Amanda Scott - [Dangerous 03] (6 page)

For the first time since his arrival he saw Daintry smile at him. Though it was only a little smile, he thought it worth waiting for. She said, “That is Cousin Ethelinda, sir … Miss Ethelinda Davies, that is, who is Mama’s most devoted companion and quite the kindest person in our household. But I thought you had gone upstairs with the children, Cousin.”

Blushing deeply, Miss Davies murmured something about having set them to writing letters and then having just popped back downstairs to make certain of dearest Letty’s comfort; whereupon, Gideon, recognizing his cue, made her a profound leg. When he straightened, he saw to his deep satisfaction that Daintry was regarding him with near approval.

Grinning, he held her gaze, and was rewarded with another hesitant smile in return. Then, visibly gathering herself, she indicated the fourth lady and said, “And that is my sister, sir, Lady Susan Seacourt.”

Recalling in dismay that Penthorpe had described Lady Susan, Gideon saw an apparent abyss about to open before him. Having counted heavily on the viscount’s assurance that no one in the household knew him, he recollected now that Penthorpe had agreed to his odd betrothal only because he had admired Lady Susan enough to consent to marry her sister, but Lady Susan’s polite look encouraged him. She clearly did not think him an impostor.

“I believe I was at school with your husband, Lady Susan,” he said calmly. “He was years ahead of me, however, and probably remembers me only as a repulsive scrub.” He nearly added that Sir Geoffrey had been much better acquainted with his brother but remembered in the nick of time that Penthorpe had no brother.

Susan said quietly, “He will be sorry to have missed meeting you, sir. He and my brother are presently in Brighton—along with everyone else of any importance,” she added with a smile.

“So the
beau monde
still flocks to the seaside from Prinny’s birthday onward,” Gideon said, returning her smile.

St. Merryn grunted. “You make it sound as if you’ve been away for a decade, lad, but Ollie wrote you’d sold out before Boney got loose and went back just to help hunt the rascal down.”

Gideon said smoothly, “Perfectly true, sir, but though he abdicated in April, I did not get back to England till September, and went straight to Tattersall Greens. I didn’t go to Brighton at all, and since Bonaparte escaped the first of March, before I had got round to stirring a foot from home, I was in London only long enough to sign on to return to the Continent.”

“Ah, well, that’s all behind you now,” St. Merryn said comfortably. “It is all very well for a young man to serve when his country has need of him, but when it don’t, he’s better off putting his house in order and setting up his nursery. I daresay my Charles would have liked nothing better than to purchase a pair of colors and follow the Duke, but what with his being my only son, and heir to the earldom, it wasn’t to be thought of.”

Without thinking, Gideon said, “Lucky for us, Lord Uxbridge didn’t let that stop him, sir. Even after he inherited the earldom three years ago, he remained in the thick of things, and if it hadn’t been for losing his leg at Waterloo, I daresay he’d be in service yet. To be sure, he was not the only son, but both of his brothers also serve in the Army.”

“A gallant hero, Uxbridge,” St. Merryn said, taking no umbrage, “though we must call him Anglesey now that he’s been made a marquess for all his heroic deeds.”

Lady Ophelia said dryly, “He might be a gallant hero, but that won’t get him inside most London drawing-rooms, St. Merryn, not after the shameful way he treated his first wife—an earl’s daughter, I remind you—and not when he seduced his second while she was still married to Wellington’s poor brother. Any man responsible for two divorces has much to answer for in this life. And as for his brothers,” she added, looking straight at Gideon, “Sir Arthur Paget, at least, is just such another, stealing Lord Boringdon’s wife and creating yet one more scandalous divorce.”

Lady St. Merryn said sharply, “Do not mention that word. My nerves simply won’t stand it, for I cannot imagine how anyone can bear to be part of such a scandal. Moreover, you cannot blame Uxbridge, or whatever we must call him now, when it was his own wife who brought suit against him, which I am persuaded was a most unnatural thing for any female to have done and could only have been accomplished in such a backward place as Scotland.”

Gideon, to whom Uxbridge’s faults were as well known as his virtues, waited expectantly to see how Lady Ophelia would reply, but Lady Daintry forestalled her. She had been staring at her sputtering father and said now with the same air of surprise as if neither her aunt nor her mother had spoken, “Surely Charles will be as surprised as I am to learn he has any desire to go to war, Papa. I have always thought him the most devout coward.”

