Barbara Metzger (12 page)

“That’s what I thought.”

“But not as nice as Lord Marden.”

Athena doubted anyone could be as nice as their host, certainly not in Troy’s idolizing eyes. Her brother ought to be sleeping, but he was too enthused for the rest he needed. At least his forehead felt cool to Athena’s touch. She knew that could change in a minute, but for now she let him talk.

“You like him, don’t you?” he asked.

“Lord Marden? Of course I do.”

“No, I mean do you
like
him?”

“What maggot have you got in your brain now, my boy? Did your wits get scrambled in the fall?”

“Maybe I got smarter instead.”

“And maybe you got too smart for your own good. My feelings for the earl make no matter. His lordship is far above our touch.”

“I do not see why. Our father was a titled gentleman.”

“A mere viscount with a meager holding. An earl can look as high as he wishes for a bride.”

“But you have a substantial dowry. Wiggy would not be interested otherwise.”

“My portion is a mere pittance compared to that of half the young ladies in his lordship’s social circles. What might seem a fortune to a vicar is a farthing to a nabob. You have not seen much of Maddox House, but everything is of the finest. Masterpieces and treasures fill every niche. I do not doubt that Lord Marden’s stables are better furnished than Renslow Hall.”

“Well, you are pretty enough to please a duke.”

“And I have the best, most loyal brother. But half the time the earl considers me a mere child.”

“Not anymore. I saw how he looked at you tonight when you had on your nicest gown and did something fancy with your hair.”

“He was merely surprised that I looked so well, I’d wager, for such a little dab of a chick.”

“You are not that young, Attie,” Troy said from his fifteen-year-old viewpoint. “Besides, our mother was a lot younger than our father when they married. I’d bet the earl is younger than our father was.”

“However did we jump from liking the earl to marrying him, anyway? After two days’ acquaintance? Do not start building air castles for us to live in, Troy, for his lordship will not settle for less than a Diamond for his countess. He’ll pick a woman who is titled in her own right, wealthy beyond measure, educated at an exclusive seminary, if his family has not already selected the perfect bride. Her family will have political connections or land that borders the earl’s. She will be part of his world, acquainted with his friends, the perfect, experienced hostess.”

“She sounds dull as ditchwater. Or like Rensdale’s wife, Veronica.”

Athena ignored the slur to their wealthy, well-educated, and waspish sister-in-law. “You are assuming, my boy, that Lord Marden is looking for a wife, which is by no means certain. After all, what woman would turn him down if he offered? He has managed to stay a bachelor this long, seemingly enjoying his freedom, if half the gossip is true. I can guarantee you that he is not going to change his style for the likes of me.”

Troy was not convinced. “But you like him?”

“Yes, silly. I like the earl. Very much.”

Too much, she feared, for everything she’d told Troy was all too true. The Earl of Marden was not
for the likes of Miss Athena Renslow.

*

“That went well, I thought.” Ian was preparing for bed, his man Hopkins picking up the garments the earl haphazardly discarded.

“A noble effort, my lord,” Hopkins agreed. The valet had necessarily been party to the performance, since they could not very well ask one of the maids to lace up Carswell’s stays or stuff his bodice.

“Yet I detect some reservation in your tone.”

Hopkins was inspecting his lordship’s coat for lint or, worse, dog hairs, before hanging it up. He studied the coat, instead of replying.

“Out with it, man. You’ve been in the servants’ hall. Were we successful or not?”

“I daresay we might have been, if Lady Throckmorton-Jones had not been seen outside by the footman whose job it is to walk the dog.”

“What is wrong with that? She felt the need for some fresh air.”

“She was in the garden, near the gate to the mews.”

“Very well, she likes horses. She wished to see that they were well bedded down for the night.”

“Forgive the vulgarity, my lord, but the footman reported that the lady pissed in the garden.”

“Ah, she was outdoors seeking the necessary, but got lost, and the urge was too strong to wait. She is from the country, you know, without modern conveniences, and was too modest to ask anyone for a chamber pot.”

“She hiked up her skirts to relieve herself.”

“Of course she did. Nothing wrong there.”

“Against a tree, standing up? Furthermore, that same footman told the others that, while Lady Throckmorton-Jones’s skirts were raised, he saw boots. So did the dog, which is known to have an aversion to gentlemen’s footwear.”

