Barbara Metzger (7 page)

“You have definitely made your point, Miss, ah, Lamb. I-”

“And I resent your comparing me to that notorious female. I am trying to help my family in the only way I know how. I am not trying to make a spectacle of myself.”

The viscount stroked his chin. “I rather had in mind one of those cute, curly little creatures who gambol into quicksand.”

Sydney fingered her uneven curls. “I did it myself.”

“I never would have guessed. But I cannot keep calling you Miss Ah if we are going to be partners.”

“Partners? We are?” Sydney didn’t care if he called her Misbegotten, if he would lend her the money! “Oh, thank you!”

Lend it he would, and most likely was always going to. The viscount was acting against all of his better judgment ... and bowing to the inevitable. Giving her the blunt was the only way to keep the minx out of—”Yes, Mischief, I am going to give you the money, but with conditions.”

Sydney eagerly drew a pencil and a scrap of paper out of her reticule. “Yes, sir, what is the rate? Shall you want payment in installments or one lump sum? I can figure out a schedule, or reinvest from the dress allowance or—”

“Hold, Mischief. I said
give.
Consider it a parting gift from 0. Randall and Associates.” He ignored the louder thumps from the other room and pushed the leather purse with the thousand pounds over to her. “That way neither of us is ensnared. You know, ‘neither a borrower nor a lender be.’ “

She shook her head, sending curls every which way. The devil was quoting Scripture again. “And you say women have no head for business. You cannot just give away a sack of gold to a stranger.”

“Why not? It’s mine. My brother had some gaming debts.”

“And you collected from your own brother?”

The viscount didn’t bother refuting fustian. He pushed the purse a little closer.

Sydney could almost feel the weight of the coins, but she could not reach out those few inches for the sack. “I do not mean any offense, Mr. Mayne, but a lady cannot accept such a gift. There are certain standards of which you may not be aware, but it would be highly improper. Flowers, perhaps, but a thousand pounds?”

The viscount laughed out loud, even though it hurt his sore jaw and disturbed his ribs. “Doing it too brown, my girl. If you can dress up in your mother’s clothes and go to the Greeks, talking about boxing matches like they were afternoon teas, then you can take the money. It’s too late to stand on your uppers, Mischief.” He got up and put the sack in her lap. “Besides, I have a secret to tell you. I am not really a moneylender.”

Sydney looked at the bag of money in her lap, the rumpled man with the lopsided grin, the shambles of an office with the sign on the door. She nodded. She had the money; she could humor the Bedlamite.

“I am a viscount.”

“And I am the queen of Persia. Therefore I shall have no problem repaying you by the end of the Season.” She stood to leave.

“But you haven’t heard my conditions yet.”

He was standing quite close to her, still wearing that devilish smile. Sydney sat down. “Of course, the rates.”

He waved that aside. “I said you needn’t repay the deuced loan; I certainly would not make profit on it. Even we viscounts have some standards. But here are my terms: the first is that you never, ever try to contact another loan shark. You contact me and only me if you find yourself in difficulty again.” He scrawled his Grosvenor Square address on her piece of paper. “Next, you never return here, no matter how many musclebound footmen you have. Promise me on your honor, Mischief, and your family name that you prize so highly.”

He was no longer grinning. Sydney solemnly swore and he smiled like the sun coming out again. “Good. And finally, I get to keep the hair.”

“As collateral? But it’s not worth nearly enough.”

It was to him.

* * * *

Sydney stood by the door, cradling a sack of currency instead of a basket of hair, and vowing again to repay the reckoning. Up close, Forrest got a hint of lavender mixed with the camphor and he could almost count the freckles across the bridge of her nose.

“You know, my dear,” he said, keeping his voice low, “if you have trouble meeting the obligation, I am sure we could find some mutually satisfying way of settling accounts.”

There was that wide-eyed stare of muddled incomprehension. Miss Lattimore hadn’t the faintest idea of what he was shamefully suggesting. So he showed her. Tenderly, he placed his lips on hers and softly kissed her.

