The Diamond Key (16 page)

“Come, Aunt Ann. We can leave. I have seen enough bad acting for one night.”

“I cannot marry that man, Papa.”

Lord Duchamp put down his newspaper and his pipe and sighed. “Of course not, my love. Ah, which man is that, that you will not wed this week? I only ask, you know, in case he seeks my permission first. Much less awkward for the poor chap.”

“It is Viscount Ingall, of course. The man we have been discussing all week.”

“Ah, that gentleman. I thought he had withdrawn himself from the lists of contenders. Was I wrong?”

Torrie brushed his query aside as if the viscount’s wishes were of no account. “His name was at the top of the roster. Now it is not.”

“Too bad. I quite liked the fellow. I thought you were determined to have him, too. Saved your life and all that.” He went back to reading his paper.

“I am, of course, grateful for what he did, but Mama was right.”

“She usually is,” the earl murmured, only half listening. “Ah, what was she correct about this time?”

“That one should not select a husband by the turn of a card.”

Lord Duchamp put the paper down again. “Of course your mother was right. Only a peagoose would gamble on picking a winner out of a deck of pasteboards. You are speaking of a husband, not a magic trick.”

“I know, Papa, and I swear I would not simply choose a name out of a hat. But Mama meant I should not put my trust in luck to find the perfect husband. That I had to get to know the man, to determine his character, to build an understanding, a foundation for a lasting, loving relationship.”

“Wise woman, your mother. Except when she gets a bee in her bonnet about taking off for York in the middle of the Season. I have to admit I was hoping you’d settled on Ingall and we could go home as soon as you brought him up to scratch.”

“I know, Papa, but Lord Ingall simply will not suit. His moral fiber does not bear scrutiny.”

“You haven’t been listening to six-year-old gossip, have you? I told you, everything about that duel is better forgotten.”

It would have been better if the viscount had forgotten it, too, and the women he fought it over. He had not, and Torrie could not. “No, Papa, I am not speaking of his past conduct, but of his current liaisons.”

“What, listening to the rumor mills? You know how the chaw-bacons like to shred a man’s character just for the fun of it, especially a well setup, manly chap.”

“This is not idle rumor. I saw the man myself with three different women, in various states of shocking public behavior.”

“Three, by George? Not at once, I hope. I mean, are you certain you saw three?”

“I am positive. One in the park, one at the dressmaker’s, and one at the theater. Who knows how many other women he fondles.” Torrie was outraged anew that he had added her name to a long list. She was outraged, dismayed, and so disappointed she could cry—and had all night. Her hero was a hedonist, not husband material. He might be damned to hell, but so was she, for caring.

“Fondles, eh? In public?”

She nodded. “I saw them with my own eyes, women from all walks of life. Who knows what he promises them, wardrobes from Madame Michaela or wedding bells? I would not take his word for tuppence.”

“By Zeus, you cannot marry the libertine, Torrie. I refuse to give my permission and that is final. I never did hold much stock in sacred vows and that fustian.”

Torrie swallowed past a lump in her throat, knowing she was letting both of them down. “Of course you did, Papa. You always taught me that the definition of an honorable man was one whose word could be trusted.”

Now her father appeared uncomfortable. He straightened the already neat edges of his newspaper. “Yes, but I was speaking of bargains between gentlemen, deals signed with handshakes and all that.”

“Is a woman less dishonorable for breaking her promises?”

Lord Duchamp had no answer, so he asked one back: “But you never promised Ingall that you would marry him, did you?”

Torrie had sworn to marry the man who saved her, but she had not made that vow to Wynn, just a request. Which he had refused, thank goodness. “No, and I doubt his lordship would be trying to sue for breach of promise anyway.” He seemed to have no interest in marrying at all, unless he could have a harem.

“That’s all right and tight, then.”

“No, it is not, Papa. I said I would marry and I shall. I am determined on keeping that much of my oath, of my honor. The bridegroom will be different, that is all. I shall go to Mrs. Reese’s ball, where every eligible gentleman of the
ton
will be gathered, and I will select one there. I know them all, their bad habits and their bank accounts, so it will not be a matter of buying a pig in a poke.”

“But you have turned them all down in the past.”

