A Wicked Gentleman (6 page)

“What do you have in mind?”

“Give him the opportunity to treat me as a servant, let him get in really deep, and then introduce him to the Viscountess Dagenham.” She smiled wickedly over the lip of her glass. “What do you think?”

I
N THE MORNING ROOM OF HIS HOUSE
on Mount Street, Viscount Bonham was breakfasting before the fire and contemplating his upcoming interview with Lady Livia. Apart from his rather fearsome great-aunt, the duchess of Gracechurch, his experience with elderly ladies hitherto had been confined to his grandmother and two maiden aunts. Since they had all doted upon him in his boyhood, very little effort had been required to persuade them to do anything for him. He could reasonably expect that Lady Livia would not give him this advantage. But there must be some lever he could pull.

He cut into his sirloin. If he knew a little more about her and her circumstances, it would help, but Masters had had almost no information beyond the address on the letter. He'd somehow fixed upon a mental image of the lady as an elderly, reclusive, country spinster, but what of the children? They didn't fit the image at all. But surely, if there was a husband on the scene, Masters would have known of it. Could she be a widow?

He reached for his coffee. Presumably all would be revealed at his first meeting with the lady, and he would adapt his approach according to the circumstances he found.

He finished his breakfast and went upstairs to his bedchamber. His valet was brushing specks of lint off a coat of dark green superfine. “Nasty weather, m'lord,” he observed, gesturing with the clothes brush towards the dreary prospect beyond the window. It was a typically filthy English winter morning, rain sheeting down from leaden skies that bled all light from the day.

“A few spots of rain could ruin this coat,” he added almost sotto voce. “I'd be taking a hackney m'self.”

Harry hid a smile. His valet knew perfectly well his master would never take a hackney except in the direst emergency.

“I'm driving, Carton,” he said gently. “I'll be wearing a driving coat.”

“That won't protect your boots,” the man muttered. “Spent hours polishing them, I did.”

“A little rain never hurt anyone,” Harry declared, slipping off his brocade dressing gown and putting his arms into the sleeves of the coat that Carton held for him.

The valet closed his lips tightly and smoothed out the set of the shoulders. The coat fitted like a glove as the tailor had intended. Light gray doeskin britches and gleaming top boots completed the viscount's ensemble.

Harry checked his reflection in the long cheval glass and nodded. There was nothing about his appearance to remind the old retainer of the somberly clad man with a muffler up to his ears, a hat pulled down over his eyes, and a hoarse voice, who a week or so ago had come to inspect the contents of the house for probate. And been turned away empty-handed for his pains. But this time he would at least gain entrance to the house…as long as that insolent maid or companion or whatever she was had taken his card to her mistress and delivered his message.

He dropped a dainty jade snuffbox into the pocket of his coat, took the voluminous driving coat and hat proffered by Carton, and went lightly down the stairs, almost relishing the prospect of a confrontation with the blue-eyed guardian of the gate.

“Send to the mews for my carriage, Hector,” he instructed the butler, and turned aside into the library.

 

“Now, let's see what we can find to dazzle the viscount with.” Livia bounded energetically to the armoire in Cornelia's bedchamber. A sullen fire in the grate did something to take the damp chill off the air, but not enough to render the room welcoming. “You mustn't look remotely like the woman he mistook for a skivvy yesterday.”

“That won't be difficult,” Cornelia remarked. “I only need to look clean to achieve that.” She chuckled suddenly. “I've thought of an interesting twist to this little plot of ours.”

“Oh?” Livia turned from the armoire to look at her.

“You've got that look of the devil in your eye, Nell,” Aurelia accused with a tiny laugh. “What are you plotting?”

“Well, I just thought that it might be more amusing if the viscount is initially led to believe that the woman he insulted yesterday was actually Lady Livia Lacey herself,” Cornelia said. “He'll ask for Liv at the door, and Morecombe can simply show him into the parlor where I'll be waiting, and he'll assume I'm Liv, which is bound to embarrass him even more. I'll let him dig his own pit for a few minutes, then at some point introduce myself.” She grinned. “What do you think?”

