Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle (4 page)

“My dear Miss Lester.” The tenor of his voice, velvety deep and heavy with meaning, was a warning in itself. “Would it surprise you to learn that I consider myself peculiarly well-qualified to tackle this particular conundrum? As if my prior existence were nothing more than preparation for this challenge?”

The dining-room loomed ahead, a sanctuary filled with polished oak and silver, crystal goblets winking in the light from the chandelier. The sight gave Lenore strength. “I find that extremely difficult to believe, Your Grace. You must be sure to tell me when you have solved your puzzle.”

The smile she received in reply made her giddy.

“Believe me, my dear Miss Lester, you'll be the very first to know when I lay my conundrum bare.”

By rights, Lenore thought, she should at least be allowed a gasp. Only her determination not to dissolve into a witless heap under Eversleigh's attack allowed her to keep her head high and her composure intact. “Indeed?” she replied, her voice not as strong as she would have liked. As she assumed her chair at the end of the long table, she tried for dismissive boredom. “You intrigue me, Your Grace.”

“No, Miss Lester.” Jason stood beside her, one long-fingered hand resting lightly on the back of her chair, his eyes effortlessly holding hers. “
You
intrigue
me
.”

Others milled about, taking their places along the polished boards. Noise and chatter engulfed the company. Yet Lenore heard all through a distancing mist, conscious only of the intent in the grey eyes holding hers. Then, slowly, Eversleigh inclined his head and released her, taking his seat beside her.

Shaken, Lenore hauled in a quivering breath. Eversleigh was in pride of place on her right; she had purposely installed young Lord Farningham, an eminently safe young gentleman, on her left.

Watching as the company settled and the first course was brought forth, Lenore felt her nerves flicker restlessly. It was Eversleigh and his disturbing propensity to reach through her defences that was the cause of her disquiet. Quite what it was he did to her normally reliable senses she did not know, but clearly she would have to cope with the problem for the next few hours.

To her relief, Mrs. Whitticombe, seated beyond Lord Farningham, monopolised all attention with an anecdote on turtle soup as served by a certain Mr. Weekes.

Taking the opportunity to scan the table, Lenore noted her aunt seated a little way away with Gerald beside her to help. In the middle of the table, Jack and Harry, one one either side, kept the conversation flowing. A good deal of laughter and general hilarity was already in evidence as her brothers and their guests settled in. At the distant head of the table, her father and his old crony, Mr. Pritchard, were deep in discussion. Horses or reminiscences of a more ribald sort, Lenore sagely surmised, her eyes on the two grey heads.

“I have heard, Eversleigh, that there's plenty of grouse down your way this year?”

Lord Farningham's question, uttered in the tones of one well aware of the hazards of approaching one of the lions of the
ton
, jerked Lenore to attentiveness.

But Eversleigh's reply, a mild, “Yes, it'll be a good season, so my gamekeeper assures me. You're in Kent, are you not?” relieved her of anxiety. With every appearance of interest, she listened as Eversleigh discussed game and the keeping of coverts with Lord Farningham.

When the subject ran dry, halfway through the first course as the soup was replaced by turbot in cream sauce with side dishes of mushroom florettes and tongue in port wine, Lenore was ready with a blithe, “Tell me of Eversleigh Abbey, Your Grace. I have heard it is even bigger than the Hall.”

The look Eversleigh directed at her was unfathomable but he replied readily enough.

“It is rather large. The original abbey dates to just after the Conquest but my family has made numerous additions over the years. What remains might best be described as a semi-Gothic pile, complete with ruined cloisters.”

“No ghost?”

Lenore bit her tongue, steeling herself for his rejoinder. A skeleton or two in the cupboard, perhaps?

Manfully, Jason resisted temptation. Sorrowfully, he shook his head. “Not even a wraith, I'm afraid.”

Letting out the breath she had held, Lenore inclined her head and opted for caution in the person of Lord Farningham. Lady Henslaw, seated beside Eversleigh, claimed his attention. As the second course was laid before them, Lord Farningham turned the talk to horses. Mentally, Lenore sat back, pleased to see her father and Aunt Harriet both coping well. Taking a moment to cast her eye over the company, she saw that all was proceeding smoothly. Her staff was experienced; the meal was served and cleared and glasses filled with a minimum of fuss.

