How to Treat a Lady (19 page)

“Good thing she's not here, then.” Chase settled deeper into the chair, resting his head on the high back. “What seems to be the problem?”

“There isn't a problem. Not with her.” All vestiges of sullenness fell from Stephen's expression. “She's an angel.”

“If she's an angel, then why are you so blue-deviled?”

“Because she's above my touch.”

“Who told you that?”

“She did.”

Chase winced. “What a harridan.”

Stephen jolted upright. “She is no such thing—”

“Calm down. All women are harridans. Every last one.” Especially the brown-eyed wretch who was, he was certain, even then plotting new ways to irritate him.

Stephen's hands fisted. “I don't like your tone.”

This really is not going well
. He looked at Stephen's affronted expression and contained a sigh. Perhaps…perhaps Harriet had one thing right. Per
haps he was just the tiniest bit selfish. Just a little, mind you. He certainly could never remember asking another fellow human other than his brothers to share a problem.

Stephen took a gulp of the brandy then set it aside and reached for his crutches. “I'm sorry I said a word to you at all—”

“I'm sorry if I've offended you, but I'm not used to serving as confidant. You are my first effort.”

Stephen paused. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Then why did you offer?”

“Because I was told I was selfish and I was determined to prove the statement wrong.”

Recognition dawned on Stephen's face. “Ahhh. You've been brangling with Harriet. That is exactly the kind of thing she would tell someone.”

“I don't brangle. She brangles. I merely refuse to listen.”

Stephen managed a faint grin. “I've been there a time or two myself.”

To his surprise, Chase found himself grinning back. “You're an impudent whelp, did you know that?”

Stephen hesitated, replaced his crutches beside his chair. “I apologize for my short temper. I don't know what's come over me—”

“Love. According to the poets, it makes fools of all men. Or so my oldest brother has told me oft enough.”

“Does he believe that?”

“Well, he thinks it applies to all men but him. So he's not infallible either. In fact, I believe that when Marcus falls in love, it will be worse than it is for the rest of us because of all the practice we've had.
We've calluses on our hearts, as it were. He, meanwhile, has nothing but pride to protect him.”

“I never thought of pride as a protection.”

“You should. But we were not speaking of me or my family. We were talking about your unfortunate circumstances. You are in love with a woman who says she is above you.”

Stephen nodded morosely. “That's not exactly what she said, but close to it.”

“What exactly
did
she say?”

“That she was…well—” Stephen flushed. “She said she was older. And she is, but only by two months.”

Chase had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. After a moment's struggle, he managed to say in a bland tone, “The nerve.”

Stephen slumped in his chair. “I warned you it was an ugly situation.”

“Tell me more about this mystery woman.”

“What do you want to know?”

“The usual…hair color, eyes…” Chase made a curvy gesture in the air. “All the details.”

Stephen's lips thinned. “She's not like that.”

Chase frowned. “Not like this?” He made another curvy shape in the air. At Stephen's stubborn scowl, Chase shook his head. “If she's not like this, then we really do need to talk.”

“I, sir, do not find this at all amusing! Miss Strickton is perfection!”

The boy had no humor. None at all. “Easy, hothead. I retract my levity.”

Stephen's jaw tilted to a pugnacious angle. “I know you think this is silliness. A childish sort of affair—”

“I think nothing of the sort. One of the things about love is that it always feels real. Even when it's not.”

“This
is
real!”

Chase wisely did not respond. Was love just a fleeting feeling that came and went, as capricious as the moon and just as cold?

Of course, his own parents had seemed genuinely smitten, though he'd always thought their obvious affection for one another was a matter of common sense rather than crass emotion. “Have you told Miss Strickton of your feelings?”

“I tried, but she won't allow me to speak of it. Worse, ever since she had her London season, she is constantly surrounded by admirers. I can scarcely get a word alone with her.”

“There's your first task, then. To get her attention. I'm certain that once you've impressed her with your sincerity and the depths of your devotion, all will change.”

“So I thought. I've written her poems—”

“Everyone does that since that fellow Byron came to town. What else?”

“Flowers. But she gets bundles of them a day.”

“Too common. You need something larger, more romantic. You know how women are, always gushing about this gesture or that.”

