No Place for a Dame (26 page)

Apparently, this was not good enough. She dragged her feet to the table, yanked the chair out, and flopped gracelessly down in it.

“Brava. I applaud the detailed depiction of awkward, sullen adolescence. But I thought you were supposed to be closer to twenty then twelve.”

She glared at him.

He slipped the silver letter opener beneath the wax seal of the envelope he held. “Do you ever worry that after your masquerade has ended you will be so accustomed to striding, flopping, and slouching that you will be unable to return to the relative—and I hope you appreciate my diplomacy here—the relative inhibitions imposed upon a woman’s movements?”

The corner of her lip quirked in an unwilling smile and, as he’d hoped, she gave up her belligerent pose. It was one of her better qualities, the inability to hold on to a grudge. “No. Truth to tell, it will be a relief. I’m not saying pretending I’m a male doesn’t have its gratifying moments, but it’s exhausting. I have to preplan even the tiniest gesture.”

And often fail
, he silently added. How many lads nipped their front teeth into their lower lip when concentrating, or feathered the air with their fingers when illustrating a point? He remained tactfully mute.

“It’s not only that. It’s difficult to think of what to say to most men.”

“I am sure you well know you are every bit as capable of intelligent conversation as any man.”

“Indeed, I am,” she agreed. “Or would be if there
were
any conversation. That’s the problem. There’s not.” She sighed. “There’s a great deal of
talk
, mind you. And it’s all about one thing.”

He waited.

“Sexual congress.”

Bloody. Hell
.

“I had no idea men were so single-minded.”

Very carefully, Giles set the envelope he’d just opened down beside his empty breakfast plate. He should have foreseen this. The most prevalent topics of conversation amongst men were women, horses, women, politics, and women. “You don’t say?”

“I do.” She regarded him pityingly.

He supposed he ought to ask her to what specifically she was referring. He didn’t want to. Because then he would feel obliged to call out whichever rotter had despoiled her tender ears. And how was he to do that when those same tender ears supposedly belonged to a twenty-year-old male?

“I demand satisfaction for insulting Mr. Quinn’s sensibilities by making mention of your mistress’s nipples.”

Damn it to hell.

Yet every fiber demanded that he shield and shelter her; it was a reflexive response. Like breathing.

“Does the same hold true of you, Strand?”

“What?”

“When I am not around do you compare your lover’s breasts to various types of fruit?”

He hadn’t… It wasn’t the same.…

“I see you have.”

Damn the girl for looking disappointed and doubly damn him for caring. How could he explain that Giles Dalton, Lord Strand, was a character he played without revealing why?

“You were never meant to meet the men you encountered at White’s,” he said. “Had you stayed here, which you promised me you would, you would not now be in possession of your current knowledge.”

“And that would be better.” It was a question.

“Don’t you think so?”

“No,” she answered at once. “Ignorance is never better. I may not like what I learn, but I would rather know the truth than naively give credence to something that does not exist.”

She looked him directly in the eye as she spoke and he realized that she’d imagined a standard she’d believed he’d upheld. Not only had he inadvertently destroyed her innocence, but he had also fostered her cynicism.
Well done, Giles.

“Not all men are like me and my friends, Avery.”

“Why would you choose such men to be your friends?”

He shrugged. “They chose me.”

“But you didn’t have to put yourself in their way. Why did you?” She studied him more intently than anyone had in a long time. Too intently.

She was too discerning by half. He couldn’t let her get closer to the truth of who and what he was for the very simple reason that his secrets were not his alone.

“I enjoy their company,” he said. “They amuse me. I find there is nothing I want so much in a friend than that he amuse me.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment. And you are
not
like that.”

“My dear girl, as much as I would like to promote your perfectly charming notion that all my sins are based on false rumor or misunderstanding, I cannot. I am not a good man, Avery.”

“Oh, I have no doubt about that.” This unexpected avowal startled him so much he nearly dropped the letter opener. “But your delinquency is not the same as your companions’—and I refuse to consider them your friends because I do not believe that you do.”

He casually scanned the contents of the letter he’d removed from the envelope, barely noting the wording, his thoughts racing. She would persist now until he convincingly illustrated that she’d made a mistake.

“Your discernment is nothing short of amazing,” he said without looking up. “Especially since it is based on a renewed acquaintance only a few weeks old and during which time we have spent less than a handful of hours together. But then, as you are quick to point out, you are a genius.” He set the letter down and calmly met her gaze. “Tell me, however did you arrive at this fascinating conjecture?”

She flushed, but rather than desist, as could be expected of any
well-bred lady—though no well-bred lady would have ever entered into such a conversation in the first place—she continued doggedly on.

“It’s not that you look contemptuous or sneer at your companions the way Lord Vedder does when he thinks no one is watching.” Begad, the woman really was discerning. “And you aren’t ostentatiously offended by them like Lord Douphton. Or even covertly offended.” Thank God for that, at least. “You just look… tired.”

He waited.

“As though their company was a burden. Or,” she tipped her head, “a duty.”

“What an imagination you have, Avery. Again, I am flattered by your romantic notion of me.” She tensed. He’d hit a nerve with that comment and troubled her vanity. “But as the philosopher says, water seeks its own level. Which means that apparently my level is quite low indeed.”

For the first time in the course of the conversation, her gaze fell away. Spots of color appeared high on her cheeks. She looked wounded. And that, Giles realized with a sharp intake of breath, wounded him.

Because he loved her.

He was not in love with her, he was not falling in love with her, he
loved
her. Whatever alchemy that worked in the human heart must have occurred in his long ago, for the realization of his feelings occasioned no surprise, only an awakening of his spirit, a ridiculous sense of homecoming, of releasing a breath after a long battle, of yearning and release. Why now? After all these years, why this moment must he finally realize the truth? And what was he supposed to do about it?

