The Dangerous Lord (7 page)

Suddenly the coach topped a rise and the house leapt into view, banishing all thoughts of her host and hostess. “Oh, Papa,” she whispered, a lump catching in her throat. No wonder the Worthings had been so pleased with it. It was Papa's best, for certain. He'd always excelled with the Gothic style—the curving lines of the ogee arch, the battlemented parapets, the pointed sashes made to fit the pointed windows. The style's imposing, irregular elements reflected her imposing and entirely irregular father.

Tears stung her eyes. Drat him for letting his excesses haul him to ruin! If not for his weakness for the enjoyments only his titled and wealthy friends could afford, he might have left a legacy as great as that of the brilliant Sir Chris
topher Wren. Instead, he'd left only a nearly destitute family and a few beautiful buildings. Fifty was too young to die. Too, too young.

The coach arrived at the imposing entrance, and she collected herself, wiping away the tears now dampening her cheeks. It was time to be the daughter of the brilliant Algernon once more—the clever Miss Taylor, the amusing Miss Taylor.

The penniless Miss Taylor. With a sigh, she braced herself for the servants' condescension when they saw she'd traveled by hired coach. To her surprise, however, the butler supervising the unloading of her trunk was genuinely friendly. “The gentlemen are out shooting pheasant, miss, and the ladies just now went to join them for luncheon.”

“In this cold?”

“They've laid a shooting luncheon at a cottage on the estate. My lady said if you arrived in time and weren't too tired, you're welcome to join them.”

She wasn't tired, but she'd half hoped to wander the main house a while. But she suspected that Lady Worthing would prefer to show the house to her herself. Besides, this wasn't a holiday—it was work. And the best time to hear gossip was when one's subjects were relaxed. “I believe I
will
join them,” she told the butler.

“Very good, miss. The footman will show you the way.”

Despite the chilly air, the walk was pleasant, affording her a look at the grounds. Though winter had stripped leaves from the foliage and killed the grass, the number of trees and the shapes of the hills led her to think the grounds might be quite fine during summer. A copse startled her gaze in one place, a small, frozen pond glittered like a sapphire in another, and there was a long stand of overreaching oaks that Mama would have liked. Papa had always enjoyed the contrivances of mankind; Mama had preferred the contrivances of nature.

A short time later, Felicity spotted the hunting cottage
the servant had described. Had Papa built this, too? Not Papa, surely. He hated anything rustic. And a wooden cottage with a thatched roof and barkless tree trunks for a doorframe would certainly have offended his sensibilities.

The footman ushered her into a scene of warmth and energy. Three men crowded about the substantial fireplace, discussing the advantages of their weapons, while Lady Worthing and another woman chatted in a corner, and the servants bustled about laying a feast of scotch broth, game pies, venison stew, and crusty bread.

As soon as Lady Worthing spotted her, she came forward with hand extended. “You're here, after all! When you didn't come last night, I feared the heavy snow might keep you away.”

Overwhelmed by the gracious greeting, Felicity hesitantly took her hostess's hand. “Some business kept me in town quite late; then I was afraid to venture out at night with the snow. Most of it had melted this morning, however, so I pressed on.”

At the sound of her voice, one of the gentlemen pivoted to stare at her. The Viscount St. Clair. She froze and her pulse quickened treacherously as his gaze locked with hers. Oh, why must
he
be here? And why must the sight of him strike her with both fear and anticipation?

Within the cramped confines of the cottage, he appeared even larger and more menacing than she remembered. Although his unruly hair and the color in his cheeks enhanced his masculine appeal, the flintlock rifle he held with casual ease did nothing to assuage her fears. In doeskin breeches and a forest green frock coat, he was the very picture of a hunter ready to fire on any troublesome creature thwarting him. Judging from the bulging game bag at his feet, he could use his weapon with great accuracy.

Her muscles tightened in alarm, but she forced them to relax. She was being silly. Even the arrogant Lord St. Clair dare not
shoot
her, for pity's sake. Still, she'd feel far more
comfortable if he clutched a cane instead of a gun.

