Sylvia blinked. If it wasn’t so out of character, she might suspect him of trying to protect his sibling. Or had Christopher, suspecting her growing attraction, sent his brother to warn her off? An unexpected pang caught at her heart. ‘I acknowledge my debt to your brother and I certainly would not dream of diverting him from his familial duty.’
A dark brow flicked up and he nodded. ‘Even if you are not interested in him, Miss Boisette, I am sure you have noticed his interest in you. Whether by accident or by design, it is a problem I would rather avoid. I hope you will not repay his kindness by putting him under some further obligation.’ He flashed a charming smile.
She bit back a heated retort and smiled sweetly. ‘He has fulfilled all of his obligations, my lord.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ He placed one languid white hand on the doorframe, blocking her passage. ‘If you change your mind about my offer, you will let me know, won’t you?’
She lifted her chin. ‘Highly unlikely, my lord.’
Lord Stanford eased away from the door to let her pass. ‘Too bad,’ he drawled. ‘But I’m glad we had this little chat and understand each other.’
She understood very well. She had just been told to keep her unworthy claws out of his precious brother. Her foolish heart ached for something she had known all along she did not deserve. Pride straightened her spine. ‘I too prefer frankness, Lord Stanford.’
She cast him a careless smile on her way past and swept through the door. She barely avoided colliding with Christopher. He looked from her to Lord Stanford and frowned.
‘Back already?’ Lord Stanford asked.
His gaze fixed on Sylvia, Christopher nodded. ‘I have some documents to sign. My man of business wanted them first thing in the morning.’
‘Quite the businessman these days,’ Stanford said, a cutting edge to his tone.
Christopher shrugged. ‘I thought you were going to White’s tonight?’
‘Indeed I am. I came home to change and found Miss Boisette alone with her needlework. I became so entertained by our conversation I quite forgot the time.’
Christopher’s expression darkened. ‘I see.’
Sylvia stared at him. Just what did he did see? That his brother had spent the last fifteen minutes warning her off? Or that the dissipated rake had offered her a carte blanche? To her annoyance, fire burned her cheeks. She wasn’t the one who should be blushing—it was his horrid brother.
Tears prickled the backs of her eyes. What on earth was wrong with her? It didn’t matter a damn what either of them thought of her. She ducked her head. ‘If you will excuse me, gentlemen. I am going to my room.’
Lord Stanford bowed elegantly. ‘Goodnight, Miss Boisette.’
Christopher hesitated as if he wanted to say something. Whatever it was, Sylvia could not stay to hear it. One more insult and she might really cry. She brushed past him.
‘Goodnight, mademoiselle,’ Christopher said to her retreating back.
The ironic note in his voice almost caused her to turn back. Men. They were all the same. She held her back straight and marched up the stairs.
‘I see you managed to pry yourself free of the clinging vine.’ Garth’s words echoed up the stairs.
‘Damn you, Garth, but you’re an insulting cur to our mother.’
‘So I am, dear boy.’ His sardonic laughter rang out as Sylvia reached the landing. She shivered. Bitterness seemed to hang over Lord Stanford like a shadow.
Over the past week, Sylvia had run errands for the fragile Lady Stanford to the best of her ability. Lady Stanford had generously said she wasn’t sure what she would do without Sylvia’s help when she left. But there was no doubt about it, Sylvia would be leaving.
Today, she had promised to return a novel to Hookham’s on Bond Street. After receiving directions to the famous lending library from the haughty butler, she put on the grey merino and brown pelisse she’d taken to wearing since the return of her trunk. Since her only bonnet had been stolen, she wore the high-crowned, blue confection decorated with pink rosebuds purchased by Christopher in Tunbridge Wells.
Outside, a fine drizzle slicked the streets and coated everything with damp soot. A little nervous about her first expedition in London, she stepped out smartly.
Around her, horse-drawn equipages crowded the road. Coalmen and other tradesmen filed by in a variety of creaking and rumbling wagons. Barouches trundled sedately over the cobbles and young bloods perched in their sporting curricles turned their heads to stare at her over high shirt points. She avoided their gazes.
