by Eloisa James
Rose nodded.
There were no more tears on the way home, and Rose happily danced away to introduce Antigone to Mrs. Stella and the upstairs maid, who would serve as nursemaid until they hired one.
The next morning in the carriage Rose said, with a distinct ring of defiance in her voice, “Antigone and I would have been perfectly happy spending the day with Fred. I dislike the country.”
In fact, Antigone did appear to be regarding Thorn with a very impertinent expression, but he merely said, “Until we find a governess, you will go wherever I go, and I need to pay a visit to Starberry Court.”
“I find it quite incomprehensible that I should accompany you. Children are to be seen and not heard. Everyone knows that.” Rose removed her doll’s pelisse, drew a tiny sheet of foolscap from her pocket, and propped it up on Antigone’s legs.
“What is she reading?” Thorn inquired.
“Antigone has begun a regime of studying Greek verbs for three hours each day. See?” She turned the paper so that Thorn could see words in a script so small that only a mouse could read it.
“I see no point in learning Greek,” he told Rose. “What will she do with it?”
“Nothing. Ancient Greek is no longer spoken.”
He shrugged. “Why waste her time?”
She had settled Antigone’s paper into place and drawn out a small leather-bound volume for herself. “Neither of us are wasting our time. I would prefer to learn things, even useless things, than do nothing. Would you like me to teach you Greek? Mr. Pancras told me that all gentlemen know the language.”
“I am not a gentleman.”
She looked him up and down. “I can see that you are not,” she observed. “But perhaps if you knew Greek, you would be able to become a gentleman.”
“I don’t want to,” he told her.
Rose nodded and returned to her book.
And Thorn found himself staring down at the design for a rubber-stretching machine with the edges of his mouth curled up.
Chapter Seven
Starberry Court
Near West Drayton, Middlesex
The carriage rounded the circular gravel drive and drew to a halt. Adelaide had fallen asleep somewhere along the way, so India touched her knee gently and said, “We’re here.”
Her godmother opened her eyes and burst directly into speech. “The den of iniquity! Did I tell you that Jupp asked me to dance once, when I debuted? My mother declined on my behalf, of course. He already had a reputation as a libertine.”
India gathered her reticule. “Let’s hope the house doesn’t show too much evidence of his debauchery.” She glanced from the window as she waited for their groom to open the door. They had been following Mr. Dautry’s carriage for some miles, and now he was stepping down from his carriage. She had forgotten how tall he was. Once again he wasn’t wearing a coat, and his waistcoat emphasized the absurd width of his shoulders. Dark hair tumbled over his collar, because he wore no hat. And he hadn’t a cravat either.
Hopefully he had summoned Monsieur Devoulier, because unless he began wearing a coat at the very least, it wouldn’t matter if she covered Starberry Court in gold leaf: Lady Rainsford would never marry her daughter to a man who dressed like a common laborer.
As she stepped from the carriage, she watched, astonished, as Dautry held out his hands and swung a little girl down to the ground.
“Was Mr. Dautry previously married?” India asked Adelaide, sotto voce.
“Not that I know of,” Adelaide said, clambering down from the carriage and adding, “Goodness!” once she looked in his direction.
Dautry’s bow wasn’t as dismissive as it had been when they’d first met. Still, it was the bow not of a courtier but of an assassin: a gesture with edge, with deadly grace.
“Lady Adelaide and Lady Xenobia, may I present my ward, Miss Rose Summers?”
The child dropped a quite respectable curtsy. Who in the world was the girl and, for that matter, where was her governess? It wasn’t as if Mr. Dautry couldn’t afford one.
“How do you do, Miss Rose?” Adelaide asked, stooping to smile at her.
“I am very well, thank you,” she replied, in a manner remarkably composed for one so young. “It is an honor to meet you, Lady Adelaide.” She turned slightly and curtsied again. “And Lady Xenobia.”
India met gray eyes as cool as pond water, and her heart sank. Those eyes were unmistakable. It seemed that Villiers’s bastard son was following his example and raising a child born out of wedlock under his own roof. Lady Rainsford would not approve.
Her mind was whirling, so she turned to survey the house. Starberry Court was a charming old mansion built of brick the color of clover honey, with six gabled roofs, numerous stone balconies, and mullioned glass windows. At one time, there had been elaborate gardens, but now high grass brushed the lowest windowsills. The drive still traced a gracious circle, but its gravel was punctuated by small white flowers growing here and there.
“Are there no servants at all?” she asked, her misgivings growing by the moment.
“It doesn’t look like it. The estate agent didn’t mention any retainers.” Dautry began walking toward the door, pulling a large iron key from his pocket, the child trotting beside him to keep up with his long stride.
“Mr. Dautry!” India said firmly.
He and Rose turned in unison, and she looked into two pairs of eyes staring at her with identical impatient expressions.
For a moment, India couldn’t even find words. Was he foolish enough to think that Lady Rainsford would accept the presence of a baseborn child in the household? No amount of money would quiet that scandal. None.
Even Villiers, the highest in the land, had been shunned by sticklers who felt his bastards should not have been thrust on society. And Mr. Dautry, needless to say, was no duke. Even if Lady Rainsford allowed the marriage, he and Lala would be rebuffed by all but close family.
