by Regina Scott
“Still mourning your brother?” he asked, eyeing the spot on Kevin’s sleeve where the black band had rested only days before.
It would be an easy answer, but Robbie’s death was far more complicated. “I am resigned to the fact, my lord.”
Hastings adjusted his top hat. “Even if we could catch Safton?”
Kevin started. “Can you? What have you heard?”
“Nothing yet,” Hastings assured him. “But rumors are circulating.”
Kevin sagged. “Rumors are always circulating, my lord. You should know that better than most.”
“And you should know that where there’s smoke, there’s often fire.” His smile returned. “But of course, you are out of all that.”
He knew how to tempt. “Yes, I am.”
He sighed. “Has the lady found a way into your heart, then?”
He couldn’t tell him the truth. Although Kevin knew the shame was on his side, too many might belittle Jenny instead.
He spread his hands. “I am utterly besotted.”
Hastings nodded. “Good. The lady deserves as much.”
His hands fell despite his best efforts. “On that we agree.”
His superior walked around him, as if returning to the door, but his gaze never left Kevin’s. “Marriage is a sacred institution, my lad. You would do well to heed that.”
He willed himself not to blush. “Of course, my lord. As always, your advice is wisdom itself.”
Hastings barked a laugh. “Doing it up too brown, Whattling. You used to tell me when I was being an idiot.”
Kevin grinned. “But in the most charming manner possible.”
“Of course. Still, if courting begins to pale, stop by the War Office. We’ll find something for you to do.”
Kevin opened the door for him. “I cannot conceive you have anything interesting. Napoleon is done.”
“Very likely,” Hastings agreed with a smile that did not meet his eyes this time. “But England has other enemies. Keeps us lively. I expect to see you at the War Office this afternoon.” With a nod, he strolled out the door.
Kevin shut it behind him. Why had Hastings come to his rooms only to demand a command performance? He could have sent an underling with a note. Or was he merely protecting Kevin from the gossip that must be flying about his debts?
Whatever his lordship’s purpose, Kevin owed the older man too much to refuse. And truth be told, he was tempted to return to service. Chasing down rumors for Lord Hastings had been highly diverting. Matching wits with other intelligence agents, ferreting out secrets, appealed to his adventurous side. Yet there was something to be said for attending events without wondering what lay behind each smile, of spending time with a lady with no concern for poison in his wine or a dagger in his back.
And Eugennia was such a taking little thing.
So he played the game, went to the War Office, listened to his lordship lay out the many excellent reasons Kevin should return to his service. It seemed the French were still agitated, the Americans grumbling, the Germans in collusion in Vienna to carve up Europe to their liking. So many places ripe for intelligence gathering. But in the end, he refused. Unless he uncovered something with a reward behind it, which was highly unlikely, he would never earn enough to clear his debts. His heiress objective was still the best approach.
“Miss Welch is a lucky lady,” his lordship said as he shook Kevin’s hand over the walnut desk in his private office. “I look forward to wishing you both happy.”
“I promise you will be among the first to know,” Kevin assured him.
Unfortunately, his interview at the War Office had lasted too late in the afternoon for him to call on Eugennia. He waited until a decent hour the next day, dressed in a bottle green coat with a tan waistcoat and fawn trousers, and went to her town house to continue with his plan. He knew she wasn’t expecting him, but he wasn’t expecting the scene that greeted him. A florist’s lorrie stood at the curb, horses standing and muttering. The front door of the town house was swinging open with no footman in attendance. He clapped the brass knocker anyway, but no one answered his summons. Concerned, he poked his head into the entry but found it as empty as the staircase beyond.
“Fiching?” he called, echo rising with his concern. “Miss Welch? Miss Tindale? Is anyone home?”
“Mr. Whattling!” Miss Tindale appeared from a doorway to the left. Her arms were so full of white lilies that all he could see was the top of her iron-grey head and the bottom of her black skirts. She had never looked better. “Somehow I knew you would show up to take credit! Now I suppose we will have to thank you personally.”