Shouts, horses’ hooves on cobblestones, whistles and catcalls added up to an almost unbearable din. Unpleasant and unnameable smells invaded the smoky air, mitigated only by the scent of cinnamon wafting from a cheeky lass selling sticky buns and the floral perfumes worn by the well-dressed ladies she passed. The noise and the dirt reminded her too much of her childhood in Paris for comfort.
Cliff House and her hitherto secluded existence seemed hundreds of miles away. She prayed for a position with a family who resided in the country.
In Hookham’s, she returned Lady Stanford’s novel, collected the one on order, then spent a happy hour feasting on the vast selection of books on the floor-to-ceiling shelves. When she emerged into the street, the rain had ceased and Bond Street thronged with gentlemen and ladies sauntering along the pavement. They browsed the shop windows and chatted with acquaintances, their stylish attire and carefully coiffed hair proclaiming their wealth and status.
Sylvia studied the dressmakers’ displays as she strolled along. The array of gowns and bonnets dazzled her with their variety of fabrics and styles. An unusually fashioned morning gown in green sarsenet trimmed with points of white satin caught her attention. How cleverly the fabric had been cut on the bias. With a regretful sigh, she stored the idea away and picked up her pace.
A black town carriage drew up at the curb’s edge beside her. A footman jumped down and blocked her path.
Jolted out of her reverie, she stepped to one side.
‘Your carriage, miss?’ He nudged her towards the open door.
She shook her head. ‘You are mistaken.’
He put out an arm. ‘There’s a gentleman friend of yours inside.’
Christopher?
She peered through the open door. A man with a hat pulled low and a muffler over his face sat in the shadows.
The footman took her arm. ‘In you go, miss.’
Hot pinpricks flashed across her back. She jerked her arm out of his reach. ‘This is not my carriage.’ She turned to push past him.
His portly body blocked her. He thrust her back towards the lowered steps.
Her throat dried. ‘Take your hands off me.’
Heart hammering, she glanced around for aid. No one appeared to notice. She clutched the string of her reticule, heavy with her borrowed book, and judged the distance to his head. If she hit him hard enough and ran, even in hampering skirts, she’d easily outdistance such a fat man. She stepped closer. Her heart picked up speed.
Garth waited for a hackney to drive by, then stepped off the curb, tossing a penny to the street sweeper who cleared him a path.
Damn, but Madame Eglantine had been in fine fettle last night. He grinned to himself at the recollection.
A couple of servants arguing on the footpath caught his idle glance. The woman looked ready to assail the fat fellow. He drew in a sharp breath. What the hell was Miss Boisette doing on Bond Street brawling with a footman? This young woman collected admirers, the way he collected snuffboxes. He strode towards them.
Miss Boisette’s expression turned to relief, her colour rushing back in a flood. Perhaps he would make one of her collection after all. The already pleasant morning had just improved by leaps and bounds.
He composed his expression in a bored smile. ‘Miss Boisette, is aught amiss?’
The lackey mumbled something and retreated. He clambered on to the box of the nearby carriage. Its occupant slamm
ed the door shut and the coach forced its way into the traffic.
Garth stared after it. ‘What the deuce is going on?’
‘He offered me a ride.’ Her voice shook. Clearly she remained upset, despite her outward calmness.
‘Someone you know?’
Distress once more clouded her expression. ‘A case of mistaken identity, I believe.’ She sounded too uncertain for him to believe her, the cheating little baggage. She must think him a fool. No one would mistake that face of hers for another.
He toyed with the idea of chasing the carriage down and getting to the truth. Rot it. It would put a damper on his plans. There was a team of bays he wanted going on the block today at Tattersalls. If he didn’t beat the rush, he’d lose them.
She gazed up at him. Never had he seen such intensely blue eyes. He flicked a glance over her and imagined her naked. His blood stirred.
No wonder Christopher wanted to hang on to her. Garth chewed on the inside of his cheek. Christopher had better watch his step with this one or she’d have him leg-shackled before he blinked. Not a chance. His brother was far too sensible. In fact, no fun at all. Perhaps this young lady would enjoy a bit of sport. If so, Garth was more the man for the job.
