He thought he had found his bride. Wynne Bedegrayne’s lineage befitted the Reckester requirement for respectability, while her beauty enticed his fevered fantasies. Sir Thomas, unlike his own sire, was a shrewd man who did not succumb to excesses, thus ensuring bountiful dowries for all his daughters. Marrying Wynne Bedegrayne would have fulfilled his personal and his family’s financial needs.
Nevertheless, Sir Thomas would never part with his precious daughter for a mere title. Regrettably, it was the sole asset he possessed that could not be wagered away on some dark gaming table.
Mr. Tibal cleared his throat. He placed the papers he clutched on the desk. “Several of His Grace’s, um, associates, have approached me about the promissory notes.”
For a moment, the fantasy of telling those vultures to pay for an arrest warrant drifted like smoke in his mind. Sitting in a debtor’s prison might prevent his father from squandering the remainder of his son’s inheritance. The idea tempted him, but, in the end, duty forced him to be practical. “What can we sell?”
“Well, there is no need to start selling off the household goods. You are not quite that destitute. I recommend you sell off your shipping interests. Granted, there will be a loss, since the West Indies venture has yet to come to fruition, but we all do what we must in these difficult days,” Mr. Tibal said. His logic, as usual, could not be faulted.
Grinding a fist into his palm, Drake bitterly accepted that his fourth attempt to resurrect his family’s wealth had failed. For every business transaction he negotiated, his father poked more holes, bleeding the profits dry or forcing him to sell off prematurely.
“Sell them. Sell them all,” he told the man, praying his sire remained out of sight until he had control of his rage. He did not trust himself not to lay his hands on him and throttle him for his weaknesses.
The door closed behind Mr. Tibal. Alone, Drake contemplated his shrinking legacy. So far, he had managed to keep their financial woes from being common gossip. His reputation was already tarnished. Most thought him a rake, a replica of his scoundrel father. Granted, he had not lived a monk’s existence, but his actions were hardly comparable to Reckester’s. Perhaps he still had time to woo Miss Bedegrayne and her imperious father.
* * *
Word had reached Sir Thomas Bedegrayne’s keen ears before they had crossed the threshold. If the housekeeper was curious about Keanan’s presence, she kept it to herself. All business, she took Wynne’s bonnet and soiled gloves, then shooed them down the hall toward the conservatory.
“Papa’s latest hobby,” Wynne explained, while they walked through a hall lined with diversely themed paintings. “Tipton’s sister, Madeleina, is a botanical enthusiast, although her passion leans more to landscape architecture. Her knowledge of plants and design theories are most impressive, considering her age.”
“How old?”
“Sixteen.” She opened the door to the left.
They had returned to the library. Keanan gazed fondly at the chair near the hearth, recalling the feel of Wynne in his arms. He almost suspected her of having ulterior motives, until she continued across the room and pushed open the set of heavy, dark-stained doors along the right wall. Giving the chair a wistful glance, he followed her down the steps into the conservatory.
“Papa.”
Sir Thomas Bedegrayne turned away from his work at the sound of his daughter’s voice. He was an impressive man, both in height and brawn. Over six feet, he wore a sailcloth apron tied around his lean waist. His sleeves had been pushed up, revealing sun-weathered, hairy forearms. This was no pampered gray-haired aristocrat who idled away his life in dark clubs. Whatever the man’s business, he did not build that muscle potting posies.
Wynne hurried into her father’s waiting arms and embraced him. Sensing his attention was focused on her guest, she looked back at Keanan. “Papa, I have someone I would like you to meet. This gentleman is Mr. Keanan Milroy. Mr. Milroy, my father, Sir Thomas Bedegrayne.”
Sir Thomas still kept his arm around his daughter, his stance obviously protective. The flint in his blue-green eyes was scarcely welcoming. “Mr. Milroy, your name seems familiar. Where would I have heard of you?”
“Mr. Milroy is a pugilist by profession, Papa.”
“A man is in a coil when the womenfolk feel compelled to speak in his stead.”
“I hide behind no woman’s skirts, sir.”
