by Jane Feather
“You do have enough room, don’t you?” she asked with anxious solicitude as he settled down.
“Reckon so,” he said with a grudging sniff. “But it’ll smell to ’igh ’eaven in here, soon enough.”
“It won’t,” Chloe insisted, trying to make Dante diminish as he leapt exuberantly into the carriage and bestowed his breathy grin on his fellow travelers. “They’re very clean. And we can have the window open.”
“Drafts is bad for me neck.”
“Oh, Samuel, please don’t mind.” She reached over and placed a hand on his knee.
As always, he was not proof against the beguiling charm of her appeals. He grunted in half-acceptance. The whole expedition struck him as lunacy. He was Lancashire born and bred, and apart from his years at sea had never been out of the county. He had never been to London and had never wanted to go. He didn’t want to now. It seemed to him they had enough to do at the manor, and now that Sir Hugo had come out of the doldrums, life could jog along quite smoothly. But where Sir Hugo went, he went too, and if Sir Hugo believed this crazily uncomfortable disruption of their lives was necessary, then Samuel would bite his tongue.
Hugo swung onto his horse, and the chaise moved out of the courtyard. He cast a glance behind him at his home. He had never been fond of it, not even as a boy, and had left it without regret when he’d joined the navy. Since his return, its proximity to Shipton and Gresham Hall had destroyed any desire to make a permanent home there. He’d stayed, attached by some fantastical umbilical cord to the one pure love of his life … and because it was as good a place as any other to drink himself into an early grave.
But all that was behind him.
Now he was caught up in a convolution to which he had to find a solution. And the only solution was a husband for Chloe. No suitable husband could be found if she remained at Denholm Manor. He couldn’t establish her on her own without exposing her to Jasper’s machinations. So it had to be London under his protection. Quod erat demonstrandum. The Latin tag from schoolboy geometry was somehow appropriate in its absolute truth.
And maybe in London they would find the distractions that would lessen the spell that diminutive bundle of love had cast over them both. Until the spell was broken, Chloe wouldn’t be truly free to follow the conventional paths that Elizabeth would have wanted for her. She would find friends, activities, a social whirl that the sheltered girl could never have imagined. And as she became absorbed, so would the ties to himself lessen.
As for himself—once he had found London a hypnotic treasure chest. There were members of Society who would remember him … there were distant relatives who knew no worse of him than that he’d gone somewhat precipitately to fight Napoleon. He had friends at the Admiralty … men who existed on half pay rather than sell out at war’s end. Once he’d been gregarious, there was no reason he shouldn’t become so again. The shadow of the Congregation of Eden could be thrown off.
And in the pursuit of these distractions he would be able to withdraw gracefully from the unnatural … no, not unnatural, but utterly improper and disgraceful liaison with his seventeen-year-old ward.
And once she was respectably married, she’d be free of Jasper’s threat, and he would be free to leave England and make some kind of a life for himself on the Continent.
He knew one thing, it was a knowledge that came from the marrow of his bones rather than his brain. He couldn’t endure to live close to Chloe once she was married … in love … lost to him for all the right reasons. He’d ached in the wilderness for her mother. He wouldn’t do it again for the daughter.
Chapter 17
“HUGO LATTIMER, isn’t it?” At the quiet question, Hugo looked up from the shelf of music books he was perusing in Hatchard’s. He frowned for a second at the black-eyed man who’d addressed him, then his expression cleared as recollection came.
“Carrington,” he said, holding out his hand to Marcus Devlin, Marquis of Carrington. “It’s been many years.”
“At least fourteen,” Lord Carrington agreed, shaking hands. “We were both a pair of striplings. You joined the navy, I believe.”
“Yes, for the duration. I sold out after Waterloo.”
“And what brings you to London? The joys of the Season?” Carrington’s voice was faintly sardonic. He was not an aficionado of Society’s social whirl.
Hugo shrugged easily. He remembered some old story about a broken engagement that had soured Marcus Devlin’s view of Society’s pleasures. “I’ve acquired a ward,” he said with a smile. “And it seems orchestrating a come-out lies within the duties of a guardian.”