Stephen bit his lip. “You're right, of course. There has to be something…”

Chase drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. A long silence ensued. “I suppose jewelry would be too forward?”

“Her father would burst into flames at the thought.”

Chase rubbed the bridge of his nose, then winced at the smell. He dropped his hands back to his knees. There was something very gratifying about playing the part of Mature Advisor. He cleared his throat and said in a stentorian tone, “Yes, Stephen, love is a very—” He caught the lad's apt gaze and the clichéd words dried in his throat.

Love was a very what? Annoying feeling? Irritating emotion? Chase wondered what he could say since he wasn't altogether certain that he believed in the fabled emotion anymore.

He eyed Stephen's luminous expression and checked his next words. It was possible that love, in all its infinite glory, didn't really exist. It was a myth, a fiction perpetrated by the females of the species in a vain effort to attach a man with wealth and standing to their sides forever.

In a word, love was pathetic.

Chase's brow lowered. How did one pass on such maudlin information? He really hated to see the light fade from Stephen's eyes. Everyone should have the opportunity to believe in something. At least every once in a while. “Love is a very difficult emotion to understand.” There. That said it all. And yet said nothing.

Stephen latched on to it at once. “Yes! You're absolutely right! If only I could get Charlotte to understand how I feel, that it's more than mere childish affection.” His brow folded in thought, and he absently sipped his brandy.

Chase watched as the brandy disappeared. “You know, I'd be careful drinking that if I were you.” He held up his hands when Stephen's eyes flashed. “I'm not going to say another word, it's just that
many of my own problems came from a bottle of my own choosing.”

“This is only my second glass.”

Which, if one never drank, was still a good quantity of brandy. But there was little Chase could say at this point. The glass was almost empty, and Stephen really didn't seem very tipsy. Perhaps the lad had a head for such things. “I don't suppose you'd welcome the suggestion that you should perhaps forget Miss Strickton for the time being.”

“I cannot. You have no idea what she's like. How she smiles. The way she looks when she's trying to decide on something. The way I feel when she's near.” Stephen shook his head in wonderment. “I love her and no one else.”

The lad had it bad. In a vague way, Chase supposed he could understand Stephen's fascination. It was the same way he felt about Harriet.

Chase, being more mature, didn't fancy himself in love—far from it. But there were certain women who managed to raise his ire—and other parts of his anatomy—remarkably easily.

There was something special about a woman who refused to be charmed. Chase was only lately beginning to realize that fact. Perhaps it was the challenge. The simple give and take of an intelligent wit coupled with a well-turned mind.

Strange how he'd never realized the importance of such things before.

Such women needed firm handling. Direct action. “It's a pity you can't ride into a party and toss her over your saddle like that knight fellow, Loch-something,” Chase said thoughtfully. “There's a lot to be said for such decisive handling.”

Stephen blinked.

Chase rolled his shoulder a bit and winced. “Perhaps you could begin with something simple and build up to a grand gesture. Start with oh, I don't know…maybe a picnic. That could be romantic if done right.” He imagined taking Harriet on a picnic. A basket of food—good food, not the work fare they got out in the field—a blanket beside a creek, and perhaps a little wine. He loved the way the sun warmed her brown hair with golden lights. And if the two of them were alone, there was no telling how many kisses he might win from her lips.

The idea held some merit. Perhaps he should—

Stephen slapped his knee, the sound breaking the silence like a gunshot. “B'God, you are right!” His voice brimmed with excitement. He snatched up his crutches and was on his feet and halfway to the door before Chase could even form a sentence.

“Stephen! What are you—”

But Stephen was already making his way out the door. His grand exit was somewhat marred by the fact that he stumbled a little while passing the tea table and had to right it.

“Stephen! Where are you going?”

Stephen grinned. “To win the woman of my heart.”

Oh. Well. That sounded far more positive than the maudlin musing of the lad when Chase had first entered the room. “Good for you. I wish you luck.”

“Thank you! Although, if this works—” A wide grin burst across his face. “I shall report back in an hour!” He saluted, and then left, stumbling over the very edge of the carpet as he went.