“Hold your tongue, girl. How dare you say so! Charles is a bruising rider to the hounds and a first-rate shot to boot. He’d have made an excellent cavalry officer.”

Gideon did not know Charles Tarrant, but he rather thought he had more faith in Lady Daintry’s description of him than the earl’s. Realizing that she had purposely drawn St. Merryn’s fire, he waited with interest to hear what she would say next; but Lady St. Merryn, diverted from the scandal of divorce, sighed loudly and said, “I am persuaded you must want to send me to an early grave, sir, for you know perfectly well my nerves would never have stood for my darling Charles to have been wrenched from my side. Why, I grow quite faint at the thought.”

“Well, you needn’t do any such thing,” the earl retorted, scowling at her. “He didn’t go, did he? I only said he might have done well as a soldier. Who’s to say but what he might not have ended up on Lord Hill’s staff, or Stuart’s?”

“Now that,” Daintry said, cocking her head a little to one side, “is entirely within the realm of possibility, for I have heard it said repeatedly that those gentlemen are best known for their noble connections, their gallantry with the fair sex, and for a certain amount of skill at the gaming tables.”

“They are skilled on the hunting field as well,” Gideon said with a chuckle before he could stop himself. Then, seeing the look of outrage that leapt to St. Merryn’s face, he added quickly, “But there are any number of good men on Hill’s staff, certainly. The Duke mentioned several in his dispatches.”

His first observation had earned him a look of amused appreciation from Lady Daintry. Ignoring the rider, she said with the same thoughtful air as before, “Charles does like to hunt, but he would not have liked being anywhere near the field at Waterloo. As to the rest, Davina complains frequently about his expertise with the opposite sex—she is his wife, you see,” she added for Gideon’s benefit, “and a fair hand at flirting, herself, so she ought to know—and she certainly complains about the time he spends at the gaming tables, but I should think Hill and Stuart would prefer their staff members to display at least some small sense of responsibility to their duties, and that Charles would fail utterly to do.”

“Damn it, Daintry,” St. Merryn growled, “I told you to hold your tongue. See what I mean, Penthorpe? I wish you well with the chit, that I do. If you take my advice, you’ll begin with a sound beating—on your wedding night—to teach her who’s master.”

Lady St. Merryn raised her vinaigrette swiftly to her nose, at which ominous sign Miss Davies knelt hastily at her side, patting her hand and murmuring anxiously, all the while casting beseeching looks over her shoulder at the earl.

Daintry had stiffened angrily, her cheeks crimson, her eyes flashing sparks, and Gideon thought her more beautiful than ever. Without thought for consequence, wanting only to prevent an explosion, he stepped forward, unfastened the clasp at her throat with a flick of his fingers, and said as he placed his other hand at her shoulder to turn her, “It is much too warm in this room for that cloak, my lady. I cannot think why you have not rung for a footman to take it away. Pray, allow me to do so for you.”

He heard the breath catch in her throat, but before she could react he swept the cloak from her shoulders. She whirled back, and the speed with which her hand flashed up to strike proved, just as he had suspected all along, that her temper was as quick as his own. Other than to challenge her with a warning look, he made no move to defend himself, but she caught herself and, still glaring, let her hand fall to her side again.

Her high-waisted, pale green morning frock had been worked down the front in pink with a Grecian scroll pattern, but Gideon scarcely noted such details. Nor did he heed St. Merryn’s hearty congratulations on the way he had put the fear of God into her, for he doubted he had done any such thing. Moreover, he was too busy admiring the effect of rapid breathing on a softly rounded bosom much plumper than he had expected to discover in a girl at least a foot shorter than he was. The pink satin bow tied neatly beneath it underscored the comeliness of that particular asset. Penthorpe had been much luckier than he had ever known.

“The bell rope,” Lady Ophelia said dryly, “is yonder by the chimney-piece, my lord.”

Recalled to his senses, Gideon flashed her a glance as he moved to ring the bell, and was inexplicably relieved to note a glint of humor in her pale eyes. There was no reflection of that humor in Daintry’s eyes, however, when he turned back to face her after giving the bell rope a sharp tug.

“You have just rung for the butler,” she said curtly.

“And a very good thing, too,” St. Merryn interjected. “He can bring us some wine. I daresay you’ll be glad of a drop after your journey, Penthorpe.”

