A Wicked Gentleman (7 page)

“Perhaps you're right…oh, he's drawing up. He's giving his reins to his tiger. You'd better go into the parlor before he knocks at the door. I'll wait in here.”

Cornelia went swiftly into the hall and whisked herself into the parlor. She debated where to position herself to best effect when Viscount Bonham walked in. Before the fire? Over by the window, in an armchair deep in a book? No, not the latter, she decided. The chairs sagged too much for a graceful rise from their depths. The window seat was a possibility. She could be found there, her head bent over her sewing. But she'd left her workbox upstairs…no the secretaire. She would have her back to the door, apparently occupied with letter writing.

The knocker sounded as she sat down and picked up an ancient quill. It hadn't been sharpened in years, and she looked at its ragged tip with some dismay. But there was no time to change her position now. She aimed the pen at the inkstand, only to discover it dry as a bone. Now she could hear voices in the hall. The viscount's clipped tones, Morecombe's broad Yorkshire monosyllables. And then the parlor door opened.

“In 'ere, sir,” Morecombe declared without embellishment, and departed, closing the door firmly behind him.

Harry stood for a second, hat in hand, torn between amusement and indignation at his unceremonious admission to the house. The man hadn't even offered to take his hat and his dripping driving coat.

The woman at the secretaire didn't turn around immediately, then she said in a soft voice that immediately brought his hackles up, “Forgive me, Lord Bonham, just one minute more.” She reached for the sander and sprinkled it liberally over her page, then turned slowly in her chair, regarding him with a half smile, which only a fool would mistake as friendly, before rising to her feet.

“I believe we have already met, sir.” She continued to regard him quizzically, but the glitter in her blue eyes was unmistakable, as unmistakable as the quiet, well-modulated voice he had heard the previous day.

Harry drew off his gloves one finger at a time. “It would appear so, ma'am. I confess myself amazed at the transformation. You must forgive me for my error yesterday, but I'm sure you'll agree it was an understandable one?” An eyebrow flickered in a faint question mark. “Had you done me the courtesy of correcting the error, matters might have gone rather more agreeably between us.”

Cornelia had been intending to bring the charade to a close immediately after the initial discomfort that she had been certain the man would feel. But now he was putting the blame upon her, looking not in the least discomfited. Indeed, there was a glint in his green eyes that seemed to be issuing a challenge to match her own. To her astonishment, she felt a stir of interest, a flutter of anticipation at the prospect.

“Your manner, sir, did not encourage such an introduction,” she declared, drawing the cashmere shawl around her as she instinctively folded her arms and regarded him steadily. “I have no desire to prolong this interview, so perhaps you will state your business.”

Harry tossed his hat and gloves onto the gateleg table. In the absence of an invitation to sit down, or even to remove his driving coat, he was obliged to stand dripping on the faded carpet. The magnitude of his mistaken assumption astonished him, and for an inconvenient moment he was hard-pressed not to laugh at the contrast between his preconception of an elderly lady wrapped in shawls with her feet in a mustard bath and the reality of this poised woman very far removed from her dotage.

Without volition he found himself taking inventory. She was tall, something he had failed to notice the previous day, and held herself erect. Her gown was hardly in the first style of fashion, but the bronze color suited her hair, which was, he thought absently, a combination of dark honey and golden butter. Her eyes, an intense and penetrating blue, were set beneath straight brown eyebrows, and her complexion, slightly flushed at present, was of the creamy variety.

Cornelia wasn't at all sure what to make of this silent and close examination. For some reason, it made her skin prickle. “Well, sir?” she prompted.

“Ah, yes,” he said coolly, deciding it was time to take charge of this interview. He unbuttoned his coat but made no attempt to take it off. “I believe, ma'am, you are aware of my business. I am interested in purchasing this house. The lawyer who is handling Lady Sophia Lacey's estate has already made my offer known to you. I thought to make it in person.”

“Mr. Masters has already been instructed to give you a response to your offer,” Cornelia stated, choosing her words carefully. She was not going to lay verbal claim to Livia's identity. He was to labor under a misapprehension, not a direct lie. “That settled the matter, I believe.”