“I think I'd be very careful not to put your back up in future,” Aurelia said.

“Exactly,” Cornelia agreed with some satisfaction. She stood beside Livia and peered into the armoire. “The problem is I don't have anything that isn't most dreadfully countrified. When did we last look at any of the fashion magazines? I don't even know what's modish these days, but I'm sure it's changed in the ten years since our last and only foray on the town.”

“Your bronze silk is quite elegant,” Aurelia suggested.

“It's probably the best I can find, but is it suitable for the morning? I only ever wear it in the evening at home,” Cornelia protested.

“I'm guessing that what's suitable for an evening in the country is suitable for a morning in town,” Livia stated, drawing out the gown. “Depressing as that may be when and if we venture forth upon the town.” She held up the dress. “It is very pretty, Nell.”

“It's also the best we can do,” her friend observed with a resigned shrug. “I could wear the cashmere shawl with it. That
is
elegant…besides which it'll keep me warm,” she added, picking up a fold of the gown. “This silk is so thin. I'm not going to make much of an impression on the viscount if my lips are blue, and I can't talk for chattering teeth.”

“It's not that cold in the parlor,” Aurelia said. “And you can wear those silk mittens, they're perfectly acceptable for morning wear, even in the town.”

“Here's yer 'ot water, mum.” One of the twins appeared in the open doorway with a copper jug. It was as if she'd wafted there on some current of air, Cornelia reflected. The twins moved around utterly soundlessly, and none of the three women could get accustomed to their sudden materializations sometimes but not always accompanied by a monosyllabic explanation for the appearance.

“Thank you.” She smiled warmly in lieu of addressing the woman by name. It seemed rude after two days not to be able to tell them apart.

The twin set the jug down on the dresser and wiped her hands on her apron before casting a glance around the room, rather as if she'd never seen it before, then glided out into the drafty corridor.

Cornelia poured water into the basin and, shivering, cast aside her dressing gown. She sponged herself rapidly. “What I'd give for a bath.”

“Maybe this evening we could fill a tub by the kitchen fire and take it in turns,” Livia suggested. “We could give Morecombe and the twins the evening off.”

“I don't think they ever leave the house,” Aurelia said. “Judging by Morecombe's reluctance this morning even to go to the shop for the children's chocolate. He sounded as if just venturing onto the street was the equivalent of a trip into enemy territory.”

“Well, living with a recluse probably rubbed off.” Cornelia dropped her chemise over her head. “Now which drawer did I use for my stockings?”

“This one. Do you want silk or wool?” Livia held up two pairs.

“It had better be silk with that gown, but I'd be much more comfortable in wool,” Cornelia responded with another shiver as she reached for the silk stockings. “Ellie, will you do my hair? You're so clever at it.”

“One of my minor talents,” Aurelia agreed with a slightly smug smile. She gave her sister-in-law a shrewd glance. “You seem to be going to a lot of trouble for this pompous viscount. You must want to make an impression on him.”

“It's not so much that as erase the one I made yesterday,” Cornelia replied, but a slight touch of pink tinged her cheekbones as she buttoned the wrists of the long sleeves of the gown. She wanted to think that thoroughly erasing that impression would drive home to him the realization of his rudeness. But honesty obliged her to admit, at least to herself, that injured pride played its part. The viscount had presented an impeccable appearance, which made his arrogant, insultingly pompous assumptions all the more unbearable. This time she was giving him no advantages.

“Do they wear jewelry in the mornings these days?” Livia was trawling through Cornelia's jewel box. “You need something for that neckline, I think. It looks very bare.”

“It is very bare,” Cornelia said, peering down at her bosom. “I could wear a fichu?” She sounded doubtful.