He glanced around the crowded bookshop. “She’s here somewhere, searching for Miss Austen’s posthumous publication; Persuasion, I believe it’s titled.”
“An interesting lady, Miss Austen,” Marcus observed. “A painfully sharp wit and no patience with fools and their foibles.”
“No,” Hugo agreed. “Pride and prejudice …”
“Sense and sensibility,” Marcus continued promptly. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, Lattimer … I’ll see you in White’s or Watier’s perhaps?”
Hugo inclined his head in vague acknowledgment. He was still a member of both clubs, but he had neither the resources nor the inclination for gaming—the major activity in the exclusive clubs of St. James’s—and no desire to draw attention to himself by refusing to join in the heavy drinking that accompanied social intercourse in those bastions of male privilege.
The marquis left the bookshop and stood on the street, looking up Piccadilly, waiting for his tiger to bring the curricle whose team he’d been walking while his lordship made his purchases.
He barely noticed the raucous commotion from a group of lads on the corner of an alley behind him, until a slight figure hurtled out of the bow-windowed shop, racing past him with a cry of outrage. Curiously he turned to watch, and suddenly the figure spun around and ran back to him.
“Your whip?” she demanded, her eyes crackling with passion. “Please, quickly.” Impatiently, she extended her hand for the long driving whip he held loosely at his side.
Marcus didn’t think he’d ever beheld a more exquisite countenance or an angrier one. She blazed with the pure fire of righteous rage. Before he could say anything, however, she had snatched the whip from him without further ceremony and was racing back to the noisy group on the corner.
He watched in stunned amazement as she plunged into the middle of the group, slashing savagely from side to side with his whip with a complete indifference to the shrieks of those she struck.
“What the hell … Chloe!” Hugo Lattimer appeared on the pavement. “I do not believe this,” he exclaimed. “I turn my back for two minutes and she’s embroiled in some melee again.”
“Happens often, does it?” Marcus inquired, as amused as he was intrigued.
“When it comes to abused animals,” Hugo replied shortly. He strode over to the disintegrating group, where quite a crowd was gathering.
Fascinated, the marquis followed.
Chloe Gresham emerged victorious from the melee as the whipped youths slunk away into the alley. She held something clutched to her breast. Her hat was crooked, her skirt muddied, a streak of dirt down one cheek. Her eyes blazed with a mixture of fury and triumph.
“Just look!” she demanded of Hugo, the catch in her voice as always accentuated by emotion. “They were baiting him with pointed sticks.”
“Dear God,” Hugo muttered, staring at Chloe’s prize. “It’s a bear!”
Marcus could well understand the other man’s dismay. Nevertheless, his shoulders shook slightly as Chloe said, “It’s a baby … it can’t be more than two months old … and they were torturing it. I thought bear baiting was against the law.”
“It is,” Marcus said. “I beg your pardon, but I don’t seem to have had the honor …”
“My ward,” Hugo said with a sigh. “Chloe Gresham. Chloe, allow me to present Lord Carrington.”
“Enchanted, Miss
Gresham.” Marcus bowed, his black eyes brimful of amusement and more than a little admiration. For some reason, the streak of dirt seemed to accentuate the peaches and cream complexion, emotion darkened her eyes to an indescribable depth of blue, and the angrily quivering lip merely served to underline the full perfection of a lovely mouth.
“Oh, your whip, Lord Carrington. Thank you, and I beg your pardon if I snatched it from you.” She held it out to him.
“Not at all,” he murmured. “I would have offered to help, but such an offer seemed somewhat superfluous.” He cast a glance of complicit amusement at Hugo Lattimer, who returned it with a resigned shake of the head.
“Come here, lass. Your hat’s crooked.” Careful to avoid the bundle in her arms, he straightened the chip straw hat, affording Marcus a more thorough glimpse of a lustrous golden head.
Taking out his handkerchief, Hugo licked the corner and wiped the streak of dirt from her cheek. “Now, would you mind telling me what you intend doing with a bear cub. I doubt Dante will appreciate him … it … not to mention Beatrice.”
“Dante?” queried Marcus, fascinated. “Beatrice?”