Of course, his knowledge of her identity was nearly as dangerous. Would he expose her? Or had he taken her threats to heart?

“I'm delighted you went to so much trouble to get here,” Lady Worthing said warmly, her gaze flitting from Felicity to Lord St. Clair. “Now our party is complete.”

Felicity wrenched her gaze from the formidable Lord St. Clair. Only six of them? And so conveniently—or inconveniently—paired off? Oh, this would be disaster. “But Lady Worthing—”

“You mustn't stand on ceremony with me. You and I are nearly the same age, and if you're as nice as your father said, I'm sure we'll be friends. So please call me Sara.”

Stunned by this further evidence of her hostess's graciousness, she stammered, “I-I'd be honored. And you must call me Felicity.” She paused. “Have all your guests arrived then?”

“Actually, yes. We expect a hundred at tonight's ball, but no one else is staying at the manor. Mr. and Mrs. Kinsley were prevented from coming by a sudden emergency. And the Hastings were going to attend with Ian, but at the last minute, they couldn't.” She cast Lord St. Clair an uncertain glance, then added, “Oh, but I'm forgetting myself. You haven't met everyone, have you?”

At Felicity's quick shake of the head, Sara turned to a man as tall as Lord St. Clair and introduced him as her husband Gideon. Felicity murmured a greeting as she studied him. This man had been a pirate? Why, his hair was short, and he bore himself like a gentleman. Perhaps the rumor had been overstated after all. She must find out while she was here, if only to assuage her own curiosity.

Sara introduced the older couple, who proved to be the Marquess and Marchioness of Dryden, Gideon's parents. What an illustrious—and unusual—group she'd stumbled into, thanks to Papa's talent. They'd make interesting com
panions for the next few days, but sadly wouldn't provide her with material. Their familial association made it impossible to use what they said, for they'd guess that the only stranger in the group had been the one to pass on the rumors. Besides, she could never speak badly of people who were so open and lacking in haughty airs.

Drat it all. Not only had this been an almost pointless excursion, but it had thrown her into the company of the vexing viscount.

Then she brightened. At least the ball tonight would be rife with rumors.

“Felicity's father designed Worthing Manor,” Sara was explaining to her mother-in-law. “I thought she might like to see how it looked now that it was finished.” The others had already begun expressing their compliments over the design when Sara added, “Oh, no, I forgot to introduce Ian.”

“No need,” Lord St. Clair remarked. “Miss Taylor and I have already met.”

Felicity shot him a wary glance. This was the moment she'd feared. He would expose her to his friends. Well, if he did, she'd make him regret it. Just let him try.

Lord St. Clair's words seemed to intrigue Sara. “Have you indeed? I had no idea. Where did you meet, Ian?”

“Perhaps I should let the lady tell you.” He taunted Felicity with a smile of such challenge it made her grit her teeth.

What did he expect? That she would expose herself? Or lie, so he could accuse her once more of “inventing” things? Well, she wouldn't do either. “Actually, we met at Taylor Hall.” When the others looked shocked, she added, “Lord St. Clair came to pay his respects after Papa died.” It was true. He
had
paid his respects…in a fashion. Still, calling on an unmarried woman to whom one hadn't been introduced was scandalous under any circumstances.

Well, she thought, she'd certainly laid down the gauntlet.
If he wanted to expose her, now was his chance. They might as well get it over with.

His smile vanished. “Miss Taylor, you'll tarnish my reputation as a gentleman. You fail to mention my companions, the ones who introduced us at your home.”

Her heart skipped a beat. Apparently he wouldn't risk an open discussion of her column before his friends. That knowledge emboldened her. “Oh, yes, your companions. You and I were engaged in such lively conversation that day that I'd quite forgotten about them. Remind me again of who they were?”

He raised one eyebrow and opened his mouth to retort. She even found herself eagerly anticipating his reply.

Then Gideon broke in. “I hate to interrupt, but may we continue this discussion over luncheon? Hunting in this foul weather rouses a man's appetite something fierce.”

Sara laughed. “Yes, of course, my dear.”