“Too matronly,” Aurelia pronounced. “Just because you're the dowager mother of two doesn't make you matronly.” She reached into the jewel box, saying with authority, “The amber beads are perfect. It's not done to wear precious gems before sunset in the town or the country, but amber, topaz, amethyst, they're all quite acceptable.”

She clasped the amber beads around her sister-in-law's long neck and stood back to examine the effect in the dresser mirror. “Yes, much better. Now for your hair.”

Her fingers went to work and within five minutes she had braided the luxuriant honey-colored mass into a neat coil around Cornelia's head and teased ringlets to fall about her ears. “How's that?”

Cornelia tilted her head from side to side. “Pretty,” she said, playing with one of the ringlets. “Let's hope it doesn't come tumbling down at a crucial moment.”

“Did he say what time he would call?” Livia asked.

“No, but the usual time for morning visits is around eleven. Or at least it used to be.” Cornelia glanced at the clock on the mantel. “It's only ten now. I'm going up to the nursery.”

She spent the next hour with the children, planning their day with Linton, and just before eleven descended the stairs in search of Morecombe. Livia had asked him to clean the tarnished silver that was littered around the house, and Cornelia found him in the butler's pantry muttering to himself as he polished.

“Don't see no point t' this,” he said, as she knocked on the open door. “'Twas good enough for Lady Sophia just as it were.”

“Perhaps Lady Sophia's eyesight was not very good,” Cornelia suggested. “Those cruets do look lovely now they're polished.” She picked up one of them and held it to the light. “I'm sure it's Elizabethan.” She was reminded of the thimble as she looked at the intricate designs on the salt cellar.

“Mebbe so,” Morecombe muttered, not sounding convinced as he attacked a sugar caster.

“I'm expecting a visitor, Morecombe. When he arrives he'll ask for Lady Livia. Could you show him into the parlor. I'll wait for him there.”

“Oh, aye?” Morecombe regarded her with his rheumy gaze. “An' where will Lady Livia be then, m'lady?”

“Oh, she asked me to see him for her,” Cornelia said vaguely. “Just show him in. There's no need for you to explain.”

“Oh, aye?” The lack of conviction was more pronounced, but he returned to his sugar caster, and Cornelia beat a prudent retreat.

Livia was waiting for her in the hall. “For a minute I forgot all about Mr. Masters. You remember he's supposed to call this morning too. Where shall I see him if you're in the parlor with the viscount?”

“The salon?” Cornelia suggested, opening the door onto that bleak chamber, where the furniture was still under dust covers, the curtains drawn tightly across the long windows to prevent any possibility of daylight, or, heaven forfend, sunlight from penetrating its dusty shadows.

She crossed the room and pulled back one set of heavy velvet drapes, releasing a cloud of dust. “Aunt Sophia's lawyer must know what condition the house is in,” she observed, moving to another window. “He must have visited her on occasion. He won't be surprised at the state of this room, but at least we could let in some light.”

“Not that there is much,” Livia said, drawing back the third set of curtains and sneezing violently. “Even if the windows were clean. With all that rain, it's dark as a dungeon out there.”

“And cold as charity in here,” Cornelia added. She rubbed a circle in the grime on one long window and stared out at the rain-drenched street. “Oh, I think this must be our viscount. That's quite a turnout he's driving. He's obviously not short of a guinea or two.”

“Let me see.” Livia came to her side and peered through the cleared glass. “Oh, yes, I see what you mean. Beautiful pair of horses.” She rubbed a wider circle in the grime. “I can't see much of the driver, though. He's all wrapped up. The collar of his greatcoat is turned up to his ears.”

“It would be in this weather…fancy driving an open carriage,” Cornelia said with a shake of her head. “Why didn't he take a hackney? Any sane man would.”

“Perhaps he isn't,” Livia murmured. “Sane, I mean. Would a sane man want to pay that kind of money for this wreck?” She waved a hand around the room.

“Money, enough of it, will put the house right,” Cornelia said. “It has some very aristocratic lines to it. A noble house under all this neglect.”