“What is it you wanted to say?” The cabinet door hid his head and muffled his voice.
“I don't think Lord Trent is an appropriate match for the Hel--Miss Effington.” Laurie summoned his courage and plunged ahead. “And I think you should forbid it.”
“What?” Lord Harold straightened, decanter in hand, and glared. “Dash it all, why should I do that?”
“Well, sir.” Laurie cleared his throat nervously. “It's this game they're playing.”
“Yes, what of it?”
“I fear each of them is so determined to win,” he eyed the decanter in Lord Harold's hands, “they are abandoning all sense of propriety and indeed have already found themselves in mortal danger at least once.”
The older man's brow furrowed. “I was afraid these tests of hers would kill him.”
“Not Trent, sir, Miss Effington.” Was Lord Harold planning on pouring a glass, or would he just hold the blasted decanter all day?
“Spit it out, man, what are you trying to say?”
“Yes, sir.” This would certainly be easier with a glass in his hand. “Trent disguised her as a boy and took her to a rather disreputable, no, a distinctly unsavory tavern, where they were involved in a nasty brawl. Trent suffered more than a few injuries.”
Concern lit Lord Harold's eyes. “And my daughter?”
“Oh, she's fine, but I understand she was forced to protect herself by breaking bottles over the heads of ruffians.”
“Good God!” Lord Harold's jaw dropped.
“Indeed, sir.” Laurie couldn't resist a smug smile. “Three times. Knocked them unconscious.”
“Three times?” Pandora's father shook his head, obviously shocked. “Felled them, you say?”
“Yes, sir.” Perhaps this called for a drink?
“By Jove.” A slow grin spread across Lord Harold's face and pride shone in his eyes. “The girl's an Effington, all right. Most spirited family in all of England.”
Laurie stared, stunned.
“Always loved a good fight. Would pit anyone of us against any miscreant or villain anywhere in the world. Been in that spot myself more than once in my younger days, too. Never thought it would be up to my daughter to carry on the family tradition. She's an Effington through and through.” He winked slyly. “But gets a lot of it from her mother.”
Laurie's shoulders slumped. “So you're not going to put an end to this? Forbid her to marry Trent?”
“Are you daft?” Lord Harold scoffed. “Lord Trent's the one who suffered in the incident. He can obviously protect her or she can protect herself.”
“But the scandal if this comes out.”
“Does anyone else know about it?”
“I don't think so.”
“And they won't will they?” There was an unmistakable threat in Lord Harold's voice. “We wouldn't want a repeat of that Hellion of Grosvenor Square business, would we?”
Laurie nodded reluctantly. “No sir.”
Lord Harold's gaze assessed him. “You look like hell, man. Did you want that brandy or not?”
“Yes sir.” He might as well accept defeat graciously. At least on this front.
Lord Harold pulled two glasses from the cabinet and handed him one.
“But, I am curious, sir.” He held out his glass and Lord Harold obligingly filled it. He took a quick sip. “Good brandy, sir.” He paused to choose his words. “Given what I've told you, why are you willing to allow this game, and more than likely a marriage as well?”
“First of all, as you no doubt realize, if this is what she wants, I probably couldn't stop her.” He poured a glass for himself and replaced the decanter. “Secondly, from all I've been able to determine, the earl is an excellent match.”
He led Laurie to a sofa and they each settled at opposite ends. “Good family, fine fortune, unblemished title and his war record is outstanding. He's a man of honor and means. No father could ask for more.”
He caught Laurie's gaze with his own. “Don't take my previous comments about my daughter incorrectly. I would not hand Pandora over to any man who was not worthy of her. Lord Trent is a good man.”
He raised his glass and drew a long swallow. “In addition, I suspect the incident you related was, if not instigated, then at least exacerbated by my daughter. Am I right?”
Laurie nodded.