Oddly enough, Sydney was not frightened. It was all of a piece for this incredible afternoon. In fact, it was quite enjoyable, being held in a man’s arms and sweetly kissed. All the other men of her acquaintance—not many, to be sure, and more boys than men—smelled of bay rum or talc, soap or sandalwood. This one smelled of ... sweat. And the smell was as wild as the man, disturbing and exciting and—a cad! Sydney struggled and he released her immediately. Smiling.

“You . . . you,” she sputtered. “You were right. Moneylenders
are
vermin.” And she slapped him.

Sydney was horrified. She’d never struck a man before. Then again, she’d never been kissed before, nor been offered a slip on the shoulder. She knew she was partially to blame for being where no lady should be. Of course a gentleman would not have taken advantage of a lady no matter what the circumstances, but Mr. Mayne, or whoever he was, was not a gentleman. She should not have expected him to act like one, nor reacted so violently when he did not. Sydney was prepared to apologize, when the door burst open.

Willy shoved his way in, ready to do battle after the noises he’d heard. He saw his mistress looking irresolute, saw the five-fingered calling card she’d left on the handsome devil’s grinning face. He shook his head. “I told you and told you, Missy, not with your open hand.” He smashed his fist right in the viscount’s eye with enough force to ensure a spectacular shiner.

Forrest raised his hands in submission. He knew he was wrong to steal the kiss, but it was well worth it. He smiled, remembering,

“And if that don’t work,” Willy continued, “we taught you what to do.” He kneed the viscount in the groin.

Miss Lattimore stepped over his lordship daintily, swearing to have the money back and wishing him good day.

Forrest groaned. Women.

Chapter 7

Fils et Frères

The Lattimore sisters were in funds and the Mainwaring brothers were nearly identical again.

Before leaving the Fleet Street premises, Viscount Mayne staggered to the doorway of the adjacent room and told the occupants: “Listen up, you bounders. I just made a donation to a worthy cause on your behalf. A thousand pounds of charity ought to buy you a better seat on the boat to hell. Unless you want that lucky day to come soon, you bastards best remember everything I said, and forget everything you heard.”

Then he gathered his coat—London would just have to see the immaculate viscount in his shirt-tails for once—and his misused cravat. He picked up the carpetbag of weaponry and Miss Lattimore’s basket. On reflection he decided he was going to look enough like a bobbingblock without a little wicker handle slung over his arm. Removing the mound of hair, he carefully wrapped it in that vastly utilitarian item, his soiled neckcloth.

Forrest entered Mainwaring House through the rear door. One of the scullery maids dropped a bowl of beans, the turnspit dog growled, and Cook threw her apron over her head, wailing.

The viscount slunk on to the study, where he penned out notes to accompany the canceled IOUs.
This matter has been attended to,
he wrote.
Best wishes for your future, Yrs., etc. Vct. Mayne.
He did not feel he owed the flats any further explanation, nor did he think they would pay attention to any advice he might give about the folly of dipping too deep. He placed the notes with a footman, then finally placed himself in the hands of his father’s toplofty valet. That worthy’s already pasty complexion took on a greenish cast when confronted with this latest Mainwaring casualty. Heavens, Findley thought. Did they never win?

After a long soak in a hot tub, a nourishing meal, and half a bottle of the duke’s Burgundy, the viscount took to his bed for a long night’s rest. He awoke—and instantly declared that was miracle enough for the day. He felt, and looked, worse than he had since a cannonball sent him flying off the HMS
Fairwind’s
deck, ending his naval career.

He couldn’t bear to stay inside, where the housemaids tiptoed around him, their eyes averted. He didn’t dare go outside, where children could get nightmares from a look at his face, horses might bolt, ladies swoon. He had to get out of the London fishbowl.

As soon as his brother was declared fit to travel, Forrest bundled Brennan into the coach for the ride to Sussex. He and Bren would be better off recuperating in the country under their mother’s tender care. There would be fewer questions, at any rate. They could give out that there had been a carriage accident. Or two.

* * * *

Two beefsteaks for Wally every morning, for his training. Three cases of the general’s favorite port. Enough macaroons and almond tarts and seed cakes for the legions of morning callers and afternoon teas. A small dinner party for Lord Scoville? No, that would be too coming. Besides, she’d have to invite Aunt Harriet.

