The Diamond Key (6 page)

He did not have the eyes of a rake. She had expected a hardened libertine, a ruthless trader, a man drawn to violence to have dark eyes, cold, glittering ones, or pale, reptilian orbs. Lord Ingall’s eyes were a lovely green, almost the color of the moss that grew on the nearby dolphin fountain, but a more vibrant shade, with tiny orange and gold specks dancing in them.

He did not act like a rake. In fact, he kept his distance, instead of trying to touch her with any excuse, or brush against her. He sat as far away from her on the stone bench as possible without falling off the end. Torrie enjoyed not being crowded, for once. She had air to breathe, air pleasantly scented with the faintest trace of lemon and spices from his cologne.

He did not talk like a rake, with innuendo and false flattery. No Spanish coin for this wealthy gentleman.

None of which, of course, proved he was not a rake. Torrie sighed. After three Seasons of being pursued by every well-born, would-be seducer, she thought she could recognize one of their ilk. Lord Ingall did not match any of her notions, so how was she to know? She sighed again.

“Are you certain you are well enough to be out walking?” he immediately asked. “Your lungs might still be suffering ill effects.”

“No, I am fine, truly. My foot shows the only lasting damage, and that is minor.” She raised her hem slightly, so he could see the bandage on her ankle. She did not mean to be flirtatious, but was curious as to his reaction.

He looked dismayed, not dissolute. “Dash it all, I am sorry.”

She let her skirt drop to its proper length. “Why should you be sorry? You did not cause that shelf to collapse.”

“No, but I should have been there faster, or been more gentle moving the fallen debris.”

“Nonsense. You could as easily have been a moment later—a moment too late. The entire building could have collapsed around me. You were there, right on time, though, the answer to my prayers. That is why I proposed we marry.”

There. She’d said it. Out in the open.

The viscount jumped to his feet and started pacing. “Fustian. You were out of your mind. In shock. Delirious. It would be better for both of us to put that unfortunate conversation out of our minds. I assure you, I will gladly forget marriage was ever mentioned.”

Torrie touched the chain that held the diamond-studded key around her neck. “I cannot forget.”

The viscount turned to face her, his lips thinned in anger. “I do not know what kind of game you are playing, Lady Victoria, but I refuse to take part.”

“It is no game. It is my life, my future. I made a vow, you see.”

“To whom? If this is between you and the Almighty, I swear I have not been in His good graces for years. I doubt He even recalls my existence.”

Torrie was not about to get into a discussion of faith and fallen sparrows. “To the Fates, then. Or to myself. I promised that if I was saved, I would wed, to make my parents happy and to fulfill my destiny,”

“Marriage might be your destiny, madam, but it is not mine. If you choose to be subject to such superstitious tripe, then wed with my blessings, for what they are worth. I will even send you a silver candlestick. I am certain any number of gentlemen will be lining the path to your door for the opportunity to light that candle— Uh, to fulfill your pledge. Lord Boyce comes to mind.”

“He does not come up to my standards, however.” Torrie pulled the key charm out of her bodice and held it in her hand. “He does not ... That is ...” How to explain to a stern-faced stranger that Lord Boyce did not stir her heart? “I cannot see spending my life with a man who ...”

“Wears a puce waistcoat?” Lord Ingall offered with scorn in his voice, as if poor taste were her only reason for rejecting so ardent a suitor. Torrie noted that his own waistcoat was a light gray, with narrow dark blue stripes that matched his Bath superfine coat.

“No,” she said. “I have other reasons for believing that Lord Boyce is not the man for me.” He was foolish and boring and narrow-minded, to list a few, but mostly she did not love him.

“Well, I am not the man for you, either.”

She held firm to her beliefs, and to the talisman at her neck. “I asked for a favor, and you arrived.”

“You were not making a bargain with your maker, then, you were cutting a deal with the devil.” He held his arms out. “Look what such a foolish barter brought you. You should have negotiated for better terms, if you were wagering your soul.”

“I was hoping to live,” she said softly. “And I see a gentleman, I think, one who is better than some. Many men would have leaped at the thought of wedding my father’s wealth.”