He pinched his chin between finger and thumb, regarding her thoughtfully for a minute. In certain circumstances he could imagine enjoying a sparring match with the lady, but these were not they. The matter was too urgent for dalliance of any kind. “I would ask you to reconsider your response,” he stated carefully. “I am willing to increase my offer.”

“Do you generally misunderstand clear statements, viscount?” Cornelia inquired. “I had believed that the response to your offer was an unequivocal rejection. Could I have been mistaken?” She regarded him, her head tilted slightly to one side, with an expression of polite disbelief.

Harry frowned, considering his next move in this pas de deux. Nothing she had said could be considered discourteous—unhelpful certainly—but the words contained no insult. But everything about this woman, her posture, her expression, most particularly those expressive eyes radiated a challenge that he was finding difficult to ignore. But however tempting, he must not deviate from his path.

“I came here, ma'am, in good faith,” he said, hoping to strike a conciliatory note of reason.

“On a fool's errand, sir,” Cornelia stated bluntly. “It seems I have not spoken plainly enough so allow me to state the position in the simplest of terms. This house is
not
for sale.”

He inclined his head slightly as if in acknowledgment of her statement, then he walked casually across the room towards where she stood beside the secretaire. She held her ground, meeting his steady gaze, her arms still folded beneath the cashmere shawl.

He stood close to her, close enough to smell the faintest hint of rosemary. An herb used with lavender when storing clothes not often worn. His eyes flicked to the secretaire over her shoulder. The sheet she had so elaborately sanded was blank. He reached around her and picked up the ragged quill.

“Dear me,” he murmured, waving the dry pen with an air of incredulity. “I trust your correspondence isn't vital, ma'am.”

He was rewarded by a conscious flash in her eyes, the sudden tightening of her lips. Then she observed, “I believe this concludes our business, Lord Bonham.”

He smiled at her. “Perhaps so…at least for the present.” He strode to the table and picked up his hat and gloves, then turned and bowed. “Your servant, Lady Livia.” He spun on his heel and walked out.

Cornelia followed him to the door. As he crossed the hall the salon door opened, and Livia emerged with a stout, stiff-backed gentleman in the black cloth coat and britches of a man of business. He fussed with the sheaf of papers in his hands, his air that of a man who constantly expects an unpleasant surprise.

Lord Bonham stopped in his tracks. “Masters? You here?”

Masters looked astounded to see the viscount. “Why, yes, m'lord. I came to settle some matters with my client, Lady Livia,” the lawyer said, gesturing to the young woman behind him. “I did not expect to see
you
here, sir? I was unaware that you were already acquainted with Lady Livia.”

“It appears that I am not,” Harry said dryly, casting a glance at Cornelia, who stood a few feet behind him. “I seem always to be laboring under misapprehensions these days,” he murmured.

He turned to Livia and bowed. “Ma'am. Allow me to present myself. Viscount Bonham at your service.”

There was something so contained about him, something so intrinsically authoritative in his presence, that Livia began to have doubts as to the wisdom of their little game. She offered him an apologetic smile as she said in a rush, “Good morning to you, sir. I'm sorry I was not able to receive you. I had another engagement…Mr. Masters…Lady Dagenham offered to stand in for me. She knew what I…” Her voice trailed away as it became clear that the viscount's interest was elsewhere. His attention was once more focused on Cornelia.

“I see,” he said slowly, beginning to draw on his gloves. “So I've been enjoying the…uh…pleasure, shall we call it, of Lady Dagenham's company.”

“The Viscountess Dagenham,” Cornelia said, her own voice cool and steady. “I don't believe I said otherwise.”

His eyes narrowed. “No,” he agreed. “I don't believe you did.” He turned back to Livia. “Lady Livia, your servant. I trust I may wait upon you when you have no other engagement.”

Livia murmured a somewhat incoherent response, glancing nervously between the viscount and Cornelia. The air seemed to be crackling around them.

