Gayle Buck (10 page)

The Earl of Cowltern nodded in ponderous regret. His own consequence was such that the viscount’s sarcasm passed quite over his head. “Who could have foretold such misfortune? However, that is not what I desired to discuss with you, St. John. It is this business of the betrothal that perturbs me. My daughter’s reputation has inexplicably suffered since it became known that the agreement between you has been dissolved.”

“Indeed? How unfortunate,” said Lord St. John politely. Lady Althea’s woes were of supreme indifference to him. It crossed his mind that a small modicum of poetic justice had been served. He swirled the brandy in his glass before tossing it off, mentally toasting the whim of fate that had discomfited Lady Althea.

“Weemswood, I should like you to put it about that the betrothal was ended at your instigation,” said the earl.

Lord St. John straightened suddenly in his chair. With a snap of his wrist he set down the empty wineglass. A touch of temper ignited in his eyes. “What possible reason should I have for doing that, my lord? I was perfectly willing to fulfill my obligation toward Lady Althea, if you will recall.”

The earl nodded, waving aside the viscount’s reminder with condescension. “I am aware of all that transpired, Weemswood. My daughter told me the whole. She was made quite upset by the necessity of releasing you from the betrothal.”

Lord St. John recalled the thorough kiss that he had pressed so ruthlessly on the lady. He doubted very much that Lady Althea had discussed everything with her pompous parent. He grinned faintly, a mocking light in his eyes. “I can well understand the lady’s sensitivity over the matter. It is a credit to you, sir, that Lady Althea feels comfortable enough to confide ... all to you.”

The Earl of Cowltern pursed his mouth. He stared at the viscount with the dim suspicion that gentleman was somehow making game of him, but as instantly he dismissed such an absurd thought. “Yes, well, that is precisely the point. My little Althea has always had the most delicate of sensibilities. These last few days have proven most trying to her nerves. The vulgar will talk, you know.”

“As I know all too well,” agreed Lord St. John with bitterness.

Since losing his privileged position as heir presumptive to a rich dukedom, the unpleasant reality that gossip could go far in breaking a man had been forcibly borne in upon him. With the loss of his expectations had gone his credit, his betrothed, several of his acquaintances, his pleasures and comforts—in short, everything that he had taken for granted that were his to enjoy and that he had expected to continue to enjoy during his lifetime. His life had literally been turned upside down by the freak pregnancy of the duke’s mistress.

Brooding, Lord St. John abruptly realized that the Earl of Cowltern had begun speaking again and when he comprehended what the gentleman was saying, his temper flared brighter. It was insulting that the earl would assume that he would meekly acquiesce to publicly shouldering the responsibility of breaking off the betrothal between himself and Lady Althea.

He had had humiliation enough. Let Lady Althea retain her newly won title of heartless jilt.

Interrupting the earl, he said, “You are in error in your assumption, sir. I have no wish to be known as a bounder. Quite frankly, my lord, I do not care to further blacken my character when I already have so many legitimate black marks against me now.”

The Earl of Cowltern’s lips thinned. His voice turned frigid. “I do not appeal solely to your sense of chivalry in this matter, Weemswood. Though I would have thought that alone would have decided you to do the proper thing.”

“You were mistaken, my lord,” said Lord St. John, equally cold.

The earl raised his brows and looked down his long nose. His eyes were extremely hard. “You forget yourself, Weemswood.”

Lord St. John smiled, a peculiarly unnerving expression in his own eyes. The black temper sat full upon him now. He no longer cared that the earl could very possibly add to his humiliation by having him blackballed from the exclusive men’s club. He threw out a challenge in the very teeth of superior force. “Do your damnedest, my lord.”

Staring into Viscount Weemswood’s utterly cold eyes, the earl abruptly comprehended that a change of tactic was expedient. He thought, with a great deal of annoyance, that he could appreciate and understood the viscount’s pride. Certainly he would have felt contempt if the viscount had shown anything less worthy of his personal honor. Nevertheless, it was an irritating impediment to his own present determination to protect his daughter. If it were not for that overriding desire, he would wash his hands of the overly arrogant young lord.