“Oh, my household resembles a circus,” Hugo informed him. “So far we have seven cats, a massive, obsessively devoted mongrel, a one-legged parrot with the foulest mouth you’ve ever heard, and now, it appears, a bear … oh, and in the past we’ve also had a barn owl and a much-abused nag liberated from a turnip seller. They all rejoice in the most erudite of names.”
“You exhibit much fortitude, my friend,” Marcus commented.
“You’re laughing at me,” Chloe accused, looking between them.
“Heaven forfend,” Hugo threw up his hands. “What could be less amusing than a bear?”
“It’s only a baby,” she said again, bending her head to look at the mangy bundle of fur in her arms. A pair of bright eyes looked out at her and a black snout snuffled.
“But what are you going to do with it?”
“I wonder if bears can be housebroken—”
“No!” Hugo exclaimed.
“You don’t think they can?” She looked up, frowning, her head on one side.
“I should think it’s highly unlikely.” Marcus weighed in on the side where fellow-feeling seemed to place him. “The stables seem the most appropriate place … at least until he … it … grows up.” His voice quavered as Hugo groaned audibly, and they both envisaged a fully grown brown bear in situ in a London establishment.
“Well, I’ll see,” Chloe said. “When I’ve had a chance to see if he’s badly hurt and how undernourished he is. I may have to keep him inside for a while.”
“I wish I didn’t have to go,” Marcus murmured, “before you resolve the issue, but unfortunately I have an appointment.” He extended his hand again to Hugo. “You must be blessed with remarkable forbearance, Lattimer. I don’t know whether to offer you my congratulations or my condolences.”
“I’ll accept either or both,” Hugo said wryly. He barely knew Marcus Devlin, but there was something about his reaction to the situation that created an easy familiarity. But then, Chloe tended to have that effect on most people. “I only wonder which Society will offer.”
“With that beauty,” Marcus said, softly enough for Chloe not to hear. “She’ll bring the town to its knees, my friend.”
“And eighty thousand pounds,” Hugo said as softly, although Chloe was far too intent on her new acquisition to pay attention to this low-voiced conversation.
Marcus’s lips pursed in a soundless whistle. “You’ll have to beat them from your door, Lattimer.”
He turned back to Chloe. “Miss Gresham, pray accept my compliments, you are quite out of the common way. I know Lady Carrington will enjoy meeting you. I shall suggest she call upon you … in Mount Street, isn’t it?” He looked inquiringly at Hugo.
Hugo confirmed it, reflecting that Chloe seemed to have done herself some good by this unlooked-for meeting. If the Marchioness of Carrington interested herself in Chloe, then her entrance into the first circles was assured. However, he was aware that embroiling herself in a street brawl could have had the opposite consequences. If Marcus Devlin had chosen to be disgusted by such an outrageous display from a debutante, she could have found herself ostracized by all but the most inveterate fortune hunters.
Marcus climbed into his now-waiting curricle and drove home to Berkeley Square. He found his wife in the nursery.
“I have just encountered the most exquisite little rogue,” he said. “But not as exquisite a little rogue as my Emma.” With a soft smile he bent to pick up his daughter, clamoring at his knees. He swung the toddler into the air, and she squealed excitedly, grabbing at his nose with a dimpled fist.
Judith Devlin leaned back in her chair, cradling her infant son, smiling as she watched her husband with the little girl. Marcus was a devoted father.
“So?” she prompted, when he’d stopped playing with the child and settled her on his hip. “What about this encounter?”
Marcus bent to examine his son, who lay placidly, sucking his thumb in his mother’s arm. “Edmund looks bigger today.”
“Nonsense,” Judith said with an indulgent laugh. “He’s no bigger this morning than he was last night.” She lifted her face for her husband’s kiss. “Are you ever going to tell me?”
“Oh, yes. Rarely have I been so richly amused.” He described the bear’s rescue and, as he’d expected, the ready amusement sprang to his wife’s tawny eyes. It was a story to appeal to the unconventional, and Judith had ever been that.
“Hugo Lattimer and I came into Society at the same time,” he said, setting his wriggling daughter on her feet. “But he ran with a wild set in those days … oh, that is a splendid house, Emma.” He took the sheet of paper she was pressing at him.