She was turning back to the conversation when a commotion in the hall drew all attention. Smithers immediately went out, to return a moment later to hold open the door. Amelia, Lady Wallace, Lenore's cousin, hesitantly entered, her companion, Mrs. Smythe, trailing in her wake.

Jack rose. With a murmured, “Excuse me,” Lenore put her napkin aside and went forward.

“Hello, Jack. Lenore.” Amelia bestowed her hand on Jack and exchanged an affectionate kiss with Lenore. “I'm sorry to arrive so late but one of our horses went lame.” Shielded from the table, Amelia grimaced up at them. “And I had no idea this was one of your ‘weeks'.”

With a brotherly smile, Jack squeezed her hand. “No matter, m'dear. You're always welcome.”

Lenore smiled her agreement. “Don't worry. You can keep me company. I'll put you near Papa until you get your bearings.”

“Yes, please,” Amelia returned, blonde ringlets bobbing as she exchanged nods with those of the company already known to her.

While Jack played the gallant host, Lenore oversaw insertion of another leaf at the head of the huge table. Once Amelia and Mrs. Smythe were installed, Lenore paused to tell Smithers, “Her ladyship in the rose room, with Mrs. Smythe in the room further down the hall.”

Smithers nodded and departed.

Lenore returned to her seat, idly wondering what brought Amelia, now widowed, to Berkshire. Picking up her fork, she glanced up to find Eversleigh, his chair pushed slightly back from the table, his long fingers crooked about the stem of his goblet, watching her, an entirely unreadable expression in his eyes. Lenore frowned in what she hoped was a quelling manner.

Jason's pensive attitude dissolved as he smiled, raising his glass in silent toast. He toyed with the idea of informing his hostess that the ability to remain unflustered in the face of the unexpected was a talent he felt certain his wife should possess. His smile deepened as he wondered what she would answer to that.

After one long look at Eversleigh's peculiarly unnerving smile, Lenore determinedly turned to Lord Farningham, irritatingly aware that, if she allowed herself the liberty she could easily spend the entire meal staring at the fascinating face beside her.

Reluctantly, mindful of his true aim, Jason devoted himself impartially to Lady Henslaw and the others about for the remainder of the meal.

At the conclusion of the last course, an array of jellies, custards and trifles interspersed with dishes of sweetmeats, Lenore collected Aunt Harriet and led the ladies from the room. As she crossed the front hall, she made a firm resolution that she would not again allow Eversleigh to unsettle her.

“Shameless hussy! That one dresses in pink silk and thinks we can't see through it. A good deal less than she ought to be, mark my words!”

Her aunt's scathing comments, delivered in a highly audible hiss, shook Lenore from her thoughts. She had no difficulty following Harriet's train of thought—Mrs. Cronwell, thankfully some way behind them, was resplendent in lurid pink silk, the low neckline of her clinging gown trimmed with ostrich feathers. Knowing she was safe, Lenore nodded—it was pointless disagreeing. Virtually completely deaf, Harriet could not be brought to believe that her animadversions, perfectly audible to any within a radius of ten feet, were anything more than the merest whispers. Following her erstwhile chaperon across the room, Lenore helped Harriet, grey-haired and stooped, to settle her purple skirts in her favourite chair a little removed from the fireplace.

Seeing her aunt pull her tatting from a bag beside the chair and start to untangle the bobbins, Lenore placed a hand on her arm and slowly stated, “I'll bring you some tea when the trolley arrives.”

Harriet nodded and returned to her craft. Lenore left her, hoping she would not become bored and start musing, aloud, on the guests.

Despite the presence of some women she could not in all conscience call friends, Lenore moved easily through the bevy of bright dresses, scattered like jewels about the large room. She had long ago perfected the art of graciously acknowledging those she did not wish to encourage, leaving them a little puzzled by her serene acceptance of their presence. To those who were her social peers she acted the hostess in truth, listening to their gossip, complimenting them on their gowns. It was in gatherings such as this that she learned much of what was transpiring beyond the gates of Lester Hall.

Tonight, however, once she had done her duty and gone the rounds, she gravitated to her cousin's side, intent on learning why Amelia had so unexpectedly arrived.

