Duel of Hearts (5 page)

I
t was precisely at eight o'clock that Anthony Barsett lifted Jeptha Cole's brass knocker. Located in Hans Town, the house reflected the prosperity of the merchant class, with Corinthian pilasters and cornices across the wide porch, huge carved double doors beneath an arch of leaded glass, and exterior proportions that were both pleasing and ostentatious.

As the uniformed butler opened the doors to him, Tony glimpsed the wide expanse of hall, its highly polished rose marble floor reflecting the lights of the multitiered chandelier above. Stepping inside, he could not resist the temptation to look around him, and he was surprised at the tasteful elegance of the merchant's home.

As he looked up, Leah Cole came out into the hall above him and started down the steps, and the sight of her made him wince. Her slim fingers seemed to skim lightly over the polished cherrywood of the curved banister as she descended, her carriage erect, her head held high. She was dressed in a gown of deep blue moiré taffeta, which rustled seductively with each step she took but it was the bodice, or rather the lack of it, which caught his attention immediately. It was as though it had been designed to display her charms—deeply and widely cut, exposing the crevice between her breasts just short of baring the mounds themselves. The gown was as good as sleeveless, with but tiny puffs at the shoulders, giving Tony a good glimpse of creamy neck, throat, bosom, and arms. As his eyes traveled upward, he could scarce credit what he saw, for she'd rouged her cheeks and reddened her lips with the liberal hand of a brothel procuress. And above her painted face, her dark blond hair was a mass of corkscrew curls à la Medusé, springing forth wildly, and above the disarray, rising like a phoenix, was a bizarre assortment of curled ostrich plumes.

“Miss Cole,” he managed, despite a twitch at one corner of his mouth.

She stopped mid-stairs at the sound of his voice, and her body stiffened noticeably. A frown of displeasure, much like that of one forced to do something distasteful, crossed her face momentarily. “Lord Lyndon,” she acknowledged with a barely civil nod. Her gray eyes traveled over him, taking in the exacting cut of his deep blue woolen coat, his snowy cravat done in a fall of his own design above a crimson silk waistcoat, his smooth-fitting narrow pinstripe trousers, and his plain leather pumps, all a sharp contrast to the affectations of the wealthy merchants' sons she knew. Her eyebrow rose a fraction, betraying her surprise.

“Well, do you come down that I may apologize, or do I come up?” he asked finally. “I shall feel like the veriest cake up there, but I am willing to lie prostrate at your feet for a well-deserved kick, Miss Cole.”

“I would not advise it, my lord. I should kick you down the stairs, I fear,” she responded acidly. “Indeed, I should relish the task.” Her hand still on the railing, she negotiated the last few steps, being careful to balance her outlandish headdress.

“I am quite sorry, you know,” he murmured, now fighting to suppress an outright grin. “I can see now that I quite mistook the matter. I—”

“I assure you there is no need for this, my lord,” she cut in abruptly.

“Then you will forgive me?”

“No. But that is quite beside the point. Nothing you could say would convince me that your opinion of me has changed for any reason other than the discovery that I am the daughter of a wealthy man—a wealthy Cit, to be exact, Lord Lyndon.” She used the word “Cit” rather than “merchant” openly, almost challenging him to dispute it. “That is what people of your class call us, is it not?”

“Miss Cole—”

Her hand went up to steady her hair. “Do you like it?” she asked archly. “ 'Tis the latest in Cit fashion, you know.”

“ 'Tis charming—particularly the cut of the gown.” Bending over her hand gallantly, he sought to kiss her fingers.

Clearly he was not recoiling as she had hoped. Snatching her hand back quickly, she tried again to give him a disgust of her. “Lord Lyndon, let us not play games with each other when plain speaking will serve us best. I quite know why you are here, and I intend to accept your suit—provided, of course, that you mean to take me to Almack's and all of the other elegant places a fashionable lady is seen.” Pausing to inspect with studied insouciance a garish bracelet she'd borrowed from the belowstairs maid, she added coquettishly, “You do mean to introduce me to the swells, do you not? That is, I shall expect it.” Leaning backward to flutter her soot-blackened eyelashes at him, she lost part of the effect when two of the teetering plumes chose to fall out.