“You see a man worse than most, barely entitled to be called a gentleman. Forget your smoke-born fancies. They were phantasms, only. Why, I am not even accepted in your world.”

“You would be, with my father’s help.”

“I make my own way.” He turned his back on her then, calling the dog to heel so they could leave. “And you know nothing about me.”

“I know they say you killed a man in a duel.”

“They
say a great many things.”

Torrie noted that he had not outright denied the charge. She had no way of finding what she needed to know except by asking, and nothing to lose now except a primrose plant the dog kept digging at. “Did you murder Lord Lynbrook?”

“I shot him. He died. Does that answer your question?”

Not exactly. Torrie persisted. Although the viscount still faced away, he had not left yet. “No one is certain if the duel was fought over his wife or his mistress.”

“Why not both? The
ton
certainly considered me capable of it.”

“If you were the guilty party, they say, you should have deloped.”

“What, and let that dastard shoot me? That is the most buffle-headed thing you have said yet, my girl. He would have shot me through the heart, yes, and left me lying in the field for the crows to pick. Even my fate was better than that.”

“But you were the one blamed.”

“Lynbrook and his brother had the ear of the king’s ministers, who decided to make an example to other wild youths. As a second son, I was considered expendable in the name of justice. Since my own family believed the worst, they were pleased to have me shipped off, rather than be held to trial where I might have defended myself. The gossip would die down faster that way,” he added in a bitter tone.

“So your actions
were
defensible.”

He did not answer, but Torrie could see the way his shoulders straightened and his head rose. Here was a proud man, not ashamed of his deeds. Either he was totally without scruples, or he believed he was right. More thankful than ever that Aunt Ann had stayed inside, Torrie dared to ask: “Tell me, my lord, do you approve of a married man keeping a mistress?”

He spun around. “Good grief, have times changed so much since I have been gone that gentlewomen speak of such matters in public?”

Torrie could feel the blush rising in her cheeks, but she answered, “We are not in public, sir.”

“Where is that devil-spawned dog?” Ingall muttered, calling out to Homer again. The dog ran over, and jumped in Lady Victoria’s lap, leaving muddy footprints on the pink silk. “Dash it, I am sorry. Let me—”

She clutched the dog closer, bent on holding it hostage until she had her answers. “You were giving me your opinions, my lord?”

He was giving her a set-down and they both knew it, but the viscount answered, more or less: “Do I approve of a married man having a light skirt in his keeping? I do not believe a man has the right to keep his wife pregnant every year of their marriage, until she is old and worn years before her time. I do not think a woman ought to marry a man for his fortune and then not give him his money’s worth in bed. I do not approve of fathers selling their daughters into unhappy marriages for their own gains. I see no reason for land and titles and wealth to be the foundations for many marriages, instead of mutual affection and respect. I could go on to speak of brothels where children are held in bondage, of fatherless infants left to starve in the gutters, of hollow-eyed beggar women dying of the pox. You see, ma’am, I do not approve of many things your society accepts. If, however, you are asking me if I would be a faithful husband, my opinion does not matter, for I never intend to put it to the test.”

“You do not intend to marry?”

“At last, she sees reason.” He spoke to the dog.

“That is not reasonable. What about your title? The succession?”

He laughed. “My father never cared whether I lived or died. Neither did his heir, my brother Roger. My closest living relation is dear Roger’s widow, who never ceases to mourn the fact that I am alive and he is not. The succession can go hang, as I almost did.”

“But you survived.”

He nodded.

“And prospered.”

He nodded again.

“They say you made a fortune in the fur trade.”

“Which shall all go to worthy charities when I am gone. My man of affairs has the list.”

“And another fortune in spices or tea. Papa was not sure which.”

“Both. Fortunately, or unfortunately for the poor souls involved, there are a great many worthy causes.”

“Then you do not need my father’s money.”

“I need nothing from any man. Or any woman.” He glared at Homer before turning on his heel. “Or any dog.”

Torrie let the dog go. He was not hers to keep. She let Lord Ingall go. He was not hers, either.