“I can't hold him completely responsible for that.” He absently swirled the brandy in his glass and studied Laurie. “Let me ask you a question. If you don't want Pandora for yourself--”
“I can assure you, I don't, sir,” Laurie said quickly.
Lord Harold raised a brow. “Very well. If you don't want her, why are you so obviously against her marriage to Lord Trent?”
“He's my oldest friend.” A glum note sounded in his voice.
“I see.” Lord Harold laughed then sobered. “I'll give you one more reason why I won't forbid this match.” He stared at his brandy for a minute then met Laurie's gaze. “I think she likes him. Maybe even more than likes him.”
“How can you tell?” Laurie said dryly. “She's not making it easy for him.”
“But she has agreed to this bargain. She's never really risked marriage before. That nonsense with you was more youthful foolishness than anything else. I suspect her feelings for him are stronger than even she expects.” He shrugged. “Even Peters agrees.”
“Peters?” Laurie pulled his brows together. “Who is Pe--”
A sharp knock sounded at the door and it swung open.
“Harry, I must talk to you. When you and Grace first met, how did you know--” the Hellion stepped into the room and stopped. “Oh dear, I am sorry, Harry, I thought you were alone.”
Harry?
They set their glasses down on their respective side tables and rose to their feet. She smiled pleasantly and walked toward them. Laurie had to admit she was indeed a beauty.
Recognition lit her eyes and she held out her hand. “You're Lord Trent's friend, aren't you?”
He took her hand and brought it to his lips, never taking his gaze from hers. The blasted woman still didn't remember him. “Indeed I am.”
“Please forgive me. You look familiar, but,” she shook her head and bit her bottom lip, “I can't seem to place you.”
An odd sort of muffled snort came from Lord Harold. Laurie dropped her hand.
“Pandora, my dear,” Lord Harold said with a note of amusement in his voice. “Surely you remember Lawrence, Viscount Bolton?”
For a moment nothing happened. Then her eyes widened and she gasped. “Dear Lord, you're the twit!”
Where on earth was the man?
Cynthia stood on the steps of the wide terrace. A servant had suggested she might find Lord Trent out of doors, but so far she was having little luck. Now she stood debating whether or not to look in the garden or venture into the mazes, daunting as they were, for him. If she weren't already encumbered by the large paper-wrapped package she clutched tightly in her arms, she wouldn't have hesitated to search further. Her burden was uncomfortably heavy, its weight growing with every step since she'd retrieved it from its hiding place amid her packed clothing.
Cynthia had absolutely no qualms about speaking to Lord Trent. The confidence she'd garnered at their last meeting had, if anything, grown stronger. It was quite pleasant to realize she could indeed take a hand in shaping the events of the world, rather than waiting for them to shape her.
There were perhaps a dozen people out and about. Some strolled the grounds. Quite a few sat in chairs on the terrace enjoying the fresh air and the fine spring day.
“Miss Weatherly.”
She glanced over her shoulder. Lord Trent strode across the terrace toward her. “Good day.”
He smiled in greeting. “A footman said you wished to speak to me.” His gaze slid to her package. “May I take that for you?”
“Please,” she said with relief, and handed it to him.
He hefted it in his hands and raised a brow. “What is t
his?”
“I'll show you in a moment.” She cast her gaze over the terrace and then scanned the park to make certain Pandora was nowhere to be found. “If you would be so kind as to accompany me to the garden?”
He smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”
They walked down the steps toward the formal plantings laid out in a manner best to be seen from the terrace and Effington Hall itself. She stopped.
“No, this will never do. The garden is far too open.” She nodded at the high boxwood hedge that marked the square maze to the right of the garden. “That maze will serve much better.” She started toward it with a determined step. “It would be best if we were not seen.”
“Whatever are you up to, Miss Weatherly?” An amused tone sounded in his voice.
She slanted him a quick glance. “I am doing precisely what I said I would. I am lending you my assistance.”
“You are?” He laughed. “How?”
“I'll explain when we're out of sight of the hall. There are too many people about here.”