“I am no longer so particular. I foolishly used to expect the ground to tremble when the man of my dreams approached. Now I realize I was waiting for an earthquake, not a living, breathing husband. Do not worry, Papa, I shall pick one whom we both can respect, and hope that love will follow.”

“Are you certain, poppet? I would not wish you to choose a man just so we can join your mother that much sooner.”

“I am certain. Aside from my vow, it is long past time I wed and began a life of my own, a nursery of my own.” Whose inhabitants would not have moss-green eyes, to her sorrow. She touched the diamond key at her neck, then lowered her hand quickly.

“Pray for sons, poppet. They won’t make you old before your time the way you are doing to me.”

“What fustian. You are still in your prime. Why, I will wager that all the ladies at Mrs. Reese’s ball will be lined up for a dance with you, what with Mama not there.”

“Mrs. Reese’s ball?” His mouth dropped open.

“Of course. Since I am not going to marry Lord Ingall, I do not wish his escort. You will have to go with me.”

“Me? Devil a bit. You can take Henry and five other footmen.”

“But you must be handy to give your blessings and announce the betrothal so it is official.” And so Torrie could not back out after making her selection, but she did not say that.

Lord Duchamp put his head in his hands, muttering something else about daughters, serpent’s teeth, and plagues. Torrie did not see what he had to complain of. After all, she was going to be the one having to pick a man who was less heroic than Lord Ingall. Less of a self-assured, self-made man than Lord Ingall. Less exciting and entrancing than Lord Ingall. Worst of all, after she picked him, she was going to have to marry the man who was anyone except Lord Ingall.

* * * *

“I regret, my lord,” the Keyes butler intoned, “that the ladies are not at home.” Wynn knew they were in. He still had Barrogi and the new man watching the house. He fished a coin from his pocket. “Mallen, is it? I do believe we have danced this measure before.”

Mallen looked at the coin, and at the openhanded, genuinely gentlemanly gentleman, and shook his silvered head with regret.

“What, is Lady Torrie not feeling well? Occupied with a suitor? Still at her bath?” Wynn would wait. Now that he decided to call, he was not leaving until he had said his piece.

The poor, loyal butler could only shake his head again. He had his orders.

“I... understand.” It was Wynn she was not home to.

Homer did not understand. He darted between Mallen’s legs and down the hall, barking outside the morning room until the door opened.

Torrie looked out. “Oh, Lord Ingall. I was just penning you a letter.”

“You may save yourself the effort. I am here, as you can see.”

She saw the last person on earth she wished to, despite her best efforts to keep him out of her house and her thoughts. Mallen was nodding approvingly. Torrie wished him to perdition, along with all old, interfering family retainers who thought they knew better than their employers. “I suppose you had ought to come in, then, my lord.”

This was not precisely the welcome Wynn had envisioned when he planned this morning call, but he followed Homer into the room.

“I shall bring tea,” Mallen said before departing. He left the door slightly open behind him, as was proper, if not up to the letter of punctilio, with the aunt not present.

Torrie was looking like a bouquet in sprigged muslin, Wynn thought as he took the chair she indicated, across from a small writing table. All sunshine and flowers, she even smelled like spring. She stoppered the bottle of ink, straightened the sheets of paper, bent to pet the dog, then fiddled with the gold and diamond charm at her neck. Why, she was as nervous as he was, Wynn realized, trying to drag his eyes from where the charm lay against her creamy skin. How could she be, when she did not know why he had come?

“Lady Torrie—” he began at the same time she said, “Lord Ingall, I—

“You go first.”

“No, you.”

“Very well.” Wynn cleared his throat. “I, ah, I have come for three reasons. The first is to explain about last night, since you left before I could make you known to Miss Herman.”

“No explanation is necessary, my lord. Whatever you choose to do in the halls of the theater is your concern, not mine.”

There, Wynn told himself, she did trust him! Excellent. “My second reason for calling is to ask what time to fetch you and your aunt for Mrs. Reese’s ball.”

Torrie firmed her spine. If she straightened any more, she would break. “My lord, as I was trying to convey in my letter, I would not attend a funeral with you, unless it was yours, much less a ball. I never wish to see such a disreputable, dishonorable dastard again. Nor would Mrs. Reese, if she knew your true colors. Now, what was your third reason for calling, before you leave?”