“It was Rothesay.” Amelia made a moue of distaste. “He's been positively hunting me, Lenore.”

Standing by the side of the room, out of earshot of the company, Lenore sent Amelia a commiserating glance. “I take it the viscount is to be numbered among those gentlemen who have difficulty in understanding the word ‘no'?”

Amelia frowned. “It's not so much a matter of his understanding as a sad lack of imagination. I do believe that he simply cannot credit the fact that any lady would refuse him.”

Lenore swallowed a snort. At sixteen, Amelia had dutifully acceded to her parents' wishes and married a man forty years her senior. Widowed at the age of twenty-three, left with a respectable jointure and no protector, she was ripe game for the wolves of the
ton
. Determined not to be pressured into another loveless union, Amelia spent her days endeavouring to avoid a union of less respectable state. The gentlemen of the
ton
, however, had yet to accept the fact that the widowed Lady Wallace felt in no pressing need of male protection.

Fleeing London and the importunings of Lord Rothesay, Amelia had come first to her relatives in Berkshire. “I'm sure a few months will be sufficient to cool Rothesay's ardour. I had planned to go to stay with Aunt Mary but she won't be back in Bath before the end of the month.” Amelia scanned the crowd, swelling as the gentlemen strolled in, forsaking their port for feminine company.

“As Jack said, you're always welcome here.” When Amelia continued to consider the gentlemen as they strolled through the door, Lenore asked, “There is none here who has caused you any bother, is there?”

“No.” Amelia shook her head. “I was just checking for any potential problems.” Linking arms with Lenore, she smiled up at her. “Don't fret. I'm sure I'll manage to survive Jack and Harry's crowd. They all seem to be well-heeled enough not to need my money and well-mannered enough to accept a dismissal. I must say, though, that I'm surprised to see Eversleigh here.”

“Oh?” Conscious of a sharp stab of curiosity, Lenore strolled beside Amelia. “Why so?”

“I had heard,” Amelia said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, “that he's decided to marry. I'd have thought he'd be playing host to a collection of the fairest debs and their doting mamas at Eversleigh Abbey, rather than enjoying the delights of one of your brothers' little gatherings.”

Aware of a sunken sinking feeling, Lenore resisted the compulsion to turn and look for Eversleigh in the crowd. “I hadn't considered him the marrying sort, somehow.”

“Exactly so! The story is that he had no intention of succumbing. His brother was to keep the line going. But he—the brother, I mean—was killed at Waterloo. So now Eversleigh must make the ultimate sacrifice.”

Lenore's lips twitched. “I wonder if he considers it in that light?”

“Undoubtedly,” Amelia averred. “He's a rake, isn't he? Anyway, from everything I've heard and seen, it's the poor soul he takes to wife who deserves our pity. Eversleigh's a handsome devil and can be utterly charming when the mood takes him. It would be hard work to remain aloof from all that masculine appeal. Unfortunately, His Grace is reputed to be impervious to the softer emotions, one of the old school in that regard. I can't see him falling a victim to Cupid and reforming. His poor wife will probably end in thrall and have her heart broken.”

Brows rising, Lenore considered Amelia's prediction. “Charming” was not the word she would have chosen to describe Eversleigh; the power he wielded was far stronger than mere charm. Suppressing an odd shiver, she decided that, all in all, Amelia was right. The future Lady Eversleigh was to be sincerely pitied.

Leaving her cousin with Lady Henslaw, Lenore paused by the side of the room. Under pretext of straightening the upstanding collar of her chemisette, she glanced about, eventually locating Eversleigh conversing with her father, ensconced in his chair by the fireplace. The sight brought a frown to Lenore's eyes. Listening to her father's reminiscences seemed an unlikely joy for a man of Eversleigh's tastes. Still, she was hardly an expert on what a gentleman recently determined on marriage might find entertaining. Shrugging the point aside, she embarked on an ambling progress about the room, providing introductions, ensuring the conversation flowed easily, and keeping a watchful eye on some of the more vulnerable ladies. Two such innocents were the Melton sisters, Lady Harrison and Lady Moffat, whom she discovered under determined seige from a trio of gentlemen.

“Good evening, Lord Scoresby.” Lenore smiled sweetly at his lordship.