“Damnation, I told Carswell to cram his toes into Dorothy’s slippers, no matter how much they pinched. I suppose I owe him a new pair of boots?”

“I believe your debt is a shade more costly than that, my lord.”

“The footman told the others?”

“It was too grand a joke, my lord.”

Ian was not laughing. “I am sunk.”

“Capsized, run aground, scuttled. Yes, I believe that sums up the situation, sir. Or if you were to pursue a different tack, you might consider yourself ditched, overturned, or splintered. In the ring, you might be—”

“Yes, I get the idea.” Ian took his coat back from Hopkins, but he left his shoes off. “I will go check on the boy. With any luck, which has been sorely missing lately, no one has informed young Renslow of the masquerade. I’ll have that footman’s head if he did.”

“The staff would not gossip with the young man. Amongst themselves, perhaps—no, positively—but not with a guest.”

“Good. I would not want Troy to think I went back on my word.”

“Even though you did?” Hopkins felt entitled to ask, after serving the earl since his university days. “Through no fault of your own, of course.”

“This whole wretched mess is my fault! It feels as if the only disaster I am not responsible for is the army’s last defeat on the Peninsula.”

“And the fog, my lord. No one considers you quite that omnipotent.”

“Thank you, Hopkins. That makes me feel so much better.”

“My pleasure, my lord.”

*

Athena was at the boy’s bedside. Thunderation, he should have expected that. And she was weeping. The boy was still. Oh, no.

“Is he…?” Ian could not say the word.

“Sleeping.”

“But he is worse?” The earl touched the boy’s hand, feeling skin that was neither hot nor cold nor clammy.

“No, he appears the same. The physicians are pleased with his progress. He has pain but no fever, and seems in his senses, so they decided he was not concussed. They are permitting him to have a small dose of laudanum. He will sleep better now, without that enervating restlessness.”

“But you are crying?” It was not so much a question as a demand for an explanation.

Athena dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. “No, I am not. I never cry.”

She had been crying last night, too. Besides, Ian knew what he saw, which was swollen eyes, blotches on her fair cheeks, and a red nose. Miss Renslow was not one of those women who looked attractive in distress. She looked wretched, precisely as he felt.

“If you are not crying, have you contracted a congestion?”

“No, I feel quite well. Thank you,” she added with a sniffle.

“Then you are merely overtired and burdened with worry about your brother. The maids can sit with him through the night, if he is sleeping so soundly. I can stay up to make sure he has his next dose of the pain medicine.”

“No, I am not tired. I rested this afternoon.”

He gave up. “You are weeping because our miserable plan failed, then?”

“It was not a miserable plan. It was magnificent!”

“But it did not save your reputation, because the servants saw through the disguise. I am so sorry, my dear. My mother is ill, my sister is away from home, and neither I nor Carswell could think of one other female who was respectable enough—that is, one other female who could come on such short notice. I can hire a gentlewoman tomorrow from one of the agencies, but it was too late today. I could not think of anything else to do. I swear I never wished to see you distressed.”

“I know. That’s why I am crying.”

“Not because of what Wiggy will say when he hears? Or your older brother?”

She shook her head, and more tears fell. “Because no one ever tried to rescue me before. You see, I was the one who fought for Troy, who insisted he get better care than those ignorant country doctors. I stood up to Veronica constantly, to make sure the servants were treated fairly, and to Rensdale, so he did not keep raising the tenants’ rents. But no one ever fought for me. No one took my part when my brother’s wife dismissed my beloved governess, or urged Veronica to introduce me to eligible gentlemen. My brother was too clutch-fisted, and too much under the cat’s paw. My uncle was away at sea too long. And Troy is too young, of course.”

“So there was no one to take your part?”

“No one until you and Mr. Carswell played knights-errant, trying to save this damsel in distress. You did your utmost to protect the useless reputation of a near stranger. I weep, not because my reputation is in tatters, but because it mattered to you.”

“Of course it matters. I am the one who got you into this damnable coil.”

“No, you care because you are the kindest man I have ever met.”