“Thank me, madam?” he asked with a frown. But she hurried past him across the entry toward the sitting room. Fiching followed in her wake, balancing a rather large silver urn of bright gardenias in one arm and a Chinese vase of pink carnations in the other.
“Oh, Mr. Whattling, sir. I’m sorry to say our footman is busy, but I’ll be with you in just a moment.” He teetered up the stairs and disappeared overhead. A young man in an apprentices’ apron backed out of the same room.
“That’s the lot, then, Miss Welch. Will you be needing anything else?”
“Only a dozen more vases,” she replied, following him out into the entry, her arms full of red roses that clashed with the violet silk of her morning dress. “But I think we have that many about somewhere. Thank you for your help.”
“You’re very welcome, ma’am.” He tipped his cap and turned to go, nearly colliding with the bemused Kevin. “Beggin’ yer pardon.”
Kevin nodded as he skittered past. His bluestocking blushed as red as her roses. He stepped forward, offering her his best smile. “Lovely roses, Miss Welch.”
“All the flowers are lovely, Mr. Whattling,” she replied, chin coming up. “Lovely, but not wanted in the least.”
Before he could respond to her curious remark, Fiching clattered back down the stairs. “Let me take those, Miss Jenny.”
Jenny. Kevin’s smile broadened as she handed them hurriedly over. It suited her far more than Eugennia. When she gave him permission to call her by her first name, that’s the name he’d use.
“You really shouldn’t have, Mr. Whattling,” she told him as Fiching dashed off to the nether regions of the house. “I’m fond of flowers, but this is a bit much.”
“I’m rather fond of flowers myself,” Kevin replied. “But I assure you, I didn’t send you roses.”
She made a face. “And will you tell me that you didn’t send the three dozen lilies, four dozen carnations, or six dozen gardenias?”
Kevin raised a brow. “Someone sent you one hundred and fifty-six flowers?”
“One hundred and eighty, if one is to count the two dozen roses,” Jenny corrected him. “There is no need to dissemble, sir. Your card came with each batch.”
“Did it?” He could think of only two people who knew of his plans with Jenny, but even they would not go so far as to order one hundred and eighty flowers. There had to be some mistake.
“Are you certain it was my card?” he asked. “Surely your other suitors send flowers. Perhaps there was a mistake at the florist’s.”
She paled, and her jaw tightened. “I have no other suitors, Mr. Whattling, as if you didn’t know. Are you intent on making a fool of me?”
He recoiled before her vehemence. “I assure you, Miss Welch, nothing could be farther from my mind. Much as I’d love to shower you with flowers, and any number of other gifts if you’d let me, I haven’t the blunt. Can you imagine what roses must cost at the beginning of March?”
She frowned. “You have a point. But if you did not send them, who did?”
“I may have an idea. May I ask, did you look at the cards closely?”
She shrugged. “Enough to see that it was your signature.”
He cocked his head. “My signature, eh? And did all the handwriting look the same?”
She started, then gazed at him more closely. “I never noticed.”
“Then let us do so. You like to study, my dear. Let’s see how good a forger our mysterious benefactor is.”
–
Jenny led him into the library, mind whirling. When the delivery wagons had begun arriving that morning, her heart had sunk even farther, if that was possible. Mr. Safton had been right—Kevin Whattling thought so little of her that he intended to flatter his way into her life with a few roses and some excellent candy. But lilies had followed roses, carnations had followed lilies, and gardenias had followed carnations until every room in her town house but the library boasted at least one vase. The perfume was overpowering and a little contradictory, and even now the footman and maids were scurrying about opening windows.
Now she scolded herself for not pausing to analyze the situation. Of course, he couldn’t have afforded so many flowers if his debts were as great as he claimed. The question was, why would anyone else possibly want to send flowers for him?
She went to sit at her father’s mahogany desk beside the large windows and motioned him to the leather-wrapped armchair flanking it.