“To ask you to marry me.”

“What?” she nearly screamed, catching herself in time just as Mallen entered the room with a heavy tray. She silently made space on the table and rearranged the plates and cups until the old man left. Then it was not tea she poured out. “Why, you, you cad! I would not marry you if you were the last man in creation! I heard you promise Miss Herman a wedding, and I heard you promise Lady Lynbrook a new wardrobe. I was in the back of Madame Michaela’s shop, having a fitting. Heaven only knows what you promised that poor girl who is enceinte, you fork-tongued devil, you, before you started pawing at me.”

“Why, you are jealous.”

“Jealous? Of a wandering-eyed, womanizing worm? Hah! As if I would wed a poltroon who cannot restrain his base desires! Isn’t that just like a man, though. You behave like the village tom, then accuse me of being cattish. Get out, you and your pesky dog, too.” She threw a biscuit toward the door to get Homer, at least, to head in that direction.

Wynn started to follow, but then stopped, not that he was begging for crumbs, of course. “What about Fate, about our being meant for each other?”

“You said you do not believe in that tripe.”

“What about your vow?”

She threw the next biscuit at his head.

* * * *

Crushed. Wadded into a small ball and thrown to the ground, then kicked. That was his neckcloth. Wynn’s feelings were suffering worse.

Blasted female. Blast all females. The world would be a better place without them. Emptier, but better. At least a fellow would know where he stood. Here he had spent the whole night thinking about marriage, about how it might not be the worst thing in the world after being drawn and quartered. In fact, he’d come to the conclusion that he would be better off wed to Lady Torrie than alone, prey to every marriageable miss and her mama. He did not care about the succession, but a child of his own might not be a bad idea, especially a child with Torrie’s red-gold curls and blue eyes. He had not been able to think of anything but her and her eyes— and her lips and her smile and the feel of her in his arms—since he’d carried her from that fire, so why not marry her? The earl’s daughter was not in need of his money, had already accepted his past—and was guaranteed to accept his formal offer. She’d asked him, by Jupiter!

Women! Bah! He’d take a good, loyal dog any day. Of course, he’d had to take Homer by the collar and drag him from Duchamp House, with its airborne edibles.

“Wish me happy, Papa.” Torrie was interrupting her father for yet another time. “I have rid myself of that despicable man for well and good.”

“Um, which one was that, again?”

“Viscount Ingall, of course. I made sure the libertine knew he would not be welcome to call here. Good riddance, I say.”

The earl looked at her over his newspaper. “If you are so pleased with yourself, poppet, why are you crying?”

“Crying? I am doing no such thing,” she said with a sniffle. “The cad brought that silly dog of his. The mongrel’s fur must have irritated my eyes, that’s all.”

Lord Duchamp thought about all the hounds and horses and barn cats at Dubron, none of which had ever bothered his daughter before. “Your mama always bathed her eyes with a cloth soaked in lavender water when she’d been weep— that is, when she was so afflicted. You might consider doing that, if you were going to go to the park or out visiting this afternoon. You wouldn’t want the gossips saying you’d been cry— that is, that you are a sickly puss.”

“Thank you, Papa. I do not think I will be going out today, however. It looks like rain.”

The day was gray, like most days in London. That had never stopped Torrie from gadding all about town, either. “Yes, you want to save your strength for the Reese ball, eh? I daresay you’ll need it, if you are still determined to find yourself a husband there.”

“Of course I am. I told you so this morning.” Why not? Torrie was afraid she would never find a man who so stirred her senses, who so stirred her heart, as Viscount Ingall. Since her hero had feet of clay, she might as well settle for the least obnoxious of her suitors. “Nothing has changed since.” Except her shattered hopes.

“Then heaven help you, my dear.” And heaven help him, Lord Duchamp prayed, when his wife got wind of their daughter’s latest start.

* * * *

Wynn snapped his fingers. He could find a woman to wed as quickly as that, he told himself. Then he had to scratch behind Homer’s ears, for the dumb dog thought he was being called for a walk or a snack.