“It does seem rather crowded.”
“Oh, it's not at all bad yet,” she said lightly. “The gathering grows larger every day with those who couldn't stay for the entire length of the duchess's party but come for only a day or two. Most of those here now are Effingtons. It is an exceedingly large family.”
“So I've heard,” he said in a dry manner.
She smiled. “It is rather overwhelming if one isn't used to it. I've been invited here for the past two years and I can assure you, for the most part, they are all quite charming.”
“No doubt,” he said, as if he didn't believe her. “So I gather there is no one I should be particularly concerned about.”
“You, Lord Trent, should be concerned about them all.” She took a few steps before she realized he was no longer with her. She stopped and looked behind her.
Trent stood stock still with a look of unease on his face. “What exactly do you mean?”
Good Lord, the man was truly concerned. She laughed. “You really have nothing to worry about. It won't be that bad. Now, are you coming with me?”
“Of course.” He nodded and stepped forward, and again they started toward the maze.
“The Effingtons are very nice. Oh, the dowager duchess can be a bit formidable but that's probably more a result of age and her position as family matriarch. And the duke, Lord Harold's oldest brother, is charming, but he carries this, well, air of authority that can be a touch intimidating. I gather he is not here this year, but his wife the duchess is. Her Grace is quite lovely and very nice although she does have a habit of studying you as if she was trying to determine exactly what you're made of and whether or not you measure up to Effington standards.
“And then there are Lord Harold's two middle brothers, the lords Edward and William, and their wives and children--although Pandora's very favorite cousins haven't arrived yet. Add to that various distant relations and--” She glanced beside her. Lord Trent had disappeared. She sighed and turned. Once again he looked as if he was rooted to the ground.
“Are you certain I have nothing to be worried about?”
“My lord, you are being ridiculous.” She planted her hands on her hips. “From what Pandora has said, from what I myself have observed, you are everything any family could wish for. As I've told you before, you are a perfect match for Pandora.”
“But will they think that?”
“Any fool can see that, and I doubt there is a single fool among this entire family. Besides.” She heaved an exasperated sigh. “Each and every one of them feels Pandora should have been wed long ago. Why, you could probably be hunchbacked, with two heads and drool coming out of both mouths, and as long as you were still moderately respectable they'd tie a ribbon around her waist and hand her over to you with a wink and a healthy dowry.”
He chuckled and walked toward her. “I hardly think they would accept drool. Two heads, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” She laughed and he fell into step beside her. “Still, I am serious when I say you needn't worry.”
“We shall see,” he murmured.
They approached the maze and stopped at the entrance. The height of the hedge was nearly eight feet. Pandora had told her once both mazes had been planted more than a century ago, although the gardens they flanked were routinely dug up and redesigned with every new Duchess of Roxborough.
“So.” Lord Trent studied the entrance with an air of skepticism. “Which way do we go?”
“Pandora told me the secret of both mazes once, but I must admit, I really don't remember. Besides, we only need to go around one corner to get the privacy we require.” She stepped into the maze, confident he would follow.
“Privacy? I must confess, you have piqued my interest, Miss Weatherly.”
She turned to the right and followed the maze around one turn. “This will do. Now.” She clasped her hand together in anticipation. “Open the package.”
He studied her curiously for a moment, then untied the string around the wrapping and pulled off the paper.
“It's a drinking cup,” she said quickly. “I know it looks far too big to be a cup, but that's what she--that's what it is.”
“It's Greek, isn't it?” He examined the cup. It was about the size of bowl, nearly a full foot across, with handles on each side and a stem that flared to a circular base. It was black in color overall, banded by a wide strip of an earth red shade embellished with stylized figures rendered in black. “And very old.”
“Oh, it's ancient. Look at the design.” A note of eagerness rang in her voice.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
“Goodness, my lord, it's more than interesting.” She stepped closer and traced the design with her finger. “See here? This gentlemen--I can't remember his name, Thes-something, it doesn't matter--but look at what he's fighting.”