He held out his arm. ‘Come, I will see you home.’
Still trembling inside, Sylvia took Lord Stanford’s arm. While the speculative expression on his face caused an unpleasant flutter in her stomach, she felt safer with him than with the man in the carriage. Had it really been a mistake, as she first thought, or did it have something to do with the man at the inn? Surely not.
Slowly her heartbeat returned to normal and she felt calm enough to glance at her escort. Dressed in his evening clothes from the night before, the dissolute young lord had definitely not slept at home. In her youth, she’d seen too many men leaving at dawn in their evening clothes to question where he’d been.
Lord Stanford shot hera penetrating glance. ‘What on earth are you doing out here alone, Miss Boisette?’
A fair question, considering. ‘I returned a library book to Hookham’s for your mother.’
‘You should not go out alone.’
‘I could hardly ask a maid to go with me.’
‘Why not?’
She stared at him. Did he think she was not aware that her position in his home was under sufferance? The servants certainly knew it. ‘I’m not exactly a guest.’
His frown deepened, but he did not take issue with her statement. He glanced down the street in the direction the coach had disappeared. ‘Tell me who he was.’
She gave him a cold glance. ‘The man was a stranger.’
‘Then you should not have stopped to speak to him.’
This was beyond all. Now he was accusing her of wrong-doing. ‘Lord Stanford, I had no intention of getting into that carriage, je vous assure; I was never more pleased to see anyone in my whole life as when you arrived just now.’
The expression in his dark eyes warmed. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Boisette, I believe I mistook the matter. Come, a truce. Whoever the blackguard was, he is a coward. We will not give him another thought.’
If only it were that easy.
With only Sylvia for company at lunch, Lady Stanford toyed with the food on her plate. When she signalled to the footman to take it away, Sylvia noticed she had barely touched the roasted breast of pheasant or the aspic.
‘Miss Boisette,’ Lady Stanford said, while the footman poured coffee, ‘I have some good news for you. I meant to tell Christopher, but he left so precipitously this morning, he didn’t give me the opportunity.’ She paused and frowned as if puzzled. ‘Ah, well. A friend of mine knows of a family looking for a governess.’
At last. Now Sylvia could get on with her life. She put down her knife and fork. ‘That is good news.’
‘Yes. The family lives in Wiltshire and they are in London for a short stay. Apparently, they have sought a governess without success for quite some time. It seems as though I have hit on the perfect solution. Mrs Elston will come for tea at four this afternoon and interview you.’ She beamed. ‘Now, what do you think of that?’
‘My lady, I cannot express enough my appreciation for your help. I will do my best to make a good impression on Mrs Elston.’
Lady Stanford pursed her lips. ‘I sincerely hope you will.’
The murmur of men’s voices, interrupted by shouts of triumph or groans of despair, rumbled around White’s gaming room. Across the green baize table from Christopher, Garth scribbled on a scrap of paper and dropped it on top of the pile of guineas. ‘I’ll raise you a pony.’
The dim light from the lantern above their heads did nothing to deaden the reckless glitter in Garth’s eyes. He seemed to be well on the way to half seas over.
A trifle warm himself, Christopher had drunk only half the quantity Garth had imbibed in the past two hours. Damn Garth for an idiot to bet another hundred on the single queen in his hand when she wasn’t even trumps.
He raised his eyebrows at the crumpled vowel. ‘Under the hatches again?’
Garth shrugged. ‘Is my note not good enough for you?’
Christopher gritted his teeth at the sarcasm. ‘Of course it is.’
His own hand wasn’t very good, but it would take the trick. His facility with numbers never let him down, no matter how much he imbibed, and he never relied on blind luck. Something Garth ought to know by now.
‘I need a drink.’ Garth signalled to a passing waiter for another bottle. ‘No mistake, though, she’s a diamond of the first water,’ he said, picking up their earlier conversation on the subject of Mademoiselle Boisette.
They’d been around this topic once. ‘Leave well enough alone.’
‘But a governess.’ Mock pain edged Garth’s tone. ‘What a waste of delicious womanhood.’
