Truth about Leo (12 page)

“Alas, I am not speaking to him,” she replied with lofty disregard.

“No? Why don't you tell me about it,” Plum said, taking Dagmar's arm and escorting her toward the sitting room. “You can't stay with us, but you can certainly take tea.”

“I'm afraid we don't have time for that,” Leo said, a sudden wave of weariness making him stagger slightly. “Thank you, but I must find somewhere for Dagmar and Mrs. Deworthy to stay.”

“Don't be silly, Leo. There's always time for tea. Now, Dagmar, tell me what Leo has done to put you on such terms with him.”

“His behavior is enough to drive a weasel mad,” Dagmar said, yielding to Plum's pressure, and allowing herself to be herded into the sitting room. “If I were speaking to him, naturally I would inform him that my gown is quite suitable for the purpose of covering my bosom and all my other parts, but since I cannot tell him that, then I shall simply alternate between pretending he does not exist, and wishing him to the devil.”

“Trouble in paradise already?” Harry asked softly as, reluctantly, Leo followed the ladies. He didn't particularly want a cup of tea, but he also didn't wish to embarrass Dagmar with his bad manners. Besides, Harry was likely to offer him something stronger, which he very much did want.

“He refuses to let me put him to bed,” Dagmar said, causing everyone in the room to freeze. “I've begged and pleaded with him, but he refuses.”

Leo groaned to himself as all eyes turned to him.

“Having some bedchamber trouble?” Plum asked, her gaze going from Leo to Dagmar. “I have a book that might help.”

“If it is large enough that striking him over his head with it would render him insensible so that I could get him in bed, then the book would be most welcome,” Dagmar declared.

Harry gave him a sympathetic look. “Listen to Plum, old man. Her books are really quite remarkable.”

“I have never met anyone so obstinate as Leo,” his wife continued, appealing to Plum. “Look at him, just look at him. Don't you think he needs to go to bed, Lady Rosse?”

The little companion said softly, “Oh, he does, he very clearly does,” before effacing herself on a chair in the corner, observing the proceedings with interest.

“Call me Plum, please, and I quite agree that it's every husband's duty to do as his wife likes in the bedchamber. Let me just fetch you a copy of the latest book.”

Leo intercepted Plum as she was about to leave the room. “Dagmar, stop, I beg you. You're just going to embarrass us both.”

“Embarrass us!” She spun around and stomped over to him, poking him on his good arm. “I like that. All I'm trying to do is make you well, and you tell me I'm trying to embarrass you. Every other man I know would let me put him to bed, but not you!”

Harry's mouth opened and closed a couple of times, after which he took his wife by the arm and steered her over to a sofa, where they both sat. “This has all the evidence of being an extremely interesting argument.”

“Yes, but don't you think I should get the book—”

“Consider Leo, my dumpling. He does not have the air of a man who would be appreciative of the joys of Squirrel Hoarding Nuts.”

“I like squirrels,” Dagmar told them. Leo wished for a moment that an earthquake would strike and open up a pit at his feet.

“I'm sure you do, my dear,” Plum said sympathetically before turning a chastising look on him. “For shame, Leo. Depriving your wife of…squirrels.”

Dagmar lifted her chin and looked to be suffering nobly.

“Oh no,” he told her, shaking a finger at her. “If anyone gets to wear that long-suffering expression, it's me. Harry, Plum, you have misunderstood the situation. I haven't refused to take Dagmar to my marital bed.”

“Well, you haven't, although I've always felt that was because you were delusional with fever,” she pointed out. Leo wanted to throttle her. And kiss her—both, although the kissing was leading.

“I'm not going to detail our personal issues here,” he said grandly and then ruined the effect by explaining anyway. “I was near death, and Dagmar and Mrs. Deworthy nursed me back to good health, and that left no time for…er…other activities.”

“He was very much almost dead,” Dagmar agreed, her gaze softening as it rested on him.

“I thought he was dead several times,” the companion offered, nodding and accepting the cup of tea handed to her. “Dearest Princess Dagmar worked ceaselessly over Lord March.”