“I’m sorry,” he heard himself murmur.

She glanced up, her indigo eyes searching his face. He opened his mouth to say more but as he did so caught a reflection in the vase outside the dining room and settled back in his chair.

Burke appeared in the doorway, trailed by a small figure carrying a little dog. “Begging your pardon, sir. But Travers said I was to ask you what is to be done with this boy. And the dog.”

Giles forced himself to attend to the problem at hand. Neither the boy or the dog was recognizable from the night before. Both had been scrubbed clean, revealing the boy to have wheat-colored hair and the dog to be brown with white spots. Both were undernourished and bony, and both had a fair number of scars and missing patches of hair.

“The dog is mine. I purchased her last night.” He glanced over at Avery. “Her former owner and I disagreed as to her price, ergo…”

He trailed off, letting her imagination supply the rest. Perhaps she would accept that as explanation enough for last night’s events. It was the truth, after all; the boy could attest to it. It just wasn’t all of the truth.

“It’s a
sir
, then?” the boy suddenly said, frowning at Avery.

Burke cuffed him smartly on the ear. The boy cupped his ear, looking more offended than injured. “What? I din’ know. Who would?”

“Watch your tongue,” Burke warned him.

Avery, Giles noted, had to bite back a smile. It was another in a long list of unanticipated charms.

“What’s your name, lad?” she asked.

“Will,” he said.

“Why did you follow Lord Strand home last night?”

“I was worrit he was going to ditch me dog ’alfway back and she weren’t be able to find ’er way ’ome.”

As Giles watched, the amusement faded from Avery’s face, replaced by dismay. So softhearted, his love. “Well,” she said, “he didn’t and he won’t, Will.”

“Yeah? What if she don’t like it here? What if she tries—” He paused, blinking away a suspicious shimmering in his eyes. “What if she tries to find her way back to me? You can’t let that ’appen. It’ll mean the death of her. You got to promise me ye’ll keep a weather eye on her until she’s settled in good. Promise.”

Once again, Burke cuffed the boy, but it was a cursory thing, without much behind it. “Mind your manners.”

“Enough, Burke,” Giles said. He looked the boy over. “And no, I won’t be making any such vow. Surprising as it may be, I have better things to occupy my time than making sure some half-feral dog doesn’t run off.”

“Strand—” Avery’s voice was soft and pleading, far more so than when she’d asked for his aid at Killylea. But that had been for herself. This was for a guttersnipe and his cur.

“There’s only one thing for it,” Giles continued as if he hadn’t heard her hoarse whisper. “She must have a keeper. Would you like the job?”

The boy’s narrow, waxy face puckered in confusion. “What’s that you say?”

“I’m proposing hiring you to train my dog. You did say she was a ratter?”

The boy’s head bobbed in affirmative.

“Then she will have plenty of work in the stables. Of course, there will be other duties that do not involve dog handling. In addition, you will be apprenticed to my coachman, Phineas.”

“Ye mean you wants me ta learn ta drive a rig?” The boy looked dumbfounded.

“Yes. You appear to have a knack with animals. Do you?”

“Yea. Yea, I do!”

“Good. You can either sleep in the servants’ quarters here in the house or take up residence in the stables. Which would you prefer?”

“Can Belle sleep wid me in the house?”

“And savage anyone who comes within ten feet? I think not.”

“Then I’ll take the stables with ’er.”

Giles nodded. “I trust you were warm enough there last night?”

The boy nodded.

“Now then, Mrs. Silcock—have you met Mrs. Silcock yet?”

“Old biddie with a stinky eye and a grip tighter than a pit dog’s locked jaw? She near drowned me.”

“Yes. That would be her. You will take your meals with the rest of the staff at her table and listen to her as to the voice of God. Are we clear? Good. In exchange, you and my dog will have a place to sleep, meals, a new set of clothing and”—he glanced at Burke—“what do you say, Burke? Three shillings a week?”

“Seems a mite excessive to me, sir.”

“Ah, but he will be performing two jobs. Three shillings it is.”

During this recitation, Will’s mouth had dropped open and Avery had turned to regard him with an unreadable expression.

“That’s the terms of employment I’m offering, Will. Before you answer, will you need to discuss it with your father?”

The boy shook his head vehemently.

“Your mother?”

“Ain’t seen her nor me sisters since summer afore last.”

“I see. What say you, Will? Have we a deal?”

“Yea. I mean, yes, m’lord.”

“Then you may take my dog out and begin acclimating her to her new situation.”

“Say what?”

“Show her ’round the stables.”

Understanding illuminated the pinched little face. For the first time since Strand had met him, Will smiled, exposing a pair of crooked teeth in a gamin grin. “Straight off, m’lord,” he said and, unable to contain his joy over this unexpected rise in his prospects, lifted the terrier’s face to his.

“Did you hear that, Belle? You gots a job and so do I.” He planted an unabashed kiss atop her scarred head before hurrying off, as if afraid Strand might change his mind. Burke followed at a more discreet pace.

With a slight smile, Strand picked up the letter he’d been reading when he’d been interrupted by Will’s arrival.

“You are a good man, Giles Dalton. That was well done.”

He stilled. Of all the things a woman had said to him, in all varying degrees of intimacy, he could not recall any that had ever meant more to him. He didn’t know how to reply, what to say. Giles Dalton, Lord Strand, ever ready with a quip, as facile with words as he was with a rapier, was afraid that whatever he said would reveal too much. He stared at the letter before him and realized he had a ready change of topic.

“I’m delighted you approve,” he said. “And I warrant you’ll approve of this even more.” He held up the letter for her perusal.

“What is it?” she asked.

“An invitation for us both to attend a party hosted by Sir Samuel Isbill.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven