Bridal Favors (2 page)

“What were you coming here for?” he asked.

“A glass of milk.”

Calmly, he opened the icebox and withdrew a pitcher. Then he hunted through the cupboards until he found a mug. He poured milk into it and placed it in her hands. She sipped it politely as he watched like a determined nursemaid for a full minute before ducking into the larder.

He rooted about, returning with a loaf of bread and a slice of cold turkey breast from last night’s menu. He tore the bread into two roughly equal-sized pieces and sandwiched the meat between them.

“Here,” he said, holding it out.

“No, thank you,” she said primly, feeling at a distinct disadvantage, what with her feet dangling thirty inches above the floor.

“Go on,” he urged. “Eat. You need it.”

She started to protest but then noticed that he’d crossed his arms over his chest in what Evelyn was beginning to suspect was a universal sign of male intractability. With a shrug, she accepted the sandwich and bit into it. It tasted better than she’d anticipated.

When she finished she looked up. “Well?”

“Precisely,” he said. “Now, Lady Evelyn, about what you saw . . .” He trailed off, frowning, and abruptly swiped her upper lip with his forefinger. At her shocked expression, he smiled. “Milk mustache. Are you
sure
you’re fifteen?”

Again, she blushed. She refused to be flustered by a common masher. Or even an uncommon one. “Quite sure. Now, you were saying?”

“Blast if I know.” He cocked his head.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

“I am trying to decide how much you saw, what you suspect, and if I can convince you not only to be discreet but to be absolutely mum on the subject of my whereabouts this evening,” he answered with amazing ingenuousness.

“I should imagine that depends on how glib you are over the next few minutes,” she replied with equal candor.

He laughed. It was a deep, honest sound that nearly made her smile. But then she remembered that, in all probability, all mashers had rich, enticing laughs.

“Did you say fifteen or fifty?” he asked, the amusement still . . .
What a spectacular color!
How had she failed to notice his eyes before? They were pale
blue-green, a sort of viridian, the silkier nephrite sort, like the little copper-flecked Ming dynasty horse in her father’s library—

“Lady Evelyn?”

“Hm?” she replied, trying to drag her gaze away from the fascinating color of his eyes.

“Do you know who I am?”

The question was so absurd it managed to interrupt her even more absurd fascination with his eyes. “Of course I do. You are Mr. Justin Powell, until recently a military officer of some junior rank in Her Majesty’s army—forgive me, but I have failed to remember which.

“Your father is Colonel Marcus Powell, Viscount Sumner, lately of Her Majesty’s army. He owns a woolen mill in Hampshire and the majority share of a coal mine in the north of Canada. You are his only son and heir.

“Your maternal grandfather is retired Brigadier General John Harden, a rather famous career soldier who served with Wolseley in South Africa. Though he spends the greater part of the year in town, he also owns North Cross Abbey, a renovated abbey built in the mid–sixteenth century.” Having finished her recital, she folded her hands in her lap and waited expectantly.

He stared at her, bemused. “My God, you are well versed.”

“I went to great trouble to see that no unacceptable person was invited to Verity’s party.”

He ignored her pointed stare. “
You
went to trouble?”

“Yes. I made up the guest list.”

“You’re jesting.”

“Not at all. You see, Father takes a dim view of
any
potential suitor for Verity’s hand. The guest list would have been cut down to nothing if left up to him. And Mother is far too trusting.” Evelyn shifted under his astonished gaze and added defensively, “Verity helped make the list.”

“Kind of you to consult her.”

“Well,” Evelyn allowed, “it is
her
husband we’re endeavoring to find.” The mention of husbands brought Mr. Underhill back to mind. She narrowed her eyes on Mr. Powell as he leaned negligently against the wall. “You, of course, will be retired from the running.”

“Running? Oh. Yes.” He nodded morosely. “Of course.”