Harry bowed once more and strolled to the front door. He turned and looked again at Cornelia. “Tell me, Lady Dagenham, are you in the habit of playing scullery maid?” he inquired in a tone of mild inquiry.

Cornelia struggled for a second as her ready sense of the absurd threatened to get the better of her. It was clear as day that Viscount Bonham had no intention of leaving the house without evening the score.

“I only ask,” he continued in the same mild tone, “because I fear that such an eccentricity might expose you to some discourtesy. And that would be a great pity.” He smiled, offered a small nod in lieu of a bow, and let himself out into the rain.

T
HERE WAS SILENCE IN THE HALL
as the door slammed shut. Masters broke the quiet with a murmured, “Oh, dear me. His lordship didn't inform me that he wished to call upon you, my lady.” He looked worriedly at Livia, twisting his gloves between pudgy hands. “Of course I would have insisted that I present any renewed offer to you myself. It would only have been proper since I handle your affairs in this matter. I do beg you will forgive me, ma'am. There's nothing to forgive, Mr. Masters,” Livia said hastily.

“Indeed, it was for Lord Bonham to communicate his intentions to you. It is he who should be apologizing to you,” Cornelia said calmly.

“Oh, my goodness, no…no, no, no,” the lawyer exclaimed with a violent gesture that sent papers fluttering to his feet. He bent awkwardly to gather them up murmuring in some distress, “Lord Bonham is quite free to do whatever he thinks best. A gentleman of such standing, you understand…the Bonhams, such a well-connected family…”

“Indeed,” Livia said in soothing tones, bending to help him with the papers.

“Too kind, Lady Livia, too kind,” he stammered, straightening as he clutched his retrieved papers to his chest. He backed to the door, bowing every few steps. “Forgive me, your most obedient servant, my ladies. I must be going…I'll send you the papers, Lady Livia.” He wrestled with the door for a few anguished seconds, then vanished into the rain-dark street beyond, still murmuring apologies.

Aurelia came running down the stairs, one hand lightly on the banister. “That was awkward,” she observed. “I was listening on the half landing. Poor Mr. Masters, none of it was his fault, and he seemed to take all the blame…Well, Nell?” She looked expectantly at her sister-in-law.

Cornelia gave a little sigh. “I hadn't intended to keep up the charade, but he put my back up the minute he walked into the parlor.” She shrugged, wondering how to explain the strange tide that had carried her beyond her intended point. “There was just something so…” She frowned. “I don't know what the word is…challenging, I suppose…about him. I felt on my mettle, as if I couldn't let him win a trick.”

She shook her head. “Ridiculous, really. He's just a somewhat arrogant, self-satisfied member of the male species. Give him twenty years, and he'll be another Markby…or even worse.”

“All the more reason to give him just what he deserved,” Livia declared. “I didn't like the look of him at all. Such cold eyes, and his mouth's too thin. I shan't see him if he comes again.” Having thus disposed of the insolent viscount, she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “I have such exciting news. You'll never guess what.”

Her friends turned at once towards her. “What?” they demanded in unison.

“Let's go into the parlor.” Livia bounced ahead of them and closed the door once they were inside. She stood with her back against it, her black eyes glowing. “It seems that Aunt Sophia wasn't quite such an eccentric recluse as we thought. She did actually have a real plan when she left me this house.”

She paused, waiting for a response, but when none came from her companions, who merely regarded her in expectant silence, she continued, “She left money to put the house in some kind of order if I decided not to sell. But Masters was not to reveal that clause in the will until I'd decided by myself what to do with the house. If I did sell it, then that was all I was to get, just the proceeds from the sale, and I'd never find out about the other part of the inheritance. But if I cared enough to keep the house, then she'd made financial arrangements. Isn't that astonishing?” She looked interrogatively between them.

“Somewhat whimsical, I would say.” Cornelia frowned. “If by happenstance you made the decision she wanted you to make, then good things would come to you. If not…” She gave an expressive shrug.

“But fortunately Liv made the right decision,” Aurelia pointed out.