The older man’s eyes narrowed. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he nodded. “Good, good.” He gave his daughter an affectionate squeeze before releasing her. “You look tired, gel. Why do you not go rest while I chat with your Mr. Milroy?”
“Ah—” Embarrassed and helpless to stop her father from treating him like a brazen suitor, she silently questioned Keanan about his feelings regarding her dismissal.
It was not Sir Thomas’s actions that disturbed him. He expected nothing less from a father intent on protecting his daughter from an unknown male. What did bother him was the growing ease with which he and Wynne communicated with each other. A small gesture or a glance, and he knew what she wanted, how she felt. It bred an intimacy he had never shared with another person.
“Miss Bedegrayne.” Reverting back to formal address out of respect for her father, Keanan accepted her hand and bowed. “The pleasure of your company will feather my dreams this eve.”
Accepting that neither man wanted her presence, her departing glance warned him that she was placing the consequences of this meeting on his head. She was putting thoughts in his head again, he realized, scowling at her back.
“Do you know anything about horticulture, Mr. Milroy?” Sir Thomas picked up a trowel and added dirt to the pot in front of him.
“No, sir.”
“Neither did I. Little Maddy Wyman tells me anyone can poke cuttings into soil. A soul needs patience and caring to make them take hold.”
“I thought it took water, sun, and fertilizer. Loads of fertilizer.”
The baronet’s bushy brow lifted at the remark. Chuckling, he stabbed the trowel into the mound of dirt. “Truthfully, I can’t tell the difference between an exotic hydrangea and a weed. Don’t particularly care. With my sons off traveling and my gels up and marrying, I think Maddy feels I need tending like one of her gardens.”
“Wynne isn’t married,” Keanan silkily reminded, not liking the idea that this wily old devil was plotting to marry her off.
Removing his apron, Sir Thomas waved him over to the wrought-iron table and cushioned, padded chairs. “Aye, my Wynne has led the lads a merry chase. Too picky, is my opinion. Blessed with my fair lady’s face and my damnable stubbornness. A maddening combination, I must say.”
“You have my sympathies, sir.”
Sitting down, Keanan casually rested his hand on the inexpensive checkered gingham tablecloth. He assumed that the family on pleasant mornings used the table for breakfast. The house he recently purchased was lacking a conservatory. Glancing about at the flowing baskets of ferns and wild strawberries, he could envision the benefits of the earthy ambience.
“Quite a prize, my Wynne. Clever, talented—have you heard her play the harp? No? Gentle on the ears, she is. Sings, too, although my Irene is the best out of the three.”
Keanan made an ambiguous sound, wondering why the older man was apprising him of Wynne’s virtues. He owned adequate senses. A man would have to be half mad not to want her. Intuition told him that her sire had expectations far above a duke’s bastard son. So he settled back, guessing the old man would eventually appease his curiosity.
His wait was brief.
A large hand slammed down on the table, vibrating the metal surface beneath. He remained seated. His body tensed and he prepared to move if the man attacked. Keanan prayed he could talk the man out of fighting. He doubted Wynne would speak to him again if she learned that he and her father had milled in the conservatory.
Perhaps Sir Thomas had perceived Keanan’s impatience, or he had tired of the game he played because he had
not gained the reaction he had expected. Either way, his intent was direct and serious.
“Do you know what else my gel is, Mr. Milroy?” His fathomless blue-green gaze was as hard as his grip. “Honest. She does not lie to her papa. At least, not until she met up with you.”
He almost smiled. Wynne was hiding more secrets than her association with him. Provoking Sir Thomas by pointing out that fact would not serve his purposes as well as having the lady indebted to him. Instead, he said, “It is no secret I met your daughter at the Lumleys’ ball.”
“And insulted her. Aye, the tale reached my ol’ ears, even without my gel’s assistance. She has pride in spades. Why would she be slinking off to meet you when she told me she was visiting Miss Amara Claeg?”