Leo felt suddenly warm, too warm, and had an overwhelming desire to get Dagmar alone in a bedchamber, where he would thank her in ways that would surprise her. He started making a list of just how many methods of gratitude he could perform.

“And that is why I want him to go to bed, you see. He is clearly in pain, but he will not let me put him to bed and make him more comfortable. He insists on running around when he should be resting. I've told him that the fever could return, but he scoffed at the idea.”

“I did and still do scoff. I'm not so feeble as to be unable to bear up under a little discomfort,” he protested, although in reality, he was feeling more than a little miserable. His shoulder throbbed with a growing persistence, the wound on his chest ached, and his limbs felt as if they were encased in lead.

“That's very understandable, my dear,” Plum said, patting Dagmar on the arm. “Men can be so stupid about resting so they can get well again and perform to their utmost their squirrel duties.”

Harry gave her a long look but said nothing.

“And I'm relieved to know that this interesting story was nothing more than wifely concern for Leo's health, rather than a failure in the connubial department.”

Leo weaved slightly and made a gesture toward Dagmar. “My wife's desire for me to recover in bed notwithstanding, I would appreciate any suggestions you have on someone with whom I can trust her welfare. Just for a few days, until I can set up a house.”

“Hmm.” Plum looked at Harry.

Harry looked at Plum. They both turned their heads and looked at Dagmar. She smiled a beguiling smile that Leo felt to the tips of his toenails.

“I'm afraid I can't think of anyone at the moment,” Plum said slowly. “I don't know a great many people who are in town now, at least, no one with whom I would feel comfortable sending Dagmar to stay.”

“There's Renfrew, but he's taken to drink, and his wife can't control him,” Harry offered. “Noble's in the country. My cousin Althea is about ready to give her husband yet another child, and from the way she complains about intimate details that I would really rather not know, I suspect inhabiting the same house with her would be a highly unpleasant experience, one fraught with the latest update on her piles. What about Salter, Leo? He's in town now.”

Leo thought about the whispers involving the head of his department and several young maidservants who were let go after they had become pregnant, and swore to himself. He had much respect for Lord Salter's political acumen, but he'd be damned before he left his attractive, innocent, tantalizing wife within fifty feet of that old reprobate. “Er…no. But that does bring to mind someone else.”

“Really? Who?” Dagmar asked, sipping her tea.

“Do you remember the man and his sister on the ship?”

“Oh, them.” Dagmar gave a little shrug. “They were pleasant enough. Plum, Leo says I must have clothing and is willing to purchase it for me despite the fact that we might have to be annulled. Can you help me?”

“Certainly.” Plum moved over to sit next to Dagmar, obviously settling in for a confidential chat. “I do know of an excellent dressmaker. What exactly do you need to have made, and why would you have your marriage annulled?”

Harry thrust a glass of whiskey into his hands. Leo looked down at the glass, seeking clarity of mind in its amber depths. He really did not want to take up the offer made by Philip Dalton, but there seemed to be little other choice. “What do you know of a man called Dalton?”

“Dalton?” Harry looked thoughtful. “Philip?”

“Yes.”

“Cousin to the Duke of Lancaster. Lost his wife a few years ago. Spends most of his time in the country. I understand he's quite the hermit. Bookish. Dabbled in politics in his younger days, but mostly stays busy with an academic interest—Roman architecture or something of that ilk. There's a sister too, if I'm thinking of the right man.”

“That sounds like him. Her name is Louisa.”

“That's it!” Harry nodded. “Louisa Hayes.”

“Her son was killed. Murdered, according to Dalton.” Leo gave Harry a sober look. “And he hoped Dagmar would know who she was.”

Harry's spectacles glinted in the sunlight. “And did she?”

“I haven't had the opportunity to ask her yet.” Leo explained about the connection with Copenhagen, glancing over to Dagmar as he did so. She was chatting quietly with Plum. He had a horrible suspicion that his wife was detailing her reasons for divorcing him, but decided that of all his friends, Plum and Harry would keep his private affairs from public knowledge. “Know if Dalton has any vices?”

“Obvious ones, you mean?” Harry shook his head. “He's chapel and fairly devout, or so I seem to recall. Doubt if he's one to chase skirts, although you never know for sure. You thinking of putting your lady in his house?”