Sydney was making lists and spending money. What joy! She and her sister had already been to the Pantheon Bazaar where, Annemarie the maid informed them, they could get the best bargains on ribbons and lace and gloves and stockings. The Lattimore ladies had patronized fabric warehouses, plumassiers, milliners, and shoemakers. They had
not
visited a single dressmaker, saving money as fast as they spent it. Annemarie’s emigré connections could whip up the most fetching outfits, à
la mode
and meticulously crafted, for a quarter of the price of a haughty Bond Street modiste. Annemarie herself was a wizard with a needle, changing a trimming here, a mesh overskirt there. She removed ribbons and sewed on spangles, making each of the girls’ gowns appear as many.

At Sydney’s insistence, most of the attention and expense was devoted to her sister’s wardrobe. No one noticed the little sister anyway, when Miss Lattimore was such a beauty. Winifred went out more, too. She did not seem to mind interminable visits with Aunt Harriet and Trixie, while Sydney preferred to stay home, reading the newspapers to the general and reveling in every gossip column’s mention of the new star rising on the social horizon.

Sydney did allow herself to be persuaded to purchase a dress length of jonquil muslin, which then required the most dashing bonnet she’d ever owned: a cottage straw with a bouquet of yellow silk daisies peeping from under the brim, two russet feathers a shade darker than her hair curling along her cheek, and green streamers trailing down her back and under her chin. It looked elegant, sophisticated, alluring—more so once she had her ragged locks trimmed by a professional coiffeur.

“Oh, Sydney, your beautiful hair,” Winifred cried. “And you did it for me!”

Sydney thought that cutting her hair was the least of what she’d done. She would never discuss her visit to Fleet Street with her sensitive sister, though, especially not this afternoon, when Winnie was due to go for a drive in the park with Baron Scoville. Sydney couldn’t trust the watering pot not to have a
crise de nerfs
right in front of him.

“Hush, you peagoose,” Sydney teased. “We can’t have the baron see you with swollen eyes and a red nose. He might think you the kind of woman to be enacting him scenes all the time. No gentleman would like that.” She did not add,
Especially one so concerned with his consequence as the baron.
Winnie seemed pleased by the attention of the self-important peer; far be it from Sydney to disparage such a well-breeched gentleman.

“Besides,” she said, “I did not cut my hair for you. I always hated that impossible mop. It weighed down my head and would never take a curl. Now I couldn’t make it lay flat if I wanted to, and I feel free of all that heaviness and constant bother. Look at me. I am almost fashionable! You better be careful I don’t steal all of your beaux away!”

“You could have all the admirers you want, dearest, if you would just go out and about more. Why, the gentlemen will flock to your feet when they see you in your new bonnet. You can have your pick!” Winnie giggled, her spirits restored. “Maybe one of the Bond Street fribbles will catch your fancy.”

Sydney didn’t think so.

* * * *

The Duchess of Mayne was a student of breeding. She had intricate charts of the bloodlines of her dogs, their conformations, colors, temperaments. When she selected a mating pair, she was fairly certain of the results. Hers was the most noted establishment for Pekingese dogs in the kingdom. Lady Mayne was proud of her dogs.

She herself collected seeds from the best blossoms in her garden, for next year’s blooms. Her gardens were mentioned in guidebooks. She was proud of her flowers.

She should have stopped there.

In the middle years of her marriage, when Lady Mayne still discussed her marriage at all, she used to boast that her husband could accuse her of many things, but never infidelity. All four of her children had his dark hair and the Mainwaring nose. (Fortunately the girls had pleasing personalities and large dowries.) She used to say that blood would tell, that breeding was all. She used to be proud of her sons, tall and straight, darkly handsome, like two peas in a pod.

Like two peas in a pod that had been left on the vine too long, stepped on by the farmer’s hobnail boots, then run over by the farm cart.

“This is why I sent you to London? This is how you help your brother and keep the family name from the tattlemongers? This is how you were raised to behave?”

If Forrest had expected loving kindness and tender sympathy from his mother, he was disabused of that notion as soon as he helped Brennan past the front door. The duchess didn’t even wait for the servants to retreat before lighting into her eldest offspring.