She let her dream go, the dream that danced through her veins, humming about true love and the perfect match and lovers who were destined to meet against all odds.

What she could not let go of, however, was her gratitude. The viscount might not be the answer to her prayers, he might not even be a very comfortable companion, but he had saved her life. “Wait!”

He turned at the terrace steps, one dark eyebrow raised as if in expectation of her next impertinent question or outlandish proposition. Underlings would have thought twice about their next words, when they saw that disdainful gesture. As usual, Torrie forged ahead.

“I merely want to say thank you again. Your selfless actions might seem insignificant to you, but, I assure you, they meant everything to me. Other men would have stood aside and let the hired firefighters rescue me, and who knows if they would have been in time. Another man might have left me to my own devices outside the building, shivering in my shift. Why, you could have handed me over to Lord Boyce for the drive home, to listen to his importunings while I was in distress. Instead you preserved my life and my dignity, and never ceased until I was home safe. I know there is nothing I could possibly offer to show my appreciation, nor my father, his. I can think of no reward that you would accept, but ... but I would like to be your friend.”

The female wanted to be friends now? Wynn shook his head. What did he need with a spoiled darling of society for a bosom bow? Very well, he conceded, Lady Victoria seemed a decent sort, not flying into a rage when she did not get her way, nor turning into a watering pot. And he would like to see her smile again, for him this time, instead of his dog. But he had never had a female for a friend. Rosie did not count; he had paid for her affection. Lady Lynbrook was not a true friend, although he had known her for ages. Wynn was more like a footman she called to fix things. They both always wanted something from him. Lady Victoria seemed to want nothing but what she asked: his friendship. But what would he and Lady Victoria talk about, the latest gossip, the newest styles in bonnets, her next proposal? Or perhaps the widgeon wanted to tag along with him to mills or race meets, like Homer.

On the other hand, he had employees and dependents, but no real friends in England. His old school chums and boyhood acquaintances had turned their backs on him quickly enough when he was disgraced. The only one who did not, the friend who helped him start a new life in the new world, had since died a hero’s death in Spain. And despite himself, he did feel a tie to Lady Victoria. Having carried her to safety, he could not turn his back on the young woman now, especially when she might still be in danger. As a friend, he would be more able to keep an eye on her, to look out for her. Wynn felt a lot better at the thought—but it was impossible.

“I fear we will not have the opportunity to become more familiar,” he said with true regret. “I doubt we will be traveling in the same circles.”

“I never supposed you would attend Almack’s, if that is what you were worried about. I cannot even convince Papa to accompany me there. I think you will find most other doors soon open to you, however. Mine will always be.”

He bowed slightly, touched by her kindness and sincerity. “I thank you. And while I am about it, I must apologize for my churlish behavior. Instead of cutting up at you before, I should have said that I was deeply honored by your offer, and thanked you. That is the proper way to refuse a suitor, is it not? Never having received a proposal of marriage before, nor given one, I am not quite certain of the correct form.”

She smiled as he’d intended. “That’s precisely what they taught us at Lady Castangle’s Academy. And I must apologize also. I should never have made so precipitous an offer in the first place. You were right. It must have been the smoke clouding my judgment. I will forgive you if you will forgive me.”

“Done.”

“Friends?” She held out her hand.

This time he took it and shook it, as he would with a gentleman. “Friends.” Her smile was so enchanting, so genuinely pleased with their bargain that Wynn instantly forgot they were supposed to be comrades. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it.

* * * *

Lord Duchamp was disappointed, .but not surprised. He was waiting for Wynn in his library, a large room that yet seemed homey, with its worn leather chairs and smells of old books and pipe smoke. He was hoping for a formal petition for his daughter’s hand. What he got was a view of the viscount’s back heading down the hall toward the front door and freedom.

“I told Maggie that bird would not fly,” the earl muttered when he sent his butler after the man, to invite him in for a drink. “But she had to go and make a big to-do over a minor matter. That’s women for you.” He nodded a greeting when Wynn entered the library, then directed him to take a seat while he reached for a decanter of cognac. The dog found a comfortable spot on the bearskin rug in front of the fireplace.