He didn’t turn a hair. “It is good that I happened by, then. Pen would have worried with your delayed return. It will not do for you to absent yourself for so long, even with a footman for protection.”
A red arrow shot through her head. This man had the effrontery to scold her for not accommodating herself to the restrictions he created.
She welcomed the old vexation. Like a suit of steel for her heart, it blunted other reactions evoked by being alone with him again.
Embarrassing, confusing, dangerous reactions.
“I think that my cousin Nigel is in London,” she said as they rejoined the other vehicles crowding the streets.
“He arrived a few days ago.”
“It is odd that he has not called on Penelope.”
“He called yesterday.”
“It is odd that Pen did not mention he had left his card.”
“She never saw his card. I procured it from the butler.”
She turned in surprise toward his impassive profile. “Your sister will be insulted that you presumed to do so.”
“I doubt that, since he did not call on Pen.”
He said it with utter calm, as if the implications should not bother her at all.
“You discovered that my cousin called on me, and you removed his card so I would not know? How dare you?”
“Compose yourself. Anyone who sees us would think we were having a row.”
“We are having a row. It is time that we had a right understanding on a few things, Uncle Vergil.”
“Call me Laclere. It is disconcerting to have a woman whom I have kissed address me as Uncle Vergil.”
She stared at him with astonishment. “You amaze me. You refer to that with equanimity even while you assume a posture of authority.”
“I neither refer to it nor think of it with equanimity. I merely point out that Uncle Vergil has become a peculiar form of address. As for your cousin, I do not approve of his interest in you.”
“Considering the man who did meet with your approval, your lack of it might be treated as the highest recommendation, and suspect in its motivations.”
“I will not spar with you over this. I forbid you to ever see your cousin alone, and I must insist that you do nothing to encourage him. I do not take this course to further my brother’s cause, but to protect you. I do not think Nigel Kenwood is what he appears to be.”
He must have heard about Nigel’s secret woman visitor.
“Not what he appears to be? Oh, my, dear me, goodness, goodness, what a shock.” A storm of confusion, hurt, and resentment that had been gathering for three weeks broke and she let fury fly. “A fine observation coming from you. Excuse me if I am not undone by this stunning news, but I think that there is not a single man in your fastidious society who is what he appears to be. Aunt Edith warned me about the corrupt, immoral underbelly of the English aristocracy, and I begin to understand her. How dare you judge Nigel. If he is not what he appears to be, he is no more a fraud than you. Less of one, because he does not set himself up as some saint. Much less of one, because the last I heard, he did not make love to his ward even while he courts a fiancée and keeps a mistress up in Lancashire.”
He almost didn’t react. Almost. The slightest flicker of dismay lit his eyes, however. That instant of concern told her more eloquently than words that she had hit a mark with her last accusation.
Charlotte had been correct about his journeys north. He kept a woman there.
It sucked the fury right out of her. She sank back into the seat, overwhelmed with a sick desolation.
The depth of her disappointment staggered her. This detail irrevocably turned those kisses from impetuous passion into sordid follies.
“Fleur is not my fiancée,” he finally said.
“A minor point, Laclere.”
He drove slowly, as if some contemplation distracted him.
“Who told you that I keep a mistress?”
“Do not worry. No one at the house party made insinuations about it. The servants are not gossiping. Only those closest to you suspect. Your visits to her have been noticed. What attraction could draw you north so frequently? Charlotte suggested the explanation, but I would assume that Penelope and Dante have guessed.”
She ached for him to deny it. She even wished he would lie. What could one more deception hurt?
He began navigating the City’s narrow streets without a word, but a frown continued to crease his brow. Considering her own devastation, she was glad that she had given him something to worry about.
A public scandal about Dante would have been easier to bear than this private humiliation.
She entered Mr. Peterson’s chambers with renewed resolve to shed herself of Vergil’s presence in her life.
The solicitor smiled with relief when he saw that she was alone. Vergil had escorted her to the outer chamber and then gone off to conduct some business of his own.
She hurried through the usual pleasantries. “I do not want to appear abrupt, Mr. Peterson, but I expect the viscount to return for me quickly. When last you wrote, you indicated that you expected some news soon, and since I am in London I thought it easiest to come and hear it myself.”
“As you requested, I have obtained the names of some of the men who have expressed interest in purchasing your business partnerships. Most were only tentative inquiries, but one was very firm.”
He pawed through some documents. “Here it is. It is for the mill. That is the investment already yielding income. For one thing, the business has established itself. For another, you own forty-five percent of it. The mill’s manager, a Mr. Clark, owns another forty-five percent. Your grandfather stood him to over half of the initial capital some six years ago when it was built.”
“Who owns the rest?”
“Your grandfather was the majority owner. He left the remaining ten percent to his grandnephew, Nigel Kenwood. He intended the income to help maintain Woodleigh.”
“Someone wants to buy the mill now?”