Being reminded of his inferior status was almost as irritating as Sir Thomas believing he could match him in a fight. The corner of his mouth lifted in a sneer. “Mayhap my disinterest presented a challenge to your spoiled daughter.” The disbelief on the man’s face was comical. “Or the awkward meeting at the Lumleys’ was a mistake, and we decided to amend our bad impressions. Then again…,” he said, his chair toppling over at his rapid ascent. Red-faced, his companion appeared weary of Keanan’s mocking theories. “Wynne told the truth. She and Miss Claeg were together when I encountered them at the fair.”
Sir Thomas was too astute to have missed Keanan’s slip. Using her Christian name bared the growing intimacy he had tried to conceal.
“Mr. Milroy,” he said, righting the knocked-over chair. He patted it, encouraging Keanan to rejoin him. “I think you have been baiting the Reckesters, and any other person you have deemed an obstacle between you and what you want, for so long that you do not know any other way of dealing with people. Like me.” He sat in the opposing chair and clasped his hands on the table. “Deal straight, lad. Why did you come here, besides vaunting your interest in my gel?”
Keanan had bullied Wynne into introducing him to her father. Her reluctance, while justified, had angered him. Holding her in his arms the other night, her mouth moving experimentally over his, had felt too wonderful. That kind of perfection gave an unsuitable man ideas. He should have realized that even an outraged father would not be able to prevent him from staying away from Wynne.
“Two reasons, sir. I’ve come face-to-face with that stubbornness you spoke of, and worried she would not tell you what happened this afternoon.”
“Then why not you be the one to tell me?”
Keanan tersely explained the incident at the wild animal exhibition. The intensity with which the older man listened sent echoing waves of unease through his own system.
When he finished, Sir Thomas had visibly aged. There was no doubt the notion of losing his daughter had shaken him. Rubbing his side-whiskers, he broodingly lifted one brow. “You said two reasons, Mr. Milroy. What could be worse than almost losing my Wynne?”
Fairness prodded Keanan to forewarn him. In the end, it would not make any difference. “Losing her to me.”
Ten
Her chaperone was a dragon. Well, she was at least dressed as one. If anyone could manage to look dashing in brilliant green scales, with a droopy red-felt tongue hanging off her chin, it was her impulsive Aunt Moll.
Convinced her niece was settling too comfortably on the shelf of spinsterhood, she decreed drastic measures were needed. Ignoring Sir Thomas’s reluctance to have his daughter go off without him, her aunt had browbeat Wynne into a costume. Before she had thought of a reasonable excuse not to leave the house, they were on their way to a masquerade at the Pantheon on Oxford Street.
Aunt Moll had refused to listen to her protests. Wynne had retaliated by slipping into the acerbity she was accused of perpetuating. Maybe she was brooding. She had grounds, even if she loathed sharing the source with her aunt.
Ten days had passed since she had left Keanan and her father in the conservatory. He had departed an hour later, not bothering to summon her to say farewell.
Her father had been less evasive. Charging up to her sitting room, he had found her curled up in a chair near a window, working on her needlepoint. Uncertain of his temper, she stiffened when he pulled her into a powerful embrace.
The emotion-choked murmur against her shoulder proved Keanan had done what he had set out to do. He had guaranteed that her father enjoyed an accurate accounting of the incident at the fair. She had tried relieving her father’s concern, but Keanan’s forthrightness and her nonchalance were at odds. Her father had preferred a stranger’s tale to hers.
It should have hurt. She had tried to turn Keanan’s confession into a betrayal. Hours later, she had come to admit there was a relief in having her father know. The escalating omissions to him and the rest of her family weighed heavily on her.
“So if I am sulking, then so be it,” she whispered to her reflection in the full-length looking glass. Like many of the ladies, they had visited the ladies’ cloakroom to add the finishing touches to their costumes.
“Do not tarry, girl. Put on your mask,” her aunt chided behind her; the bulging eyes of the dragon leered over Wynne’s shoulder in the reflection.
Holding the mask up to her face, she held still while a maid tied the ribbons. Wynne tilted her head, surveying the results. Aunt Moll had made her queen of the butterflies. Her winged mask, created from translucent white crepe and wire, was a fanciful creation of paste jewels and gold swirls. Quite beautiful, it effectively concealed the top half of her face.