Pleased to have had the last word in the skirmish, Felicity took the nearest seat and flashed Lord St. Clair an impudent smile. Although Gideon and his father flanked her, Lord St. Clair seated himself directly across the table from her, and his determined expression showed he had no intentions of retreating from the battle yet.

Good. She was ready for him today.

As soon as everyone was settled and the servants began serving them, Sara leaned forward a little to look over at Felicity. “You must excuse my husband's rudeness, Felicity. We spend a great part of the year on a remote island where blunt speech is more common than here in England.”

“I don't mind blunt speech,” Felicity replied, casting Lord St. Clair a pointed look. “It's preferable to deceptive speech.”

He lifted his wineglass, a half smile playing over his lips. “Ah, then I suppose you never participate in that female diversion called ‘gossip.'”

Before Felicity could reply, Sara answered him. “Like all men, you find any female talk suspect, and I'll admit it can sometimes be vicious. But even gossip has its uses. The Ladies Committee relies on rumor or the threat of it to convince recalcitrant members of Parliament that they should aid our cause.” She served herself some venison stew from the plate proffered by the servant at her elbow. “And it has social uses as well, by urging unsavory men and women to avoid public censure by being more discreet in their vices. That prevents them from unduly influencing our young, don't you think?”

Felicity had never heard a more eloquent defense of her profession. She instantly added “reason” and “intelligence” to her growing list of the countess's appealing traits.

Lord St. Clair shifted his disturbing black gaze from Sara to Felicity. “And if the gossip is untrue?”

Felicity smiled smugly. “Gossip is more often true than not. Haven't you ever heard the saying, ‘Where there's smoke, there's fire'?” God knows, Lord St. Clair had been smoking like a chimney.

“Yes, but who set the fire?” He drank deeply of the burgundy in his glass. “If you set a fire in my house, then report on its smoke, that only proves you can set a fire that will smoke. It proves nothing whatsoever about my tendencies to arson.”

“I did not set—” She broke off when she caught the others staring at her. “We women don't set the fires, Lord St. Clair. Men build so many fires on their own that it's all we can do to keep the smoke from choking us.”

“We're still discussing gossip, aren't we?” Gideon put in dryly as he cut a bite of squab pie. “You've lost me with all this talk of fires.”

Sara shot her husband an exasperated look. “Only because you men think so literally. Everything is in black and white. Gossip is bad, truth is good. But sometimes gossip is good and truth is a very nasty antidote to one's vanity.”
When Ian started to retort, she added, “Besides, Ian is only complaining about gossip because he was the subject of it in this week's
Gazette
.”

“Really?” An urge for mischief seized Felicity. “I don't recall reading anything about his lordship in the paper. Do tell what was said.”

“It's about his latest mistress.” Sara's eyes twinkled. “How many is it, Ian, since you returned from the Continent? Fifteen? Twenty? And that's after Josephine and all those Spanish women. If the gossip is to be believed, you spend all your time in bed.”

“That's enough of the boring and patently false rumors,” Lord St. Clair clipped out. “Besides, we were discussing Mr. Taylor's work on Worthing Manor. Tell me, Sara, was that round staircase by the back parlor his idea or yours?”

With those few words he changed the subject so easily—and effectively—that he roused Felicity's grudging admiration. Trust Lord St. Clair to hit upon the one subject guaranteed to distract her.

Loath to let him win, she nonetheless couldn't resist listening when Sara began her saga of the building of the house. Soon Felicity was asking questions, scrabbling for some piece of information about those last few weeks of her father's life. Once or twice she caught Lord St. Clair watching her so closely she wondered if she'd dropped mustard on her chin or something. But she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing her react. She ignored him instead.

As soon as everyone had finished their apple charlotte, the gentlemen returned to their sport. She relaxed the moment the irritating viscount disappeared out the door with his companions. Now if only she could avoid him entirely for the next few days…

Lady Dryden decided to walk back to the house for a nap, but Sara invited Felicity to stay in the cottage and join her for some tea. Within moments of the men's defection,
the servants had whisked all the dishes into a waiting cart and tidied up. So it was with some anticipation that Felicity found herself alone with her hostess.