Chase was left facing the closed door. His gaze traveled to the askew tea table and then to the nearly
empty brandy decanter. Though he was happy to see Stephen so revitalized, Chase had the unmistakable feeling that he'd missed something. Something significant.

He mulled that thought over for a moment, then shrugged. Whatever happened, he'd cheered up the boy and that was certainly worth something. Why, as soon as Harriet found out, Chase was certain she'd be abject in her apologies for ever calling him selfish.

Feeling very altruistic, Chase pushed up from his chair and made his way out of the library to see if perchance his bath was ready.

D
evon ran up the wide steps, his booted feet making a ringing announcement of his presence. Located in the heart of Mayfair, Treymount House was an awe-inspiring manor, filled with antiquities and treasures, yet blended with the most modern of conveniences.

Even in London's most exclusive neighborhood, the house caused much comment, from its towering height to the outstanding quality of stonework that graced the entry. Even the shrubbery that lined the drive was painfully perfect. Marcus, of course, would have nothing less.

To many, it seemed cold and somewhat overbearing, but to Devon, who had slid down the stair railings untold times and had frequently jumped out the lower windows while escaping from Cook after stealing a hot pie, Treymount House was just home.
Or had been until he'd moved out at the age of nineteen into his own lodgings.

“Sir,” the butler said, smiling a little on seeing who had been hammering on the door. “It has been a long time.”

“Hallo, Jeffries. It hasn't been that long. Two weeks, no more.” Devon stepped through the door and handed his hat to the butler. “Is his lordship up and about? I feel the need to upset my brother's peaceful existence.”

“I would hardly call the marquis's existence peaceful. And he has been up since dawn. In fact, he has already met with his man of business, one of his solicitors, as well as two new investors.”

“Showing us all up, is he? All I've managed to do today is eat breakfast and tie my cravat.”

Jeffries bowed appreciatively. “I cannot speak for your breakfast, but your cravat is without compare.”

Devon grinned. “Damn! I wish you'd let me steal you away from Marcus. I'd pay you twice what you're worth and you'd never have to answer that heavy door again.”

“Thank you, sir. I shall keep your offer in mind. His lordship is in the library. Shall I announce you?”

“Lud, no. I'll announce myself.” Devon walked toward a wide door at the end of the hall, then stopped, staring up at a huge tapestry that now adorned the wall over the impressive curving stairs. The thing depicted a battle of some sort, with warriors in strange garb swinging huge swords. Here and there were slain enemies, their heads chopped off and lying in pools of blood. “Where in bloody hell did my brother find that?”

Jeffries paused, a faint shimmer of disapproval on his face. “I believe it just arrived from India, sir. The
workers took almost three entire days to hang it to his lordship's satisfaction.”

“They should take it back. I've never seen anything so hideous in my life.”

“Lord Greyley had the same reaction, not ten minutes ago.”

Devon turned to look at the butler. “My half brother is here as well?”

“Yes, sir. And the countess, with one of their children. I believe they came to town to consult a physician, or so I heard the countess say.”

“I hope nothing is amiss. Thank you, Jeffries.” Devon made his way to the library, his heels ringing on the cold marble floor. It was a good thing Anthony was here. He had a calm, logical way about him that might be of assistance.

With a light knock on the library door, Devon let himself into the room. Anthony leaned against the mantel, his huge frame dwarfing even that monstrous affair. His hair, unlike his half siblings', was a golden brown. He always reminded Devon of a bear—large and growling.

But there was no harm to Anthony. His worst fault was an overly sincere desire always to be right. Though he hadn't been born a St. John, it was the one characteristic that bound him the most closely to his brothers and sister.

His wife, Anna, was seated on a nearby chair, her reddish hair warm in the morning sun. One of their many children sat beside her, fiddling with the tassels on a pillow.

Less than a year ago, Anthony had inherited five children, and Anna had come to the house as governess. But the sparks that had existed between the two had been undeniable and within a remarkably
short time, they had fallen deeply in love. Devon tried not to remember that Anthony had had that blasted talisman ring in his possession at the time.

“Devon!” Anthony said. “What brings you here? Not out of funds, are you?”

“Me? I'm never out of funds,” Devon said, walking forward to greet his half brother. “I'm the lucky one, remember?”