The dress alone could have been worn in any ballroom. It was fashioned from white mull, with gold floral embroidery adorning the boldly wide V neckline, the melon sleeves, and the hem of the skirt. Several petticoats underneath provided a graceful sway to the skirt with every movement. An extra length of gossamer fabric was attached to the back of the bodice, giving her the effect of wings.
“Delightful,” Aunt Moll said with a sigh, leading her out of the room. The quarter train of her bright-green dress trailed behind her like a dragon’s tail.
The scene before them would have credited any artist hoping to capture the color and joy of life on his canvas. The large, high-ceilinged room was filled to capacity. Music and the din of conversation merged into a disjointed comity. The musicians, unaware of their competition, played in the back on a raised stage festooned with red curtains. Below them, a menagerie of beasts and mythological characters mingled with traditionally attired patrons wearing cheap masks purchased at the door, fulfilling the costume requirement of the evening. The Gothic vaulted galleries on either side were overflowing with young lads plotting mischief, and tired onlookers.
“Not quite the ambience it had seventeen years ago, before the fire of seventeen ninety-two,” her aunt admitted. “I recall the nights in my youth, when my dear Mr. Bedegrayne would bring me here for masquerades. Ah, those glorious nights! They called the Pantheon ‘the winter Ranelagh.’ Mr. Walpole declared it ‘the most beautiful edifice in England.’ And it was. I have memories of walking through the majestic rotunda, my hand tucked in the crook of Mr. Bedegrayne’s arm.”
“You loved him.”
Aunt Moll blinked, clearing the old images of the Pantheon from her wizened face. “Did. And do. True love cannot be packed away like brittle fragments of a forgotten nosegay.” She nodded approvingly to the approaching couple. “Devona, my dear, and Tipton. How fortunate we all chose this evening to attend the masquerade.”
Tipton’s grim amusement glittered through the shadowed eyeholes of his mask bearing an exaggerated hooked nose. “I recognize a royal summons when I hear it.”
Devona dug her elbow into his side, but her oversized coat padded the impact. “Ignore him, Aunt. I was delighted by your invitation.” She embraced her aunt and then her sister. “Wynne, you never uttered a word you were attending.”
She and Tipton traded commiserating glances. “That is the problem with a royal summons. No warning.” Wynne grimaced at her sister’s masculine togs that had been fashionable a hundred years ago. “Who are you p
urported to be?”
Devona’s grin was pure imp. “Monsieur Claude Du Vall.”
“The French highwayman? Was this…,” she began, letting her question fade when she remembered the last time her sister had employed the costume. Two years ago, Devona had talked Amara into assuming her identity while Wynne assisted her sister in an escape attempt at Newgate. With Amara disguised as the flamboyant Frenchman, Brock and Tipton should never have guessed they were observing the wrong female. Naturally, like many of her sister’s schemes, it had been an absolute debacle.
“You are correct, Wynne,” Tipton said, accurately judging her thoughts. “A sensible woman would avoid reminding her husband of her reckless past.”
“Killjoy,” Devona taunted, unconcerned. “Confess. The costume was clever. Amara must have fooled you for a time.”
Tipton stroked one of the white plumes fanning out from her mask. “Never. The moment I noticed Miss Claeg, I knew she was not you.”
Devona seemed ridiculously pleased by her husband’s certainty. She rewarded him by giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Miss Bedegrayne?”
Wynne turned, recognizing Lord Nevin’s voice. His formal attire and the simple black mask suggested his presence at the Pantheon had been impulsive.
“Pardon me for interrupting.” He bowed to Wynne and then bowed respectfully to her aunt. “Would you grant me the honor of this dance?”
“I—” Flustered, she silently beseeched her family for assistance. A month ago, she would have genially consented to his request. She considered him a friend. Nevertheless, his undeclared kinship to Keanan disturbed her. Circumstances placed her between these two men. In her heart, she understood that of the three, she risked the most.
The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy Page 13