“There’s Mama.” She jabbed at a stick figure. “Wiv’ your horse.”
“Very lifelike,” he said solemnly, critically comparing his wife with the facsimile. “Anyway, lynx, I engaged that you would call upon the girl. She must be Stephen Gresham’s daughter. Lattimer was much involved with his set.” He grimaced. “The Greshams are bad blood, if all the rumors are true, but it’s hard to imagine bad blood running in the veins of such an exquisite creature. And she struck me as quite without artifice.”
“She’s closer to Harriet’s age,” Judith said. Her sister-in-law was five years younger than herself.
Marcus shook his head. “True enough, but you know as well as I, my love, that Harriet’s tastes don’t run to the unconventional. She wouldn’t know what to make of Miss Gresham.”
Judith laughed slightly. “No, I suppose you’re right. Anyway, Sebastian tells me that she’s expecting again. She always suffers so badly from nausea, poor love, I don’t know why they keep having babies.”
“Because it suits them,” Marcus said. “Your brother is even more besotted with his children than I am.”
“Yes, and he spoils them abominably. And Harriet is incapable of saying no. Little Charles created havoc in here yesterday, and as for young Peter …”
“Well, you’re the only person Sebastian will listen to, including his wife,” Marcus pointed out with perfect truth.
“I’ve told him,” she said. “And he won’t listen. I suppose he wants to give them all the things he never had. A childhood spent racketing around the capitals of the Continent in the train of an impoverished gamester left out a lot.”
“It didn’t do either of you any harm.”
“Oh, you were not always of that opinion,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “There was a time when you expressed yourself most vehemently on the subject.”
“A lot of water’s flowed since then,” her husband said equably. “If the girl’s Gresham’s daughter, why isn’t her half brother her guardian, I wonder? Lattimer’s no relation … although …”
“Although?” Judith prompted when he paused.
“Well, there was something about the way he treated her,” Marcus said slowly, reme
mbering how naturally Hugo had straightened her hat and wiped the smear on her cheek. “A rather particular intimacy …”
“Ohh …” Judith said. “What do you suspect?”
“Nothing.” He shrugged. “Lattimer’s all of thirty-four and the girl’s barely out of the schoolroom. I expect he was being avuncular…. Anyway, will you call on her?”
“I can hardly wait.”
Two days later, Lady Carrington drove herself in her high-perch phaeton to Mount Street.
It was clear from the moment the door was opened to her by a sturdy man in leather britches and waistcoat, sporting two gold earrings, that she was in no ordinary household.
“Is Miss Gresham in?” She drew off her gloves, looking around the square hall. The smell of fresh paint hung in the air.
“Aye, I reckon so,” the unusual butler said. “Last I knew, the lass was pesterin’ that Alphonse in the kitchen. Mind you, what we want wi’ a cook, I don’t know, specially one what calls himself some fancy Frenchie name when it’s as plain as day he’s no more of a Frenchie than I am. What’s good enough in Lancashire ought t’ be good enough ’ere, I says.”
Judith was somewhat at a loss as to how to respond to this confidence, when a swinging baize door at the end of the hall flew open and a brown bundle exploded into the hall, followed by an enormous dog.
“Dante! Come here!” A slight figure whirled through the door on their heels, brandishing a wooden spoon. “You are the worst-behaved animal! Leave Demosthenes alone.”
Judith jumped out of the way as the brown fur bundle lumbered past her at a surprising speed, the dog yapping at its heels.
“Miss Gresham?” she inquired.
“Yes,” Chloe said distractedly. “I beg your pardon, but I must catch Demosthenes. If Hugo finds him loose in the house, there’ll be terrible trouble.”
“Demosthenes?” Judith said feebly. She rarely felt feeble.
“Well, Bruin’s rather boring, don’t you think,” Chloe said, lunging for the bear cub. “Samuel, can you catch Dante?”
Samuel grunted and grabbed Dante by the collar. The dog sat down, panting. The bear had retreated beneath an inlaid console table and a pair of bright eyes gazed out from the shadows.