‘It’s what she wants.’
‘It’s what she says she wants. Women never say what they mean.’
Christopher felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck. A hot rush of something unpleasant closed his throat. He forced his words past it. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’
One side of Garth’s mouth curled in a sneer. ‘Women. They are all the same. You just have to find the key to unlock the gate. Usually jewels, or money.’ He chuckled.
‘I don’t much like your sense of humour.’
Garth flashed him a grin. ‘I thought we’d agreed never to argue over the fairer sex. They aren’t worth it.’
They had. Years ago, when they had come to blows over the milkmaid at their grandmother’s house. They’d agreed to let the woman choose and she’d decided on the older, far more experienced Garth. They’d never competed for a female again. Until now. The thought didn’t sit well in Christopher’s stomach. ‘Then stay away from Miss Boisette.’
‘Bloody hell, don’t be such a dog in the manger. You don’t want her, therefore she’s fair game.’
Want was far too weak a word to describe the insistent throb low in his groin each time he saw or thought about her. ‘She wants to be a governess.’ Now he sounded like a sulky schoolboy denied a treat. He tossed off his brandy, then stared at his glass. Damn. At this rate he’d be under the table before the end of the evening.
‘You’re a damned fool.’ Garth threw an impatient glance at the money on the table. ‘Are you in or not?’
Christopher wanted to be inside Sylvia’s slender body. Buried to the hilt in her hot, sweet flesh. He pushed one hundred guineas into the pile. ‘I’m in.’
Garth scrawled on another slip of paper with a flourish. ‘Two hundred.’ He flicked the paper on to the growing pile.
Christopher stared at it. The raving idiot.
Garth leaned forward. ‘If you think I’m going to let an Incomparable hie off to be a drudge in Wiltshire with a parcel of brats instead of warming my bed, you are more of a bloody fool than I thought.’
It was all Christopher could do to stop from reaching out and choking Garth with his bare hands. His brother wou
ld love that. ‘She’s not interested. She’s as cold as a mountain stream.’
The waiter arrived with a bottle of brandy, filled both glasses and set the bottle at Garth’s elbow.
With a deep sigh of contentment, Garth leaned back. ‘Now that’s where you are wrong.’ He raised his glass in a toast, then took a deep swig. ‘Take it from an expert. There’s a hot spring beneath the frigid waters waiting for a man to dive in. Haven’t you seen that smile?’
Rarely. A vivid image of her performance at Cliff House filled his mind, the teasing way she removed her gloves, her tempting smile with its fascinating tiny fault. The same smile she had bestowed on Garth a week ago, after the theater.
The thought of Sylvia with Garth sent sparks of anger chasing through his veins. He snapped his cards face down on the table. ‘You bastard. If you go anywhere near her, I’ll murder you.’
Garth’s inscrutable gaze rose from contemplating the dregs of brandy in the bottom of his glass. His sneer deepened. ‘Do you really think you can?’
Probably not. Garth was a crack shot and an expert duellist, but Christopher, with his greater bulk, might have a chance at his own sport, boxing. He glared across at his brother. Tension crackled across the table, palpable in the thick air.
Two men playing chess across the aisle from them perked up in their deep armchairs. An argument always attracted a crowd.
Christopher lowered his voice. ‘Don’t think I won’t. Stay away from her.’
‘Don’t let that angelic face fool you. If you want her, take her. Otherwise, get off the pot,’ Garth said crudely. He gestured at Christopher’s cards. ‘Your play.’
Garth deserved to lose. Christopher closed the fanned cards. ‘Your trick.’
A frown on his face, Garth reached for the discarded hand.
Lurching to his feet, Christopher nudged the table. Cards and guineas and promises to pay tumbled to the floor.
Garth glared at him. ‘Don’t play me for an ass, brother.’
Christopher bowed. ‘I wouldn’t dare now, would I? I’ll see you later.’
Garth slanted him a wry look. ‘Not if I see you first.’ He reached for the brandy bottle. ‘I’ll give you one day and then it’s open season.’
The Rake's Inherited Courtesan Page 11