“Learning the details took a few pints of ale cajoled down the throat of a clerk to Adam Kenwood’s solicitor. There has been a serious offer from a Mr. Johnston and Mr. Kennedy. Nigel Kenwood is eager to agree, but the manager has refused to entertain the offer. Mr. Johnston and Mr. Kennedy demand majority ownership and control of the business, so the new baronet’s ten percent is worthless to them without the agreement of one of the principals.”
She lined the details up and saw them paving a road back to Baltimore. “And I am the other principal. If I sell, and Nigel sells, the manager loses control of the mill.”
“That is correct. He will still enjoy its success, assuming that the new owners pay out honestly, but there are many ways to see that minority investors do not reap the same benefits as those in control. It is easy to claim costs that do not exist, and divert funds accordingly. Not that I would cast any aspersions upon Mr. Johnston and Mr. Kennedy, but they are managers of mills. Unsavory types, for all the wealth they accrue.”
He made it very clear such men were definitely beneath Mr. Peterson himself, who was hardly to the manor born.
“What has my guardian’s reaction been to this offer?”
“The viscount is considering it and has asked for financial figures, which Mr. Clark has delayed in sending. No doubt the man plans to be an obstruction whenever possible. Still, the clerk with whom I imbibed indicated that the viscount seemed inclined to hold the investment. It does pay handsomely.”
Which meant that it would pay handsomely again. Who was to know if part of the next payment got “diverted” now to the account Mr. Peterson had established for her? Not much, just enough to get her and Jane back to America.
If she promised the manager not to sell when she turned twenty-one, he would probably grab at her suggestion and see it as a mutually beneficial business arrangement.
“Mr. Peterson, I would like you to write out the information on this mill for me.”
That night Bianca atte
nded the theater with Vergil and Penelope. She wore the blue silk shawl for what she expected to be the first and last time. She intended to leave it behind when she sailed from England.
Its luscious fall reminded her of the life her inheritance offered, and that she would soon reject.
She did not want to return to Baltimore without visiting Milan. For all of her brave resolve with Vergil, she was not sure that she would find another way to affect her dream and plans. She pictured herself at Aunt Edith’s age, always wondering what might have been.
Perhaps she did not need to repudiate the entire inheritance. Maybe, if she gave away half . . .
She mentally castigated herself. If she began making excuses for using some of Adam’s ill-begotten fortune, she would probably end up seduced into the luxury the whole amount afforded. Baltimore it would be, and she would return as poor as she had left.
She noticed little about the performance on the stage down below. Not only her moral debate occupied her attention. So did the man sitting beside her. His mere presence made her warm. His smallest movement made her heart jump. Considering what she had learned about him today, her susceptibility infuriated her.
Yes, Baltimore it would be, and very soon too. When she was back home she would be able to forget this man who had her reacting like a fool, even though she knew he was a scoundrel and a fraud.
That night when she retired, she found a letter waiting for her in her chamber. It was one that Adam Kenwood had written to Milton.
In it he agreed to Milton’s suggestion that he give to charity an amount that equaled what he had reaped when he sold his shipping business, to make reparations for the profit he had accrued through the slave trade.
Another note had been folded into the letter, this one from the current Viscount Laclere.
“I found this among my brother’s papers and thought that you would like to see it. Today I visited Adam’s solicitor to verify that the intentions expressed in this letter were carried out. They were, some three years ago. Therefore, the portion of his estate that you have inherited is not tainted. There is no guilt in accepting it. It appears that Adam came to see his son’s rightness on this matter.”
She stared at the letters as their implications sank in. Her heart beat rapidly with reborn joy and excitement. It would not be Baltimore, after all.
She pictured Vergil leaving her with Mr. Peterson and going to the solicitor to verify what had happened. It was not in his interest for her to know about this. The truth gave her back her dream—a dream that he did not approve of.
His generosity touched her profoundly. Her annoyance at his interference disappeared and her suspicions about his character became insignificant. Even the dream lost importance. Vergil’s gesture of discovering the truth turned her heart inside out.
He might be a fraud, and he might be dangerous, but she would miss him badly when she was gone.
chapter 11
Vergil poured two glasses of port and handed one to Dante. His brother had discarded his frock coat and now lounged contentedly in a chair in front of the study’s low fire. He looked for all the world like a man whose various appetites had been sated. Vergil surmised that he had spent the evening with his current mistress.
“I expected you to join us at the theater tonight.”
“I got distracted, and then the weather turned raw. It is bad enough that I have to start playing nursemaid tomorrow. No need for both of us there tonight.”
No. No need. However, Dante’s presence might have distracted Bianca, and pulled her out of the subdued mood into which she had retreated since their argument in the afternoon.
It had been an uncomfortable night. Bianca had cloaked her reactions in serene composure, but he had felt her thoughts, and even seen them on occasion in the lidded glances she gave him. By the time he escorted the ladies back into Pen’s house, he had come close to pulling her aside and blurting out an explanation and begging her forgiveness.
Pointless. Hopeless. What could he say?
She had concluded he was the most dishonorable of men, not because of the mistress, but because of the implications regarding his behavior toward her. She had decided he was a predatory monster. Maybe she was right.