The Earl of Cowltern reeled in his own towering displeasure and altered his tone to one of reluctant conciliation. “I assure you, Weemswood, that I am quite sincere. Out of my genuine liking for you, and in fond memory of your father, I am prepared to release to your sole discretion the previously agreed-upon bridal settlement.”

Lord St. John stared at the earl for a bare second. Then he rose to his feet. His lips twisted in contempt as he regarded the older man. “You insult me indeed, my lord. I am not a lackey that you may direct through your purse. If I agreed to your proposal at all it would be for honor, not for penurious considerations!”

The Earl of Cowltern allowed a small smile to cross his lips. He had never been in any real doubt of the outcome of this meeting. The viscount had made his protestations as his honor demanded, perhaps more stridently than expected, but in the end he would bend to a greater will. “I would be more than satisfied to accept your word of honor, my lord. However, as a favor and out of the esteem in which I continue to hold you, I shall send round my man of business to yours with the papers concerning this other. A mere formality, you understand.”

“I have not agreed to this thing, my lord,” said Lord St. John, his eyes blazing.

The earl rose in his turn, as much because he misliked the younger gentleman to tower over him as to signal an end to the discussion. He smiled condescendingly at the viscount and at last the full coldness of his considerable personality entered his expression.

“You are at
point non plus,
Weemswood. Already the word whispered about town is that you shall shortly find yourself in debtor’s prison unless you come about and quickly. For this small favor on my daughter’s behalf, I offer the means to stave off such an ignoble fate for the son of my former noble acquaintance. Your pride does you credit, Weemswood, but it is misplaced in this instance. I do not think your excellent father would have countenanced such false pride in his only son, my lord. Nor will I.”

The threat was implicit in the earl’s eyes. Then he smiled in a genial fashion. “Good day, my lord.”

Lord St. John stood with his fists clenched at his sides. He desired nothing more in life than to wipe the expression of pompous satisfaction from the Earl of Cowltern’s face. But breeding and protocol would not allow him to do so. He could only stand by while the earl sauntered away. Marginally, through his rage, he was aware of whispers and a soft laugh from others in the room.

“There you are, Sinjin.”

A hand clasped his forearm and when he attempted to shrug it off, it tightened. Lord St. John looked around, a ready curse on his tongue, to meet the cool gray gaze of Lord Miles Trilby, Earl of Walmsley.

“I had hoped to find you here this morning. Come; I would have your advice on a new hunter I am thinking of acquiring,” said Lord Trilby. He smiled lazily, but there was an underlying intentness in his eyes. Lowering his voice, he said, “The avid eyes of vultures surround us, my friend. If you value your reputation, behave as a gentleman.”

“What the devil do you care, Miles?” Lord St. John demanded. His eyes still blazed in a countenance that was whitened by tightly reined rage.

Most who had the ill-fortune to come face-to-face with the viscount while he was in such a state took care to sidestep him, not wishing to attract that awful tempest onto themselves. However, Lord Trilby was made of sterner stuff. His acquaintance with the viscount was of long duration and had survived turbulent times. More than anyone else, he was familiar with the roiling depths that drove Lord St. John, Viscount Weemswood.

“Absolve me, Sinjin. It is not I who cares, but you,” said Lord Trilby gently.

Lord St. John stared at his lordship, then gave a short harsh laugh. The taut look about his mouth eased to a degree. “You persuade me, Miles. I will be glad to give you the benefit of my opinion.”

“Excellent. I had hoped you would be so kind,” said Lord Trilby. Resting his hand on the viscount’s shoulder, he sauntered toward the club’s entrance, keeping up a relaxed discourse until together they emerged onto the street.

Lord St. John’s burning outrage was such that he could scarcely give the semblance of interest and he did not make an effort to enter the conversation, but he did give a nod as it seemed appropriate. Even through his temper he recognized and appreciated the effort that Lord Trilby was making upon his behalf.

The gentlemen continued down the crowded walk, to all appearances deep in friendly conversation, and altogether proving a disappointment to those who had lingered at the entrance of the club to watch them or to those acquaintances that they chanced to pass.

At the corner, Lord St. John immediately shook off the earl’s hand. He ground out, “Was it truly necessary to bear-lead me, Miles?”