“It's possible. His motivation in seeking my help aside, he knew a hell of a lot more about my business than made me comfortable, but I gather his godfather—Lord Salter—had been bending his ear about me.”

Harry removed his spectacles and polished the lenses with his handkerchief. “How long do you think it will take you to find a house?”

“A few days if I'm lucky.”

“We'll be happy to help Dagmar if you like. I know Plum is dying to know more about your wife.” His eyes twinkled behind the lenses when he added, “As am I.”

Leo sighed again, a slow, exhausted sigh. “I'll just have to warn Dagmar to let me know if anything untoward happens in Dalton's home.”

Harry started to speak but stopped when they heard, “Leo, I do believe that your wife is correct in her determination to get you into bed.”

Leo stared at her while Harry doubled over in laughter.

Plum blushed and added hastily, “That is, you look as though you should be in bed resting. Could you not go to a hotel with Dagmar? Harry, you are the most idiotic of men. Cease laughing or you'll give Dagmar the idea that you're mad.”

“I appreciate the thought—both of the thoughts,” Leo said, giving his wife a little bow. “But as I can't be by Dagmar's side all day, a hotel is out of the question. I believe I have a solution to the situation, however. Philip Dalton and his sister were on the ship with us, and they extended an invitation to stay with them while we looked about for a house. I will take Dagmar there now.”

“What an excellent idea. I seem to recall the Daltons from before I married my first husband—” Plum stopped, gave her husband an odd glance, and cleared her throat before going on. “I don't remember a sister, though. Still, Mrs. Dalton was very kind to me at my coming out. She had a daughter much the same age, and I remember us clinging together for support at the endless round of balls and routs.”

It took another twenty minutes before Leo was able to escort his wife out to the carriage, promises by both Plum and Dagmar to pay respective calls being flung between the two ladies.

“And so it is decided that we will go to the house of a friend of Lord March?” the companion was asking when he climbed wearily into the carriage.

“Yes, some people who were on the ship with us,” Dagmar murmured, watching him closely.

“And are they quite nice?” Julia fretted with a silk fringe on the edge of her reticule. “I should hate to know what your mother would have to say to me if she knew I had said nothing against you staying with people who weren't quite proper.”

“I saw them at Amalienborg waiting to speak with Frederick, so I gather they are perfectly respectable. His name is Dalton, I believe.”

Leo leaned back in the carriage, Dagmar at his side, feeling oddly pleased by that fact despite his exhaustion and pain. Across from him sat the companion, her inane chat drifting around the carriage like the incessant twittering of a bird. He closed his eyes, too tired to focus on what she was saying, and instead focused his mind on the two most immediate problems: what to do with a wife he hadn't particularly wanted but who now seemed to hold an erotic sway over him and what sort of a reaction Lord Salter would have to find his mission cut short.

“Leo,” Dagmar said, interrupting his musings.

“Hmm?”

“Do you speak German?”

“A little.”

“Good. I want to practice saying a few things.”

He opened his eyes to look at her. “Why?”

She lifted a hand in a vague gesture. “You never know when you might be called upon to speak to someone German.”

He couldn't dispute that, so he closed his eyes again.

“What do you intend to do after you abandon Julia and me at these Daltons'?” she asked in German.

He opened one eye again and rolled it around to look at her. This was no language practice. She glanced toward her companion and gave her a toothy smile.

Ah. That was the way of it. “Abandoned?” he asked in the same language.

“Is that not the correct word?” She thought for a moment.

“Leave is, I believe, the verb you are seeking.”

“No, that doesn't convey with it the sense of you dropping us and running away so that you don't have to see me again.”

He turned to face her, confused as to whether she was having difficulties with the strange vocabulary, or if she really felt he was abandoning her. “I am not dropping you and running away.”

“No?” She picked at a hole in her gloves, and he made a mental note to tell Plum, who was evidently to oversee the acquisition of a new wardrobe, to include such frippery things as gloves and boots that weren't patched and a shawl that didn't show signs of moths. “What do you call a man who throws his wife at virtual strangers and then goes off and does who knows what?”