He bent to pick them up and his eyes traveled from her toes to her face slowly, bringing a blush in their wake. “Miss Cole, you seem to be laboring under a misapprehension that I have made you an offer.”

She stared blankly for a moment, unable to believe the relief she felt. “You mean you have
not?”

“No. I have made no offer of marriage, Miss Cole—not to you or anyone. 'Twas my belief that your father invited me to dine.”

“Oh, but …” For a moment she was nonplussed, feeling like the veriest fool. “But I thought … I mean, did he not offer you money to take me?”

“There was some mention of it, I believe, but I did not commit to the offer. My title, Miss Cole, is not for sale.” He watched her, enjoying her discomfiture immensely, taking in the parade of dismayed emotions that crossed her painted face.

“Ah, there you are, my lord. Cozy little
t
ê
te-
à
-t
ê
te
with m'daughter, eh? Taking little thing, ain't she?” Jeptha Cole boomed from the hall above them.

“I cannot say the discourse between Lord Lyndon and myself has been of a particularly friendly nature, Papa,” Leah replied.

“Still up on your high ropes, eh?” the old man observed imperturbably. “Well, you'd best come down from 'em, 'cause m'mind's settled in the matter. It ain't like I brought home a man-milliner or one of them fops you see parading Bond Street in the afternoon, is it? There,” he managed as he executed the last step and stopped to mop his brow. “Got to catch m'breath—your pardon, my lord. Egad,
girl!”
he choked when he actually saw her. “What is the meaning of this? Cover yourself!” Turning quickly to Lyndon, he sought to smooth over the effect of her garish appearance. “My lord—”

“Papa, Lord Lyndon assures me that he has not the least desire to wed with me,” Leah informed her father sweetly. “That being the case, I do not think you should press him.”

“Leah!” His eyes still on Tony, the old man raised his hands in supplication. “The chit needs a firmer hand than mine, my lord, but she ain't as empty in the cockloft as she looks just now, I promise you.”

But Tony's eyes were still on Leah. “No, you mistook the matter, Miss Cole,” he pointed out evenly. “I said I had not made an offer of marriage—yet.”

“You said your title was not for sale!” she accused.

“Here, here now, miss!” Jeptha Cole roared. “Where's them pretty manners I paid for?”

“Wait—are you saying now that you
are
going to offer for me?” she howled indignantly. “You cannot!”

In that moment Tony Barsett forgot what he owed his name, forgot that he stood in the foyer of a merchant's house, forgot the presence of Jeptha Cole even. Staring down at her flushed upturned face, meeting those incredible eyes of hers, he knew he desired her above all others. It did not matter that her father offered forty thousand pounds in the bargain, it did not matter that she was a Cit's daughter, and it did not matter that she'd refuse him. A slow smile of anticipation spread over his handsome face as he made up his mind to take her. “Yes. Yes, Miss Cole, I am,” he decided abruptly.

“Well, I'll be damned! If this don't call for some brandy! Wilson! Wilson! Damme, where's a footman when you need one?” The old man clapped his hands excitedly and called for the butler, who'd withdrawn discreetly at the first sight of Miss Leah. “Crome!”

“Aye, sir?” Thomas Wilson, the lower footman, was the first to reach them, followed by the aged and wheezing butler.

“Brandy for his lordship and me! And ratafia for m'daughter! In the green saloon, and be quick with it! Lady Leah—if that don't sound right! Lady Leah!” The words rolled off his tongue as though he'd practiced them a hundred times.

Embarrassed by her father's exuberant enthusiasm, Leah stubbornly shook her head. “No. Although I am cognizant of the signal honor you do me, Lord Lyndon, I must decline your offer.”

“Don't listen to her, my lord! She'll be pleased to have you—pleased to be a viscountess, I promise you,” Jeptha Cole interposed hastily. “As for you, miss, if you don't want to take ratafia, then see when the cook means to serve. Me and his lordship's got business!”

“Papa, you are selling me!” Leah screeched.

“No, I ain't. Buyin' him,” he retorted. “Come, my lord, the brandy's excellent—got it from a smuggler off Cornwall. Fellow said it came from Boney's own stock.” Taking, a proprietary hold on Lord Lyndon's coat sleeve, he propelled him toward the green saloon determinedly. “Females! Never know what gets into 'em sometimes—say no when they mean yes, if you take my meaning.”

