll take care of you in your old age.” Mrs. Box clucked noisily, then picked up the painting and went to the door. “Very well, don't heed the one who's looked after you since you were born. But don't come cryin' to me when the money's gone.” With a sniff, she swung the door open. “I'll have Joseph fetch the trunk. The coach—the
hired
coach—is waitin' for you in front.”

The housekeeper waltzed out with her nose in the air, mumbling, “Lord preserve me, I never thought to see the day when the Taylors couldn't even keep a carriage.”

Felicity made a face at the doorway. Mrs. Box certainly knew how to rub it in. But at least the dear woman had
stayed on, despite her dwindling salary. Only four servants remained—Mrs. Box, Joseph, one housemaid, and Cook. All of Papa's beloved paintings had been sold, as well as his architecture books and drafting instruments. Even Mama's jewels were gone, except for the paste ones Felicity used for social occasions.

And still they lacked money. The boys ate as heartily as laborers, and she had to keep up appearances. She'd made every sacrifice she could think of. They dipped their own tallow candles and made their own soap, ate chicken instead of beef, burned fires only when necessary, and rationed the tea. They had no relatives to help them, and she couldn't take a position as a governess with the boys to raise. She'd considered teaching, but it paid more abysmally than writing. Besides, most schools would require her to live on the grounds, and then what would she do with the boys?

So she spent her days writing columns, prowling the rooms for more items to sell, and praying she could keep the creditors from devouring them until the boys were old enough to help support the family. Mr. Pilkington sometimes hinted he'd publish a book of hers if she could find a subject controversial enough for her to sharpen her tongue against, but so far he'd rejected all her suggestions for such a work.

Joseph came for the trunk, and she trailed down the stairs after him. The last time she'd left for a visit of this sort, she'd gone with Papa. He'd been invited to the Duke of Dorchester's to give an opinion on restoring the west wing of the ducal mansion. She'd gone along to take notes, as she'd done since she was eleven.

During the visit to the duke's estate, however, she'd discovered a certain aptitude for speaking her mind in such a way that people listened. Sometimes they berated her for her colorful opinions, but they did listen and even found her witty. It had been an amusement then, no more. Now
it was the only thing garnering her an income. Pray God she never lost her knack for it.

She repeated that prayer an hour later after a thousand admonishments to Mrs. Box about the boys and after running the gauntlet of their tearful good-byes and sloppy kisses.

She repeated it again three hours later, as the carriage crunched up the snowy drive of the Worthing estate. She wished she knew what to expect of this visit. Lady Worthing seemed nice, but who could tell with these countesses? They often made her feel like a pigeon among peacocks, even when she reminded herself she was smarter and wittier than any of them.

It wasn't her hostess who concerned her most, however. It was the host—the rumored pirate. She almost hoped the rumor
weren't
true, for a former pirate was sure to be another of those men with groping hands, like Papa's patrons. But before Papa's death, he'd said that the Worthings spent most of their time on an island or at sea, which one would expect of a pirate. Papa had considered their long absences a blessing, since it meant they didn't trouble him during his work. Indeed, they'd been away when he'd taken his fatal dunking in the Thames.