“Yes, exactly,” Livia rushed on, her eyes still shining. “And the only stipulation is that Morecombe and the twins are to be kept on for as long as they wish. There's money for that, and small pensions for them when they decide to retire, if they ever do.” She clasped her hands against her skirt. “Isn't that exciting? I have a real inheritance.”

“That's wonderful, Liv.” Cornelia hugged her. “I don't mean to be crass, but how much is there for repairs and such like?”

“About five thousand guineas.” Liv turned to accept Aurelia's congratulatory hug. “It's plenty to hire a boot boy and a footman to help Morecombe with the heavy cleaning, and maybe a scullery maid to help out in the kitchen…”

“Well, that's good,” Cornelia interrupted with a slightly sardonic smile. “At least I won't have to expose myself to further discourtesy. A great relief for Lord Bonham, I'm sure.”

“You didn't really take any notice of that, did you?” Livia asked.

“No, of course I didn't. I was just funning,” Cornelia said. “Go on about your plans, Liv.”

“Oh, well, yes.” Livia returned happily to the original subject. “There'll be enough to get new curtains, new furniture, and some fresh paint and, oh, I don't know, enough to make it habitable.”

She did a little twirl, her sprig muslin skirts swinging around her ankles. “And then, ladies, once we can receive, we can burst upon society in fine fig.”

“And you, my love, can find a husband,” Cornelia said, exchanging a smile with Aurelia. They were both aware that five thousand, munificent though it sounded, wouldn't go quite as far as Livia had envisaged, but they weren't about to throw a damper on her excitement. There would certainly be sufficient to make the public rooms acceptable, and a few extra helping hands would go a long way to making life more comfortable even if they couldn't improve on the general condition of their private quarters. And if Livia's inheritance could catch her a husband of the right kind, then the main object of this expedition would be achieved.

Livia stopped in midtwirl. “I won't be able to find a husband if you two don't stay here with me,” she reminded them. “Unlike you old married ladies, I have to have a chaperone.”

“We have a month,” Aurelia said.

“Yes, but it might take longer than that for me to find a husband,” Livia pointed out. “However energetically I go about it. Don't forget we have money in the kitty now, enough to keep the household going for six months at least. And you have your allowances. The trustees won't stop paying those; they can't legally…can they?”

“Not without cause,” Cornelia said thoughtfully. “And as long as we don't give them that, they'll have to sit on their hands. We have enough money to carry us through, even if somewhat frugally, until next quarter day?” She glanced interrogatively at Aurelia, who nodded her agreement.

“Then it's settled,” Livia declared.

Cornelia acquiesced with a smile, but her mind was elsewhere. Her friends had forgotten about Viscount Bonham, and she supposed he had become irrelevant, an irrelevant and now-dismissed nuisance. But he'd said he'd be back and what she'd seen of the man thus far gave her every certainty that he didn't make idle declarations of intent.

She was not at all certain that they had seen the last of Lord Bonham.

 

Harry drove through the rain, barely noticing it even though his horses shook their manes at regular intervals, sending raindrops showering all in their path. The events of the morning went round and around in his head. The Dagenham woman had certainly played him for a fool, and, in all honesty, she had some justification for taking offense over his manner the previous day. But then how was he to have known a viscountess enjoyed playing housemaid, as Marie Antoinette had enjoyed playing milkmaid? What kind of eccentricity was that?

He shook his head impatiently, exasperated as much with himself as with the viscountess. He had jumped to conclusions, just as he'd formed a mental image of Livia Lacey that was as far from the truth as it was possible to be. He'd made a fool of himself, and he didn't care for the knowledge one little bit. It was time to stand back and reassess the situation. The house was not for sale at any price, it seemed. So he needed another approach.

And one that steered well clear of the Viscountess Dagenham. Once burned was quite sufficient. Those blue eyes were amazing, though, startlingly luminous. And she had a most distinguished presence, composed and graceful. So what the devil did she think she was doing cleaning chimneys, or whatever it was that had covered her in grime and smudges? What had happened to the viscount-husband? She was young to be a widow…were there children…?