“Ah, yes. The one who never loses. How could I have forgotten?”

“I have no idea, for I've reminded you oft enough. What brings you to London?”

“My son, Richard,” Anthony said, nodding toward the boy who sat beside Anna. “Anna believes he cannot hear well, which is why he does not speak as he should.”

Anna smiled over the boy's head at Devon. “Marcus went to consult with his man of business for the name of a physician who specializes in such things.”

Devon came to stoop before the small boy. “Hello, Richard.”

Richard looked up, his eyes brightening when he saw Devon. The lad's grin revealed a shocking number of lost teeth.

Devon chuckled and ruffled the boy's hair. “I hope you grow some new teeth soon or you won't be able to eat anything but porridge.”

Richard's grin widened. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a top and a piece of string. After carefully winding the top, he yanked on the string and sent the toy spinning across the smooth surface of the table.

Devon laughed as the top neared the edge and Richard leapt to catch his toy before it hit the ground.

The door opened and Marcus appeared, a neatly written letter in one hand. Devon stood immediately.

“Well!” Marcus said, eyeing Devon with an inquiring gaze. “What's brought you hither?”

Though not as large as Anthony, Marcus exuded a raw power that instantly made him the center of all attention. Most men responded to that air of command by unconsciously stepping back. Except Chase, of course. Chase had always had more bottom than sense.

Devon nodded to Marcus. “It's a pleasure to see you, too. And do not fear, Anthony has already ascertained that I'm not here to ask for a loan.”

The hard line of Marcus's mouth softened into a faint smile. “You've never borrowed money from me, though I've offered time and again.”

“I'd rather eat a hot coal.”

“Well. I can see you're in your usual good spirits.”

“Perhaps. I came to ask your advice about something.” Devon glanced at Anna and then back. “But it will wait.”

Marcus's gaze sharpened. He nodded once. “Very well.” He turned to Anna and handed her a letter. “Here, my dear. A letter of introduction. If there is anything to be done for Richard, the doctor will make certain that it happens with all possible speed. He is expecting you now.”

“Thank you,” Anna said, smiling. She tucked the letter into her reticule and then bent to Richard, who was still playing with his top.

She touched his shoulder. He looked up at her inquiringly. “Time to go,” she said softly.

The boy nodded and rose.

“Shall I come, too?” Anthony asked.

“Oh no, my love,” Anna said. “Stay here and keep
Marcus company. It has been several weeks since the two of you have had time to chat. I will return in a trice.” She took Richard's hand and led him to the door. “Bye, Devon! Will you be here when I return?”

“Probably not, but I will stop by Greyley House tomorrow to visit.”

“See that you do,” she said with mock severity. “I would hate to have to travel all the way to St. James's to find you.”

“You would storm White's, would you?”

“I would at least stand outside on the street and ask for you over and over in a very loud and disconsolate tone.” She grinned. “I daresay you'd come running out then.”

Anthony tsked. “Anna, pray do not threaten Devon so. He leads an exemplary bachelor life and doesn't understand feminine teasing.”

Devon shook his head. “You mistake. Feminine teasing is all I am familiar with.”

Anna chuckled. “Poor Devon! I shall expect you tomorrow. Marcus, thank you once again.” She nodded pleasantly and was soon out the door, Richard following behind.

As soon as the door closed, Marcus took his place at his desk, shooting a dark glance at Devon. “Have you decided to take my advice and join me in that shipping venture?”

“Hardly that.” Devon took the chair before the desk and stretched out his legs, the lamplight reflecting pleasantly in the shine of his boots. “I came about Chase.”

Anthony left his place by the mantel to take a chair beside Devon. “Chase? Is he still drinking himself into the grave?”

“I don't know. The last time I saw him, he was in
deed drunk, but that has been several weeks ago. I stopped by his lodgings the other day. It was apparent he's left town.”

Marcus pulled a stack of correspondence to the center of the desk and began to sort through it. “How long has he been gone this time?”

“More than two weeks.”

Anthony quirked a brow. “Another actress, perhaps?”

“No,” Devon said thoughtfully. “At least, I don't think so. I believe something is wrong.”