“It looks like a bull.” Trent's brows drew together in concentration.
“It is a bull. And not just any bull. I'll tell you the complete story later, but this is a bull from Crete,” she said with a note of triumph.
“A bull from Crete,” he said slowly, then met her gaze and grinned. “A bull from Crete.”
“Congratulations.” She beamed. “I believe you have another point.”
His grin faded. “I can't accept this.”
“Why on earth not?” She stared in astonishment.
“It doesn't seem quite sporting.” He shook his head. “Not in the spirit of the game, and all that.”
“Not in the spirit of the game?” She snorted in a distinctly unladylike manner. “And I suppose purchasing a gold horn or procuring a chemise from a woman who has apparently been an acquaintance for years is in the spirit of the game?”
“That was different.” His brow furrowed as if he was trying to determine exactly how they were different.
She scoffed. “Nonsense. Besides, Cretan bulls are exceedingly difficult to find.”
“Where did you get this?”
She thought for a moment. Lady Harold had given her the cup knowing full well she'd give it to Trent. Pandora would not be at all pleased. The less he knew, the less he could reveal. “It was a gift. It was given to me, and now I'm giving it to you.”
“It would give me five points,” he said under his breath turning the cup over in his hands. “Still…”
My, but the man was stubborn. “If you truly feel you can't accept the blasted thing as a gift in the spirit of the ridiculous game--”
She snatched the cup from his hands, walked a few paces, placed it on the ground, then turned to him and clapped her hands to her cheeks. “Oh no. Look!” She pointed dramatically to the cup. “A bull! No doubt from Crete! Oh, I do hope someone can capture the beast!”
Lord Trent stared at her with a mild look of alarm. The very same look one might give a relation whose bottle was not completely corked.
She huffed and fisted her hands on her hips. “I say again, can't someone capture this be
ast?” Her voice rose. “This bull? From Crete?”
“Capture…” His eyes widened and he laughed. He stepped to the cup and picked it up with a flourish.
“Well done, my lord!” Cynthia applauded. “I have never seen the capture of a bull, especially a bull from Crete, accomplished with such skill.”
“Thank you, Miss Weatherly. I do appreciate the compliment, but have you ever considered, perhaps”--a wry smile quirked his lips--“you spend entirely too much time with Miss Effington?”
Chapter 14
An Uneasy Alliance
For a moment Pandora could only stare in horror.
It had been years since she'd so much as given the twit a second thought. And even then it had only been to hope he'd somehow vanished from the surface of the earth.
Lord Bolton swept a low exaggerated bow. “At your service, Miss Effington.”
“I don't want you to be at my service. I don't want you to be anything. And most of all, I don't want you to be here. What are you doing here?”
“I was invited,” he said.
“Invited? Hah! Who would have invited you?”
“Your mother.”
“My mother?” Indignation swept through her. “First Trent, now you? How could she?”
Lord Bolton shrugged.
The last thing she expected when she walked in to speak to her father was a confrontation with her past. Didn't she have enough on her mind with Max present? Wasn't her life far too complicated already? She certainly didn't need an awkward, and nearly forgotten, incident from years ago rearing its irritating head in the form of Viscount Bolton.
Her father cleared his throat. “I suspect you two have any number of things to discuss, and while I dare not leave you alone, the servants complain whenever there is blood on the carpet; this is an exceedingly large room.” He nodded toward the far end of the library. “I'm certain I have something I can attend to at the desk.”
He stepped to a table beside the crimson sofa, picked up a glass of brandy, cast her an encouraging smile, and strode off.
She crossed her arms over her chest and studied Lord Bolton. Now that she saw him again she remembered how handsome she'd once thought him. Grudgingly she admitted the last five years had served him well. He was perhaps more attractive now than he'd been then, with an air of confidence brought on by maturity. Of course, he was still a twit.
The Wedding Bargain Page 15