“Mr. Dautry, I believe we should have another discussion about your expectations for the house party,” India said finally. It was unnerving to find that she was not able to read his eyes.
“Eleanor told me that you would take care of everything. If you can’t, I should like to know immediately.”
“Did you truly buy this house sight unseen?”
“Do you always need things repeated, Lady Xenobia?” The way he drawled her title made the comment even more irritating. “I am quite sure that I mentioned that two days ago.”
“But I had no idea that the estate was in such neglected condition,” she said, trying to decide how to address the larger problem.
“I suppose we need to hire a gardener. Or ten.”
“You have no staff whatsoever? I must hire everyone?”
Dautry raised his free hand and ran it through his thick hair. It sparked black, like the underside of a raven’s wing, and revealed the white streak identical to the duke’s. When he dropped his hand, his hair tumbled back into place and the streak disappeared. “If I had the staff, why would I need you?”
He didn’t need her. He needed an estate manager, a housekeeper, a butler. Servants. A wife. And he should have married that wife years ago, so that Rose had a proper family.
“We seem to have misunderstood each other,” India said, trying to stop her voice from rising. “I don’t build whole households. I assess the weak points in staff, dismiss some people and hire others. My people will refurbish walls and floors, but generally we do a room or two at most. I had no idea your house was completely abandoned, without any servants whatsoever.”
The impatience she’d seen in his eyes flared. “Unfortunately, my butler in London proved an arsehole, and I let him go. I can’t dispatch him to help you.”
India’s temper blazed up. “You should not swear in front of your daughter!” she snapped, the single, complicated word tumbling out before she could think better of it.
In the silence that followed, a bird trilled. India’s muscles tensed, her body instin
ctively preparing to run for the carriage in response to the murderous look in Dautry’s eyes.
“Daughter? He is not my father,” Rose said at the same moment that Dautry snarled, “Rose is my ward.”
A stunned heartbeat passed before Adelaide chirped, “Oh Mr. Dautry, you do remember how you mistook Lady Xenobia for a hired companion? And now she has mistaken Miss Rose for something closer than a ward. Such mistakes do happen!”
India’s heart was beating so fast that she felt dizzy. No matter how she fought it, her temper always seemed to get the better of her. “I apologize for my error.”
“I think Mr. Dautry would make a very good father,” the little girl said unexpectedly. She tucked her hand into his again.
India felt her face soften. “I am truly sorry, Miss Rose. I didn’t mean . . . well, I misunderstood.”
“There is no need to apologize,” she said with dignity. “I like Mr. Dautry very much. In fact, I am going to teach him Greek, and how to dance, and he will be better off.”
If India had held any advantage over Dautry before, she had just lost it. She had the sudden conviction that if she showed the slightest weakness, Dautry would squash her like an unwelcome fly at the breakfast table. “How fortunate,” she said, turning to him. “I shall look forward to seeing the results of this Pygmalion endeavor.”
Pure fury burned in the depths of Dautry’s eyes. He bent and scooped up Rose. “I would be honored if you were my daughter,” he told her, turning away slightly so that the two of them had privacy. “But I know that Will was very happy to have been your papa, and I wish he were standing here with you right now.”
India took a deep breath. She had been an idiot. Dautry was an arsehole, to use his own expression. But in the utter absence of any facts, she’d had no right to leap to that or any other conclusion, and even worse, to allow the words to tumble out in front of the child.
What’s more, now she couldn’t simply walk to her carriage and drive away. She supposed that Rose must have entered Dautry’s life in the last few days—which meant that the child had only just lost her father. How could she not have registered her mourning garment? Presumably she had lost her mother too.
Suddenly the missing pieces fell into place. This was why Thorn believed Lala would make the perfect wife. She would. Lala would be an excellent mother to an orphaned little girl. Lala was just the kind of woman who would take a child in need under her wing, give her a home, love her.
Given that, how could India not do her own part?
She would renovate the house and stay for the party, just long enough to make certain that the betrothal went smoothly. She would do it for Eleanor, and for Lala. And because Rose needed a mother. And—not least—because she was ashamed of herself.
As Dautry continued to speak quietly to his ward, India moved closer to the house. Happily, the mortar was in decent repair. One window appeared to be cracked, but it was in the servants’ quarters and hopefully hadn’t resulted in much water damage. The lawns and gardens were overgrown, but a squadron of gardeners could bring them back to a sufficiently civilized state within a week, and something quite beautiful by the date of the house party.
She began the mental list that would dictate her life for the immediate future. She would send her groom back to London immediately to summon her staff. And she’d send a letter to her favorite employment bureau, informing them that she would need twenty, or perhaps even thirty, people.
She had walked to the corner of the house and was peering down the hill at what appeared to be a dilapidated folly when she heard someone approaching. She turned to find Dautry striding toward her. Behind him, Rose was showing a doll to Adelaide.
He had a loose-limbed way of walking that signaled—in her estimation—that Greek would have no effect on his status as a gentleman. He would never be one. But she doubted Lala would care: he was one of the most handsome men India had ever seen.