Marcus met his gaze. “Why do you think that?”

“He didn't just pack his things and leave. He dismissed his valet completely. I don't think he means to return.”

“Never?” Anthony asked.

Devon shook his head. “He took everything of importance, even Mother's ring.”

Marcus set down the papers. “Are you certain?”

“I found his valet. Chase gave the man a generous settlement and told him he wouldn't be returning to London. Those were his exact words, too.”

Anthony rubbed his chin. “It could still be a woman.”

“I've asked about town and he hasn't been connected with any female in particular. Not in the last month, anyway.”

There was silence as Anthony and Marcus thought this through. Finally, Marcus said, “Chase has been known to disappear before. It's not that unusual.”

“No. But the visit I got from Harry Annesley was.”

Anthony shifted in his chair, the delicate wood creaking in protest. “I could never stomach that
man's presence. Why Chase allowed the man in his company, I will never know.”

Marcus's gaze narrowed on Devon. “What of Annesley's visit?”

“I was at White's. Annesley came up and asked where Chase had gone off to. He says Chase owed him money—a gambling debt. He flashed a marker to prove it.”

“Did you see it?” Anthony demanded. “Was it Chase's signature?”

“It appeared to be. Which is why I'm afraid something has happened.”

“Explain yourself.” Marcus's voice snapped like a sail in the wind. Many people feared Marcus. There was a force behind his controlled, calm gaze. It was as if a thousand storms had been locked away, held in place only by the sheer force of his character.

Devon wasn't afraid of those storms…but Marcus's force of character, that
was
something to be reckoned with. “Annesley seemed very determined that everyone at White's see that blasted note. He waved it like a bloody flag. I found that highly unusual. He also seemed determined to place the idea in everyone's head that Chase had fled town because of that debt.”

Anthony made a disgusted sound. “Whatever Chase may be, he would never flee a debt of honor.”

Marcus nodded. “He is stiff with pride, that one.”

“Not to mention,” Devon said quietly, “that if Chase needed money, he had only to apply to one of us for the funds. He knows any one of us could have stood the nonsense.”

Marcus absently flipped the edge of a letter between his finger and thumb. “This does sound odd.”
His gaze flickered to Devon. “What do you think has happened?”

“I believe the note is a forgery. But with Chase gone, there is no way to verify that—” Devon halted, a thought he hadn't allowed himself to think beginning to form.

Anthony's brown eyes glittered. “You believe Annesley has something to do with Chase's disappearance.”

“Perhaps. I've put Annesley off, which has irritated him. I expect he will have to make some other move, and soon. Since I've proven recalcitrant, I expect he will next come here.”

Anthony's brow creased. “You're right, of course. Something's not—”

The door opened and Jeffries stood in the opening. He bowed to Marcus. “My lord, pardon me. But there's a Mr. Harry Annesley to see you. I told him you were busy, but he has been most insistent.”

Marcus and Devon exchanged a look. “Well,” Marcus said softly. “The plot thickens.”

Devon nodded. It had indeed.

 

The door to Chase's room slammed open, the sound echoing sharply in Chase's sleep-filled head. He moaned and pulled his pillow over his head. “Go away, Stephen. It's too early to talk any more—”

“It's still evening,” Harriet said. “Lady Cabot-Wells just departed.”

Chase reluctantly moved the pillow so that it didn't cover his mouth. “She was a bossy old harridan.”

“You charmed her very well. Mother and Sophia believe you should tread the boards if you ever find yourself at point-non-plus.”

“Sorry I didn't stay long. I was so sleepy after the bath that I could barely keep my eyes open during dinner.”

“I daresay you were very tired, considering how busy you've been this evening. You and I need to speak, Mr. St. John.”

The tones were frosty. Chase lifted the corner of the pillow and took a good look at the woman who had just been in his dreams.

Of course, in his dreams Harriet was not glaring at him in such a way. She was usually soft and pliant, welcoming him with open arms as she told him how she thought he was the smartest, bravest, most handsome man she'd ever met.

It was quite obvious no such words were going to escape her lips this evening. Chase sighed, pushed his pillow aside, and shoved himself into a seated position. “What is it now—”