She felt a grudging smidgen of respect for him. He’d taken that gracefully enough. Since there was nothing left to discuss, she prepared to slide off the table. He quickly pushed away from the wall.

“As interesting as your compendium of knowledge about me is, that wasn’t what I meant when I asked if you knew who I was,” he said.

“Oh?” she asked.

“I should have said, ‘Do you know
what
I am?’ ”

She eyed him sourly. “I am afraid I do.”

He went very still. “Yes?”

“Yes,” she said severely. “You are what Verity’s friends call ‘a wolf.’ ”

He blinked. Straightened. Blinked again. And burst into delighted laughter. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what
do
you mean?” she asked, miffed he’d laughed at her cold, disapproving pronouncement.

“I am the Mr. Justin Powell you described, but I am also, in my own right, the very rich, the very influential Mr. Justin Powell.”

Influential? Not that she’d ever heard, but she allowed that there might be things about him she hadn’t uncovered. She regarded him doubtfully.

“I really am.”

She remained mute.

He threw up his hands. “I cannot believe I am standing in a kitchen at two in the morning trying to persuade a skinny fifteen-year-old girl of my worth!” he muttered in exasperation. “Look, Lady Evelyn, I have friends. Important people listen to me.”

Gads, Evelyn thought, this was verging on being pathetic.

“Bloody damn, I sound like a boasting schoolboy!” He must have read her mind. Then his sense of humor abruptly returned and he grinned.

“You can ask around later, if you like, but the bottom line, my scrawny little owlet, is this: Wouldn’t you like to have a man of some consequence, no small wealth, and not a little influence
in your debt
?”

She eyed him thoughtfully. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I am willing to trust you. You seem a levelheaded sort of girl. The sort of girl who would immediately realize that nothing good can come out of revealing whose room you saw me exit this evening, but indeed, only a great deal of harm.”

“I should say,” Evelyn agreed.

He tapped her lightly on the lips, quieting her as one would a pert child. “As well as besmirching Mrs. Underhill’s name, it would cast a pall over Lady Verity’s coming-out. On the other hand, you would be doing everyone a kindness by staying quiet.

“And what harm could it do? As I am no longer a candidate for your lovely sister’s hand, I am hardly a threat to your family’s honor, am I?”

He had a point. Still . . .

“You’re not one of those frightful creatures who actually
enjoys
bearing sordid tales, are you?” he asked.

“No!” she squawked. She absolutely
loathed
telltales.

He smiled. “And you are obviously mature enough to realize that not everything we see is exactly as it seems. You would not judge another, would you?”

She shook her head, albeit more slowly this time. In truth, she judged people all the time. But the way
he
said it made it seem a shallow, spiteful sort of thing.

“I didn’t think so,” he said kindly. “Now, if you keep this absolutely secret, not breathing a single word to a soul, not even your sister,” he leaned down until he was eye to eye with her, “I promise you, you will have no cause to regret your great charity, and perhaps someday reason to be glad of it.”

“I will?” she said suspiciously. “And why is that?”

“Because I will then be beholden to you, Lady Evelyn, and I always,” he fixed her with an intent gaze, “
always
pay my debts.”

He straightened and moved to Cook’s small, battered desk. He picked up one of the cards Cook wrote out the daily menus on and scribbled something on it. He returned with it. “Can I rely on you?”

She studied him, thinking. Everything he’d said was true. He’d already agreed he would not be paying court to Verity anymore. There was little to gain from exposing him. And if she let him “off the hook,” someday his gratitude might actually prove useful.

“All right, Mr. Powell. I promise I will say nothing—unless you should decide to pursue Verity.”

“I swear I won’t.”

“Then I swear, too.” She stuck out her hand to seal the bargain and at once his own much larger one enveloped hers, pressing the card into her palm.

“Bless you, child. Now, can you find your way to your room?” he asked diffidently.

For the first time that evening, Evelyn smiled. “I’ve been doing so since I could walk.”