Certainly he felt a predatory desire with her continued proximity.
“Nigel Kenwood is in town. It is very important for you to stay in London until the ladies leave,” he said to Dante. “It would be best if you resided here. I have instructed Morton to open your bedchamber.”
“Laclere House is uncomfortable out of season, what with most of the house closed and most of the servants in the country. You may not mind living like a monk in a few rooms with only a valet, but I think that one of my clubs would be preferable.”
“I want you near Pen’s house, not in a club.”
“You are acting like a fussy old aunt, Verg. What can Kenwood do? She cannot marry him without your permission, unless you fear them bolting to Scotland.”
“That would not be beyond the imagination. However, I must confide in you that my concerns are more serious now.” He went to the desk and retrieved the letter he had received at Laclere Park from Adam Kenwood’s solicitor. “Read this.”
Dante lazily flicked the paper open. “Seems common enough to me. Miss Kenwood’s inheritance is entailed. If she dies without children, it goes to her closest relative.”
“Yes, common enough. Except for the clause that limits the relative to someone with Kenwood blood. I had barely noticed that when I read the testament, but the solicitor’s letter makes it explicit. That rules out the great-aunt in Baltimore, and leaves only Nigel.”
“So?”
“She is more valuable to him dead than as his wife.”
“Barely, considering a husband’s rights. Are you saying that you think that musician would harm her? Your imagination has gotten the better of you.”
“Most likely. I may be doing Kenwood a disservice in my suspicions, but I would rather take a cautious stance. I have asked around, and he is thoroughly in dun territory both here and in France.”
“Which is why he wants to marry her. Hardly a criminal offense. If I stood to inherit with her death, would you assume that I contemplated murder?”
“Of course not. Nor would I suspect it of him, if she had not come close to being killed twice in the last month.”
That wiped the amusement off Dante’s face.
“There were two very close accidents at Laclere Park. Unusual accidents, Dante, and I am not entirely convinced that they were accidents at all.” He briefly described the incidents.
Dante pondered the tales. “Could have been nothing, of course. Just coincidences. Still, I can see where one might raise the caution, just to be safe.”
“Exactly.”
“Wouldn’t it be best to warn her?”
“I can’t impugn the man on such flimsy evidence, and I may be wrong. I suspect Miss Kenwood would attribute my warning to a desire to keep her and Nigel apart. If so, it could have the opposite effect.”
Dante frowned at the fire for a spell. “Old Kenwood did you no favors in naming you her guardian, Verg. I am concluding that she is nothing but trouble. A firm hand doesn’t begin to describe what is needed with her. I had thought that little episode in the lake was a charming misstep, but you tell me now that while at Laclere Park she slipped out alone in the early mornings for long rides and walks, unaccompanied. She is found rolling in the grass in my embrace and flouts all sense of decency by refusing to marry me. She has shown evidence of a very loose upbringing and unacceptable notions of independence, and in all likelihood she left her virtue behind long ago.”
Vergil noted his brother’s uncompromising, male expression. Did the Viscount Laclere look like that to her?
You do not know her. She is not trouble or indecent. She is a young woman with dreams, fighting for her life.
“I will tell you now that I am no longer amenable to marrying her, and to hell with her inheritance. Howev
er, I will see to it that she does not stir from Pen’s house without a chaperon, and not only because she may be in danger. The fact is, Verg, I do not think that you have been strict enough with her. If we are not very careful, she might bring this family down.”
Miss Kenwood’s safety accounted for, they moved on to other things. But in the flames that he watched while they spoke, Vergil saw her body turned away while she watched the play tonight. She had worn the blue wrap, and its fluid silk cascaded in swooping curves along her back and over her arms, picking up the theater’s low lights, bringing out the blond of her hair through a lovely contrast.
He had envied the way it caressed her, and was glad she had worn it. Madame Tissot’s account would not be settled from Bianca’s income, but she would never know it. He had taken enormous pleasure in seeing her wear his secret gift, even if her icy manner indicated that she would throw it in the fire if she knew he had paid for it.
Just as well that Dante had arrived. He had been enjoying her company too much, and contemplating her far too often. She had become a dangerous fascination. An impossible hunger.
He narrowed his eyes on the dancing flames. Time to be off again. To Lancashire. To his mistress.
“Then it is settled. You will host the reception next week.” Mrs. Gaston made it sound as though she bestowed a great favor on Penelope.
Penelope lifted a beautiful little book off the table beside her chair. “I could hardly refuse, since Mr. Witherby saw fit to dedicate the volume to me. That honor should have been yours, as patron of the series.”
“It would be vulgar for all of them to dedicate their poems to me. I prefer less ostentatious acknowledgment anyway. Nor would we want anyone to infer that the genius of our poets was being bought like so much ham in a market.”
Bianca watched Mrs. Gaston’s face as she demurred her significance. Her high cheekbones appeared more prominent today, as if her skin strained against them. Bianca wondered if Mrs. Gaston had been nearly as delighted as she now professed, to find that her patronage had not been celebrated in Mr. Witherby’s brief dedication.
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