“May I have a quill and paper?” he asked as he was seated.
She pulled them and the ink from the drawer in the desk and pushed them across the surface toward him. Leaning forward, he dipped the quill in the ink and scrawled his name across the page. Blotting the work, he offered it to her.
“And now the cards?”
She drew the cards from a pocket of her gown and slid them toward him. He thumbed through them thoughtfully.
“Well, we seem to have two friends, at the very least,” he mused. “There, see for yourself.”
She took the cards and laid them alongside his signature on the paper. The signature on the first card was cramped and tiny, as if the person wasn’t sure he was allowed to sign that name and didn’t exactly want to call attention to it. The signature on the second card was bold and black, the ink leaking through in places, the arrogant scrawl of a man who didn’t care what others thought of him. The signature on the paper was elegant and firm, without affectation. They had clearly been made by three different people.
“But who would want to send flowers and gifts for you, Mr. Whattling?” she asked with a frown.
He sat back. “I’m not sure. You said gifts. May I ask what?”
“Candy. Rather good candy. Actually, rather amazingly good candy, quite delicate and refined. I’ve never seen its like in London.”
He nodded. “My friend Giles Sloane has a secret stash from Switzerland. He obtains it regularly. I don’t ask questions.”
“I wouldn’t,” Jenny agreed. “And the other?”
He stretched. “I don’t recognize the handwriting, but I assume it is no doubt another friend. We were seen in Hyde Park together the other day by a great number of my acquaintances, and it is becoming increasingly well known that, if I were seriously courting a lady, I would have no funds to treat her as she would no doubt deserve. I haven’t done much courting, but I believe it is customary for the gentleman to send flowers and bring little gifts.”
She looked away from him. “Perhaps customary, in some circumstances. I would prefer that you did not.” This was her chance. She could stop all this nonsense with a single sentence, if she had the courage.
Over the last day, she had come to realize that her emotions were entirely too volatile where Mr. Kevin Whattling was concerned. Her reactions were very unlike the bluestocking she prided herself in being. Time and again she had to remind herself to think rather than to simply feel. Worse, she had been willing to compromise her own intelligence to gain his attention, behaving as if she didn’t realize she was no longer a dewy-eyed schoolgirl. The mere thought sickened her. Much as she had wanted to have him court her, however much she had dreamed of him, she had to bring this business to an end before it affected her any more deeply. Suddenly her old life, however staid, seemed far less dangerous than being courted by Kevin Whattling.
“In fact, Mr. Whattling,” she stated with determination, “I would prefer that you not call again.”
He sat straighter, color draining. “You’re giving me the sack.”
“You were never an employee. I therefore cannot sack you.”
He sat so still, lovely eyes unfocused, that she almost lost courage.
“It has just been made apparent to me,” she informed him as gently as she could, more to convince herself than anything else, “that we will not suit.”
“I see,” he said. “I had thought we were becoming friends, at least. My mistake.”
Tears were starting again. She forbid them. “I should not have encouraged you, Mr. Whattling. I bear part of the blame.”
He rose. “Blame, madam? There is no need for blame. Thank you for your honesty. Another woman might have kept me dangling indefinitely. I admire your candor. Good day.” He bowed and walked out of the room, gait stiff and unyielding.
Just like that.
Jenny started to shake. He hadn’t even tried to dissuade her. No promises of undying devotion, no cries of dismay. He didn’t even care enough to lie.
She scolded herself for being ridiculous. He had been honest to the end, and she had sent him packing anyway. The princess had rejected the handsome prince, who had taken his white horse and nobly ridden off.
Somehow, she had thought stories weren’t supposed to end that way.
Chapter Ten
George Safton arrived in the late afternoon to inquire about the bluestocking’s health. His navy coat and fawn trousers were calculated to remind her of Kevin Whattling’s usual morning attire. Although he refrained from remarking on it, he noted the red and puffy eyes and trembling lip with satisfaction. Something was wrong, which could only mean that things were working to his advantage. But he had never been one to rest on his achievements.