“Lady Xenobia,” he stated, coming to a halt.
Earlier she had thought his eyes inscrutable, but not now. They were still outraged. “Mr. Dautry, I apologize again for presuming that Rose was your daughter,” she said.
His mouth tightened. “Your error—”
She cut him off with the same decisiveness with which she might counter an indignant butler. “My error had to do with the fact that your eyes are remarkably similar.”
“I fail to see how such a common eye color would lead to such an error, but it is irrelevant. As you say, your talent lies in refurbishing a room or two, and I have an entire house to staff and furnish.”
“That has been the limits of my experience to this date,” she stated, holding his gaze. “However, I shall renovate this house and find servants for you in the next three weeks so that you can host a party including the Rainsfords, as well as your parents. I shall remain at Starberry Court for one week thereafter, and make absolutely certain that your betrothal comes to pass without Lady Rainsford’s mounting a strong objection.”
His reply was a string of words she’d overheard on the street but had never heard said in her presence.
She waited him out—precisely as she would an incensed butler.
At last he said, “No.”
“Dear me,” India said. “I thought I would have to wait for you to learn Greek before you could express yourself in English.”
“I can express myself,” he said, his eyes narrowed. “Just so we don’t misunderstand each other, Lady Xenobia, I have no need of you.”
India summoned every bit of self-control she had to keep her voice even. “Lady Rainsford will not permit you to marry Laetitia without my help, particularly after she meets Rose. I will not be the only one to mistake the child for your daughter. Rose will have to remain in London during the house party.”
“No.”
India frowned at him. “What? Why?”
“She spent three days in a beer cart on the way to London. I refuse to allow her to feel lost or neglected again. She remains with me.”
India froze, her heart thumping at the idea of the little girl traveling in such a manner. “Anything could have happened to her!”
“I am well aware of that.”
She took a deep breath. “I am very distressed to hear about your ward’s arrival, but I feel compelled to tell you that while Lady Rainsford may overlook your unfortunate birth, she will not countenance the marriage if she has the faintest suspicion that Rose is yours. And she will have that suspicion.”
“My ward has yellow hair,” Dautry said, folding his arms. “Mine is black. She hasn’t the faintest resemblance to me.”
Against her will, India felt a pulse of sympathy for him. “It’s her manner,” she explained. “I think it would be fair to say that you and she view the world the same way.”
“And what way is that?”
“From an invisible throne.”
He was still furious, but he clearly had little trouble controlling his temper. “If that is the case, and Laetitia’s mother disallows a betrothal, I shall look elsewhere for a wife. To resort to a proverb, there are many fish in the sea.”
“You haven’t time to look for another wife,” India said just as bluntly. “You must marry Laetitia before people realize your ward has a distinct likeness to you. Once gossip spreads about Rose, you will be unmarriageable, in my opinion. I would suggest a special license.”
Thorn was in the grip of a violent wave of disbelief. Had he previously thought Xenobia a she-devil? The names that came to mind now were far more violent. “Are you to accompany me on my honeymoon as well?” he asked. “Will I be allowed to bed my wife without instruction?”
Damned if that didn’t provoke a mocking little smile from her, reminding him that she considered him to have a shortfall in his private parts. “Naturally, you will have all my best wishes for your success,” she said sweetly.
As he opened his mouth to say a few choice words that he would likely regret, Rose skipped up and slipped her hand into his. �
�Shall we see the house now, Mr. Dautry?”
He would be happy to convince the she-devil just how well he could succeed. But he clenched his teeth instead and again took out the key he’d been given by his solicitors.
“Has anyone lived here since Lord Jupp died?” Lady Xenobia walked ahead of him, sounding as cool as if the air hadn’t sizzled between them a moment earlier.
“No,” Thorn said, grimly registering that battling with her had perversely made his cock spring to action—and he’d left his bloody coat in the carriage. Again. “I bought the house with all contents intact. Hopefully, the furniture merely needs dusting.”
“It’s been a good six months,” Lady Adelaide said cheerfully, trotting over to join them.
The oaken door was large and heavy, with stubborn hinges. Thorn was forced to throw his shoulder against it until it swung open with a creaking noise and a rush of dusty old air. They all stepped forward as light flooded the entry hall.
A moment later Thorn snatched up his ward and headed straight back out of the house, his hand clapped over her eyes.
Chapter Eight
The Earl of Jupp had adorned his entry hall with statues.
Of naked people.
Copulating.
India had never seen a copulation before (if that was the correct use of that noun—was it a noun?), but she knew enough to be certain that these statues depicted variations on the act she’d heard described. Just inside the door, for example, was a group of two women and one man, their naked bodies so entwined it was hard to see whose limb belonged to whom. What’s more, they were standing, instead of lying down, and there was no bed to be seen.
“Extraordinary,” Adelaide said, fanning herself. “I’m almost sorry that my mother didn’t allow that dance with Jupp. One has to wonder whether he had these done from life.” She moved around the side of a horizontal piece featuring two people carved from a single block of marble.
“The men do not look English,” India said, feeling somewhat proud of the fact that she’d even noticed their facial features.