He’d been in the process of turning away, but now he stopped. His brows lifted as if in surprise. “Why, you . . .” He stopped whatever he’d been about to say. “Then I will say good night, Lady Evelyn.”

He inclined his head and a minute later vanished through the kitchen door, leaving her alone. Curiously, she turned over the card and read what he’d written.

I O U
Justin Falloden Powell, the 9th of March, 1885

Chapter 1

London, England
Ten years later

“IF YOU DO not want blood all over your carpet, I suggest you call a physician,” Evelyn called out from where she lay flat on her back. She pushed her spectacles back into place and turned her head to look at the unbroken window.

The reflected image of the tall man who’d walked into the library abruptly stopped, caught in a pool of bright mid-morning sunlight. He wore shirtsleeves, the white cuffs rolled halfway up sinewy, tanned forearms, the collar open at the throat.

“Which carpet?” he asked, looking about for her.

Ten years had passed, but it might have been yesterday that she’d last seen him. The easy, imperturbable voice was the same, as was his loose-limbed build and disheveled good looks.

“Here,” Evelyn called. “On the floor by the window. The broken one.”

Justin Powell closed the book he’d been carrying and came round the side of the desk. Looking up past his expensive shoes, she could see the subtle changes a decade had wrought. Thin lines radiated from the corners of his eyes and little comma-shapes bracketed his wide mouth. A dusting of gray threaded through dark brown hair in dire need of a good clip.

Mutely, he gazed down at her. Just as mute, she returned his regard.

What was wrong with a man when even the sight of a woman bleeding on his floor couldn’t excite him to action?

“I understand how the sight of a woman lying in a pool of her own blood might be off-putting, Mr. Powell,” she said. “But can I do anything to dispel the paralysis that seems to have gripped you and encourage you to act?”

“Woman, eh?” he murmured, calmly setting his book on the desk. He hunkered down, his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging between his legs. Gingerly, he lifted the torn flap in the knickers she’d borrowed from her nephew Stanley.

She dared a glance at her leg, saw the red blood, and averted her face. She looked up at him in order to read in his expression the severity of her injury, but instead found herself staring in fascination at his eyes. They were just as she remembered, too, a fascinating, glinty-soft bluish-green. Forest pond beneath brilliant autumn sky. Gold leaf swirling through liquid jade—

“You aren’t bleeding to death,” Justin said matter-of-factly. He released the flap of twill. “And that spot isn’t a pool.” He frowned at his fingertips, looked around, and ended up wiping them on her pant leg. “Though the cut is long, it’s not very deep.”

“Thank heavens!” She released the breath she’d been holding. She was, admittedly, a bit of a sissy where blood was concerned.

“Not much more than a scratch,” he said calmly. “A tad messy, but nothing any English schoolboy hasn’t suffered a dozen times over.”

His lack of sympathy made her bristle. “I am
not
an English schoolboy.”

“Since Mrs. Boyle’s Finishing School opened in the neighborhood, I have learned that the difference between the average English schoolgirl and the average English schoolboy isn’t all that great.” His gaze drifted in a purely impersonal manner over poor Stanley’s blouse, knotted kerchief, and ruined knickers.

She frowned. “I dressed this way only because I expected I would need to crawl up the trellis outside your library window in order to get in.”

“Now that you explain, it makes perfect sense.”

She was wounded and he was being sarcastic. She lifted herself to her elbows, preparing to deliver him a stinging set-down, but as soon as her head rose above her chest and she saw the sticky red flap of cloth, her head swam. She dropped back with a moan.

“Are you hurt elsewhere?” Justin asked quickly.

“No. It’s just that . . . Blood.” She shuddered. “I’ll be fine as long as I don’t look at it.”

“Then by all means, don’t look. You’re as white as Devon sand.” He uncoiled. “Just lie there quietly while I nip off and raid the old medicine cabinet. I’ll be back in a trice.”