“Too early in the day for me, sir, but don’t deny yourself on my account. Shall I ring for a footman as well, Lady Daintry?” he added, seeing her turn away toward the window as though she had washed her hands of him. “You did express a desire earlier to send a message to the stables, did you not?”

“Medrose can attend to that,” she said, “but since you are determined to be of use, perhaps you will be so kind as to adjust the fire screen for my mother. Is it not too hot for you, Mama?”

“Upon my word, girl,” St. Merryn said testily, “stop treating the man like a lackey and sit down. You can forget about sending any damned messages to the stables, too, for I tell you here and now that you are not going to go dashing off on a horse when we’ve a guest staying in the house. You are staying, of course,” he added, looking confidently at Gideon.

“As to that, sir,” Gideon began, thinking swiftly, “I was not by any means certain of my welcome here, since I had not had the good manners to send ahead to warn you of my arrival.”

“Don’t be daft, man,” St. Merryn said, breaking off when the door behind him opened and the butler entered, followed by a tall young footman. “There you are, Medrose. Take Lady Daintry’s cloak from Lord Penthorpe, and bring us some mountain sherry. Oh, and tell Mrs. Medrose to prepare rooms for his lordship.”

Gideon said hastily, “Really, sir—”

“Medrose, send word to the stables that I want horses saddled for myself and the two young ladies the minute the rain has stopped,” Daintry said, interrupting him without ceremony.

Gideon did not object since the intervention gave him time to think, but he shot her a curious look as he handed her cloak to the butler. Surely she had said she was taking
Charlie
and Melissa. Or had he misunderstood? Medrose did not question her order, though he did turn back to her once he held her cloak.

“I shall attend to it at once, Miss Daintry. Shall I take your gloves away as well, miss?”

She looked down at her hands in some surprise. “Oh, yes, of course. How foolish of me.” Stripping them off, she handed them over to him. At the threshold, he handed cloak and gloves to the footman and, turning back, closed the doors behind them himself.

A silence fell but was broken when Miss Davies got suddenly to her feet, saying with breathless eagerness, “Do sit down, Lord Penthorpe. I cannot think why you have been kept standing this age when we are all perfectly agog to hear about your noble exploits against the dreadful Bonaparte. Do tell us everything, for I am sure we shall hang in awe upon your every word.”

Lady Ophelia said tartly, “Don’t be a zany, Ethelinda. His most memorable exploit must be Waterloo, and even you cannot be so insensitive as to wish to hear the details of that frightful conflict. His lordship must have lost many friends that day, so we must not ask him to relive it for our entertainment. Sit down at once, and you sit, too, Daintry, for regardless of what you want this young man to think of you, you have no reason to act as if you’d had no breeding whatsoever. Now then, sir,” she said when Daintry had obeyed without a murmur, “you may take a seat, too, and tell us if you will, without further roundaboutation, if you do or do not mean to remain with us for a sensible visit.”

“Of course he will stay,” St. Merryn declared, beaming at him. “We’ve plans to make, upon my word.”

Fully aware that he was treading on thin ice, Gideon remembered belatedly that the reason he generally took care never to lie, aside from the utter reprehensibility of such behavior, was that he had never, even as a child, done so successfully. He still had enough sense left to stick to the truth where possible and was determined to avoid the obvious pitfalls of an extended visit, so repressing a sigh, he said cautiously, “Since I could scarcely count on such a generous welcome when I had not written first, sir—that unfortunate habit of procrastination you spoke of earlier, I fear—I decided I’d do better to put up elsewhere in the neighborhood until I had paid my respects.”

“And where,” Lady Ophelia said, “might that be, my lord?”

Realizing that she had not once called him Penthorpe, he wondered if she suspected his imposture. In any case, he must end it soon, and to avoid further untruths, and hoping too that the dratted feud would keep them from paying a formal call, he said, “At Deverill Court, ma’am. I daresay you know—”

“Oh, we know of Deverill Court,” she said, nodding. “Do we not, St. Merryn?”

“Upon my word, lad,” the earl exclaimed, “what are you about to stay with Jervaulx? Bad enough that he’s back in Cornwall at all when we thought ourselves rid of him—and I daresay you know nothing of the relationship betwixt our two families—but damme, I can’t have you staying there! You’re to remove to us at once.”