Leah gaped, unable to believe what they'd done. Even given her father's recent moodiness, his behavior was so unlike what she'd come to expect of him. A ruthless man in business, he was now toadying to a rakehell—a gazetted fortune hunter even—for no other reason than the fellow had a title. She watched the door close after them and felt a sense of shame and disgust.

Inside the saloon, Tony took the glass from the footman and gazed appreciatively at the tasteful furnishings. Looking upward, he was surprised by the portrait of a lovely woman above the mantel.

“Your wife?” he inquired politely.

Jeptha Cole nodded. “Don't do her justice, though—not as good as the one Lawrence did. I've got it in my library where I can just sit and look at her.”

“She was very beautiful.”

“Aye, there's been none to compare with her—not even Leah. I told her when we was married that I'd gain a fortune for her, to make up for what she lost in marrying me. Almost did it, too, but she died giving me the girl. Made me promise I'd not hold it against Leah—losing her, I mean. But every day I look on my girl, I see Marianna in her.”

“How old is Leah?” Tony asked quietly.

“Be twenty next month. Oh, I know girls go for their Seasons before they are eighteen, but I took my time with Leah. I remember how it was for my Ma—” He stopped abruptly. “No, you'll not fault what you get in Leah Cole, my lord. I've seen she has the accomplishments of a lady—and a good head too.”

“But she has not gone about much,” Tony reminded him.

“Kept her at home—didn't want some Cit fixing his interest with her, nor any half-pay officer neither. Couldn't have all the bucks ogling my girl, knowing what I know about the
ton.
Well, I mean, think on it: you was trying to give her a slip of the shoulder yourself, wasn't you?”

“I am not proud of my mistake, Mr. Cole.” Tony had raised his glass to take a drink when he heard Jeptha Cole's sharp intake of breath, the sound that came with acute pain. Looking down to where the older man had taken his seat, he saw the profuse sweat break out on his balding head and noted the white knuckles that clutched the arms of his chair. Even as he watched, the man's color turned ashy gray and his breath came in gasps. Alarmed, Tony rushed to his side while yelling, “Your master's ill … Mr. Cole is ill!”

“No …” Cole managed in a weak half-whisper.

Leah heard Tony's call all the way back in the kitchens, where she was sampling the sauces. Gathering her skirt above her ankles, she ran to the front of the house.

Throwing open the door, she nearly collided with the butler and footmen, who'd come up from the cellar.

“Papa! Are you . . . ?” One look told her he was not. “Oh,
Papa.”
She knelt at the side of his chair across from Tony and began massaging Jeptha Cole's hands vigorously. “Someone send for Dr. Fournier in Half Moon—please hurry!”

“He cannot breathe,” Tony muttered. Rising, he leaned over to loosen the older man's cravat and unbuttoned the waistcoat over his ample stomach. “Get a wet cloth,” he ordered curtly.

“You cannot order me—” She stopped, biting her lip to hold back her bitter retort. Her father was obviously in great pain, and there was no time for quarreling. “All right.” Meeting the housekeeper, who stood in the doorway wringing her hands, Leah urged her, “You heard his lordship—bring us a wet cloth.”

“Yes, miss.”

When Leah turned back to Lord Lyndon, he was mopping her father's brow with his handkerchief, and her father's pain was easing. Relieved, she noted his returning color.

He blinked his eyes and looked up at Lord Lyndon. “Damme,” he rasped, “thought I was stickin' my spoon in the wall that time.” He craned his neck toward his daughter, and his hand reached for her. “Can you not see how it is that I must have you settled, puss?” he managed. Seeing the tears well in her eyes, he shook his head. “None of that now—'tisn't the first time, if you want the truth of it, but one of these days, ‘twill be the last.” His hand closed over hers and held it. “Marry Lyndon here—he at least knows something about shipping . . . can keep his eye on my business, you know.” His fingers tightened as his eyes pleaded with her. “Make your mama and me proud, Leah—be a fine lady.”

“Papa—”

“No sense lyin' to you anymore is there? Might be here a year from now, or I might be gone tomorrow. Either way, I've got to see you settled. Take Lyndon—please.”

Her teeth cut into her lower lip to still its quivering; but she managed to nod assent. Slowly her father relaxed his grip on her and leaned back.