“I’m very glad to see that your misencounter the other day has had no ill effects,” he replied when she assured him she was all right. “A lady cannot be too careful in these trying times.”
“Don’t I always say it,” Miss Tindale agreed beside her mistress on the sofa, patting down the skirts of her black bombazine.
Miss Welch offered him a wane smile. “I assure you, Mr. Safton, between Martha and Fiching, I’m in very good hands.”
“It is a blessing to have true friends,” he said with a nod, letting his smile include her companion and butler. Miss Tindale was beaming at him, so he had clearly won her over. The butler was scowling at him, but he didn’t suppose that mattered much. “And speaking of friends, you haven’t by any chance seen our mutual friend Mr. Whattling recently?”
He had the satisfaction of hearing Miss Tindale sniff derisively while her mistress paled until her skin clashed with the violet silk gown she was wearing.
“I do not expect to see Mr. Whattling again in the near future,” she replied.
He sighed, keeping his triumph to himself. “Pity. I’ve been having a great deal of trouble catching up with him. He had mentioned wanting to catch Kean at Drury Lane with me. I went so far as to procure three tickets—for myself, Mr. Whattling, and his friend Mr. Sloane, but neither of them have sent word they will be able to attend. I do so hate attending the theatre alone. One feels so out of place.”
Miss Tindale sighed in understanding. Miss Welch was studying her hands folded in her lap.
“I don’t suppose…” he looked as pathetic as he was able. “No, no, a great inconvenience, I’m sure.”
“What?” Miss Tindale demanded. “Surely, Mr. Safton, you know that we would be happy to do you a service. Why, you saved Miss Jenny’s life.”
Jenny. What an utterly plebeian name. Still, if it would advance his cause, he ought to make use of it. “Not at all, Miss Tindale. I only sought to provide what minimal assistance I could. Your Miss Jenny should feel in no way beholden.”
–
No, she shouldn’t. Jenny snuck a peak at the dark profile from under lowered lashes. She wasn’t sure what it was about the man, but she coul
dn’t trust him. The smiles he was so want to bestow never seemed to lighten the dark in his eyes. Still, he had been very kind the other day and quite thoughtful to check up on her wellbeing.
“If there’s something you need, Mr. Safton,” she told him, “I will do what I can to help.”
“Would you do me the honor of joining me at the theatre tomorrow evening?” he asked.
Martha clapped her hands. “What a splendid thought! May we, Eugennia?”
Jenny looked from Martha’s eager face to Mr. Safton’s hopeful one. She had no desire to do anything but retire to her room and continue to cry, but that experience hadn’t been remotely satisfying. She was quite partial to Edmund Kean’s acting, and company other than Martha’s might be enjoyable. What harm could it do?
“Thank you, Mr. Safton,” she said with a nod. “That would be a very nice diversion.”
–
Giles and Nigel couldn’t stand not knowing the results of their handiwork. They invited Kevin to dinner at Nigel’s apartments, where they were sure not to be disturbed by the odious George Safton. By that time, Kevin had managed to regain his composure. It was all to the good, he told himself, although he wasn’t sure he’d be able to convince himself of that for a while. He consoled himself with the fact that the next heiress might not wreak such havoc with his conscience.
But he couldn’t let Giles off the hook so easily. Much as he admired his friend’s generosity and willingness to help, he needed to make a statement regarding the privacy of his actions. Thus as the dinner wore on, he refused to volunteer information, and he turned aside any subtle attempt to bring his courtship of Miss Welch into the conversation. Even though Nigel’s dining room was spacious and decorated in cool colors, both his friends were soon adjusting their cravats and squirming in their walnut seats as if the quarters were a bit too cramped. By the time Nigel’s liveried footmen were serving the third course, neither of them could sit still.
“But have you seen Miss Welch today?” Giles finally blurted out. Nigel glowered at him from the head of the long table, but he manfully refused to cringe. “That is, how is your courtship going?”