Kind? Ian wanted to scream. She thought he was kind? He wanted to take her and shake her and shout at her that he was the dastard who had shot her brother. He was guilty, by Jupiter. He deserved to be hanged, and still might be. He was not kind. He was a cur, a cad, and too much the coward to tell her. She would despise him, and then where would he be? Where would they both be? Twice as miserable. “I—”

“I am sorry if I embarrassed you, my lord. Perhaps I am simply tired. I will rest for a few hours now.”

If Ian feared Athena would cry alone in her room, for dreams that never could come true, he’d be right.

But the dream was wrong.

Chapter Nine

A man does not need a wife.

—Anonymous

A man does not need a wife if he has a cook, a butler, a valet, a housekeeper, a mistress, and a dog. Otherwise, he will be miserable.

—Mrs. Anonymous

Mr. Wiggs called early the next morning. Athena knew he would. The family was at breakfast, he was told by Lord Marden’s butler. Wiggs was used to being invited to break his fast with Lord and Lady Rensdale, so he was doubly offended.

He called again late that morning. Athena knew he would, so she met him in the drawing room. As soon as he was seated, with a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits, he started lecturing. Athena knew he would.

She listened with only part of her attention, wondering if Troy should have another dose of laudanum, or if the earl’s mother would ever arrive in London. She wondered if her Uncle Barnaby would let her stay on at his residence once Troy was recovered, if Spartacus refused to let a fallen woman come home. Or if she should simply seek a post as companion or governess.

“I am outraged, I say.”

Athena was not happy about seeking a position, either. She did sit up straighter, though, and listened more carefully. Obviously, Wiggy had already bespoken his indignation. His bulldog face was turning purple with his anger. “Yes?”

“Any man of principle would be.”

“I am sure he would.”

“Deceit and lies and immodest behavior. I have never been so surprised at a person’s behavior in my life. I expected far better of you, Miss Renslow.”

“Of me? But I did not know they were going to—Ah, what behavior of mine are you referring to, Mr. Wiggs?”

“What, do you tell so many untruths that you cannot keep track?” He raised his voice in affront. “You are certainly not the woman I took you to be, and certainly not a suitable wife for a man of the cloth. Why, I do not believe you are a good example to young Renslow, and so I shall tell Lord Rensdale.”

She knew he would.

With nothing to lose, Athena asked, “Just what would you have had me do, abandon my little brother?”

“Your brother? That young devil deserves to be whipped, and so I shall inform Rensdale as soon as the sprig is recovered. You have always pleaded for leniency, but this time you have both gone too far. And I might never have known, had I not gone to call on your uncle this morning.”

“My uncle? Ah, that is what has you so riled.”

“Riled? I am aghast and appalled. At least I made sure that you do indeed have such a relation. He was ailing, you told me. He was in bed, young Renslow told me. He is not even in London, by heaven, the next-door maidservant told me!”

“He will be soon. The Admiralty expects his ship—”

“Imagine my dismay when I called to consult with the captain about removing you and your brother from this house of tainted virtue. And, I must admit, I had intended to speak with him about a more personal matter. Thank goodness I did not!”

“You could not very well speak to Uncle Barnaby if he was not at home, could you?”

Her effort at levity made Wiggs even more furious. His Adam’s apple bobbed and his mouth turned down and his voice rose louder, loud enough to be heard from a pulpit. He might never have that pulpit of his own without Lord Rensdale’s backing, which he was losing, along with Miss Renslow’s dowry. Of course he lost his temper. “The point is that he never was at home, by all that is holy! I might not have discovered that fact but for a servant sweeping the steps next door. You lied to me, Miss Renslow,” he shouted, “an outright, immoral lie, so that you might stay on in London kicking up a lark.”

“A lark? I stayed in London so that we could consult a learned physician about my brother’s condition, and so Troy could see some of the sights while we were here. I knew you would not approve, so I chose to avoid an argument by neglecting to mention Uncle’s delay. You make it sound as if I went strolling down the Dark Walk at Vauxhall, or tied my garters on Bond Street. I never even purchased a novel, for I knew your disdain for them. And yes, Troy lied along with me, because he did not wish to go home the day we arrived, not when he was finally free to experience something of the world. I do not consider that an immoral act, sir. And if you, Mr. Wiggs, had been more accommodating, more understanding, then we should not have needed to fabricate Uncle Barnaby’s illness.”