The Earl of Walmsley smiled faintly. “I feared that you would think twice about it and bolt back in after that pompous pouter pigeon.”

Lord St. John’s eyes glittered. “I should like to have him in my sights at twenty-five paces.”

“Your good sense is beginning to assert itself. When I first laid eyes on you, I could have sworn that you were on the point of pounding him with your fists,” said Lord Trilby.

Lord St. John’s expression did not lighten, but became grimmer. He said softly, “You know my freakish temper, Miles.”

The Earl of Walmsley sighed. “I shan’t attempt to keep you, Sinjin. Get on with the exorcism.”

Lord St. John sketched a mocking salute. He left Lord Trilby and directed his steps straight to his town house. The extreme control he had exercised while in the Earl of Walmsley’s company was completely worn away by the time he reached his address and had run up the steps to his front door.

When he thrust open the door, he fairly knocked the porter aside. He did not pause in his swift progress down the entry hall toward the stairs. “Send round for my phaeton,” he barked, not breaking stride as he took the stairs three at a time.

“Aye,
my lord!”

The porter left his post at a run to carry the message. After the fleeting look he had had of his lordship’s thunderous expression he had no wish to be caught loitering about the business.

In ten minutes Lord St. John had changed from morning coat and pantaloons to driving coat and breeches. He swept out the town house, down the steps to the curb, and sprang up into the waiting carriage. His groom stood at the horses’ heads and as the viscount shook out the reins, he let go the leads and came round to climb up to his place. “I shan’t need you,” said Lord St. John shortly. Without a backward glance he swung the team into the flow of traffic. The groom stood on the curb, watching until the phaeton disappeared from sight, and shook his head.

Chapter 10

Lord St. John put his team through the midday traffic with ruthless precision. Once he had won free of the London congestion, he sprang his horses. The wind and thunder of hooves was accompaniment to the wild rage that consumed him.

It gave him savage pleasure to give the rushing go-by to the more sedate carriages and wagons that were on the road, sometimes by only inches. Often his passage left behind startled, frightened countenances staring after the dust that boiled up from the wheels of his phaeton.

At a narrow turn in the hedgerowed road, Lord St. John came from behind and drew level with a wagon. On the curve an oncoming private coach appeared directly before him. The coach was moving at too great a speed to be able to avoid the imminent collision, though the distant coachman could be seen desperately hauling on his reins.

Lord St. John’s eyes gleamed. His mouth curved in a reckless grin. The devil was on him. He whipped his leaders to top speed, sweeping past the wagon.

The viscount’s phaeton whipped out of the path of the approaching coach with but inches to spare between their respective wheels. The coach’s occupants had the most fleeting glimpse of a wild-faced gentleman before the image was gone in a whirl of dust and wind.

Mr. Pepperidge thrust himself to the window. Shaking his cane, he shouted after the swiftly disappearing carriage, “Jackanapes! You should be whipped from your own carriage axle, sirrah!”

“Papa, pray calm yourself. See, he is already gone. He cannot possibly hear you,” said Mary soothingly. “And besides, you shall have Smith thinking that you will do yourself harm, making it necessary to bring out the hartshorn.”

The maid seated primly on the opposite seat nodded her grim agreement.

“I am quite well, thank you! There will be no cause for waving that nasty smelling bottle under my nose.” Mr. Pepperidge subsided back onto the seat, but he was still red faced with anger. “The gall of some of these so-called gentlemen is incomprehensible—making a mockery and a danger of the King’s roads!”

“Yes, Papa. It is very bad, indeed. But there is not the least thing that you can do about it, after all,” said Mary.

“Is there not? Someone must report this outrageous distress visited upon peaceable travelers, Mary.”

“Then do as you will when we have reached London, Papa. Now come, you must compose your thoughts or I promise you that I shall trounce you finely in this last contest,” she said coaxingly.

Mr. Pepperidge’s high color was already fading as he bent his attention again to the cribbage board. “Aye, you’ve proven yourself a worthy opponent this day. I must be upon my mettle if I am to redeem myself.” He sighed even as he moved his peg, his thoughts obviously still reluctant to let go of the outrage he felt. “To have the name of that scoundrel would please me.”