No.
He pulled himself up sharply. He had no interest in the viscountess. She was not going to help him resolve his present problem. He would devote his attentions to Lady Livia herself. He needed unfettered access to the house, and who better to provide it than the lady of the house. Lady Livia Lacey had seemed a very different character from her friend…or was Lady Dagenham another relative? Not that the exact nature of the connection mattered one way or the other.

Lady Livia Lacey had struck him as a soft, warm, young woman, one who would shrink from causing pain. She had sounded apologetic at the confusion. In fact, he would lay odds she hadn't had any notion of the mischief her companion had caused.

He was driving down St. James's before he came out of his reverie at the sound of his own name. Light from Brookes's bay window spilled onto the wet pavement, and a man climbing the steps to the front door waved at him.

“Harry…where've you been, man? I haven't seen you in days.” He stepped back down to the street and came up to the curricle. “Devil of a day.”

“That it is,” Harry agreed, handing his reins to the groom as he jumped down. “Take 'em home, Eric. I'll walk back.”

“Aye, m'lord.” The groom took his place, picked up the reins, flicked the whip expertly, and the equipage went off at a smart trot.

“Nice pair, Harry,” his companion said with an appreciative whistle. “Haven't seen those before. You always did have a good eye for cattle.”

Harry laughed away the compliment and extended a hand to Sir Nicholas Petersham. “How are you, Nick?”

“Well enough, well enough. Where've you been hiding yourself?”

“Oh, in the country…family business…the usual,” Harry said vaguely, as they turned up the steps to the club. His work for the War Office was a well-kept secret even from his closest friends and on the frequent occasions when he was closeted in his attic study and disappeared from circulation for a while, he usually employed an undefined family crisis as excuse. No one would dream of questioning him too closely, and since he was the oldest of the late Viscount Bonham's six children and thus considered the family patriarch, it seemed quite understandable that some minor issue with a sibling or his elderly mother would take him out of town for a few days.

“I thought you were going to drive right past me,” Nick observed. “I hailed you twice. You didn't seem to know where you were.”

“Oh, I was lost in thought, Nick, you know how it is,” Harry said with a careless gesture. In truth the last thing on his mind had been a morning of wine and cards in his club, but the idea was suddenly appealing. A necessary diversion from his encounter in Cavendish Square.

The door of the club opened as the two men reached the top step. They nodded to the austerely clad steward who held open the door for them, and stepped into the cushioned masculine luxury of their own world.

“Morning, m'lord…Sir Nicholas.” Two footmen helped the gentlemen out of their wet outer garments, took hats and gloves, and handed them reverently to their own juniors.

The men entered the front salon, where a muted murmur of voices, the chink of glass, the crackle of the fireplace greeted them.

“It's Bonham…Harry,” a voice declared cheerily to all and sundry. “Come over here, dear fellow, we have a problem needs solving with that inestimable brain of yours. You too, Nick.”

“I doubt I can be as useful to you as Harry, Newnham, if it's brain power you're asking for,” Sir Nicholas said with an amiable smile as they strolled across the room to a table in the bay window. “A dullard, if ever there was one, I have to admit.”

“A rattle, maybe,” Harry corrected. “Dullard? Never say so…So what's the problem?” He deposited his lean length in an armchair and looked around for a flunkey. “First, madeira…what about you, Nick?”

“Oh, without a doubt, dear fellow. Madeira it is.” Sir Nicholas raised a hand, and a waiter appeared with a tray of filled glasses.

“So, Harry, it's a matter of a wager…”

Harry smiled with a hint of resignation as he raised his glass to his lips. “Whenever is it anything else with you, Newnham? In your shoes I'd wait to make my wagers until I understood something of the mathematics behind the odds.”

“Ah, but that's exactly what I'm doing,” the other man said, beaming his triumph. “I've been sitting here for two days, isn't that so?” He turned for confirmation to his companions, who all nodded their solemn agreement. “Waiting just for you, m'dear fellow. Now, if I bet five hundred on the likelihood of it's raining tomorrow, hedge with another five hundred on rain Wednesday, and back it with three hundred on just clouds—”