by Lynn Kerstan
Yes, it was going to take a lever. “Let me guess. An estate? Shares on the ‘change?”
“A girl.”
“A girl?” The Baroness swallowed her brandy at a gulp.
“I use the term lightly,” he warned.
“My dear, you will need to make some sense if I am to help you. How can you have inherited a girl?”
“I’m not altogether certain that I have.” Mark set his glass on the sideboard and rested his hands on the windowsill. “She says so, but I can’t be sure until I check it out. Megs, did you ever hear that my father had a ward?”
“Richard? Nonsense. The family tree was required memorization for all the Coltranes, like a catechism. Every leaf and twig is accounted for, and you know very well that Richard would never—”
“Sire a bastard? Yes, I know that. But apparently he did take on an obligation of sorts, and that obligation presented itself to me this morning. Her name is Jillian Lamb.”
“Lamb? Let me think. I know I’ve heard the name, but I can’t remember . . . ah, related to William?”
“I doubt it. From what she said, the guardianship dates back to the Old Earl’s involvement with her father. Damn, I forget his first name. Not sure she ever told me. But he was an art collector, or purveyor. Something of the sort.”
Margaret dropped her empty glass on the table with a clunk. “Of course. Gerald Lamb. A funny-looking little man with wire-rimmed spectacles. Bounced all over the place like a rubber ball.”
“That sounds about right,” murmured the Earl. “Oh my, I’d forgot all about Gerald Lamb. He was a love. You wouldn’t think he had a brain in his head, but oh, what wonderful things he brought. From Greece and Albania, India, Egypt. Even China. Every year or so he’d turn up with a load of boxes and Richard would go into paroxysms of ecstasy.”
“Paroxysms? Father?”
“Don’t you remember? But I suppose he would never let you near his things. That collection was his pride and joy, and you were always more bookish than artistic. Sweet, vague Gerald Lamb. But I thought he was dead. Richard was a pain in the neck when he got the news. ‘My source has dried up,’ was how he put it. I don’t remember him buying much after that. There were so many fakes on the market, he said, and Lamb was the only one he trusted. But what has this to do with a girl?”
“Between voyages, Mr. Lamb produced a daughter, and somewhere along the way, my father accepted guardianship. At least he agreed to pay her an allowance. I can’t be certain of anything until I consult the solicitor, but she seemed very sure of what she said. She couldn’t have made up the whole thing, could she? No, of course not. You know about her father and the art business. Besides, she wouldn’t have sat on my doorstep all morning if there wasn’t something to her story, would she?”
“My heavens, Mark. This really has sent you into a spin.”
“No, it certainly has not. When have you known anything to send me into a spin? But it is a surprise, and not a welcome one. What you’ve told me confirms a great deal, and I’ll know even more tomorrow. Then I’ll decide what to do.”
“Where is she now?”
“Jillian? Asleep, I hope.” Mark beat a path to the cupboard and refilled his glass. “She has a cold.”
“From sitting out in the rain all morning?” Margaret thought she detected a flush on his cheek. “You know,” she mused, “if word gets out that a girl perched all morning by your door and wound up sleeping in your house—”
“Oh. No, I Positively, no. Absolutely, no question about it, no.”
“She’s too young?”
“Yes. No.”
“Ah.” Margaret grinned. “Just how old is this girl now sleeping in your house?”
“‘Enny-or.”
“What?”
“Twenty-four!” he shouted. “Looks about twelve. Dammit, she looks like a boy, or at least she did when she was bundled under that cape. No one can possibly know.”
“The servants?”
“They wouldn’t dare,” said the Earl maliciously. “Servants always gossip,” Margaret reminded him. “A twenty-four-year-old girl . . . woman . . . is sleeping at your house. Was, from what I apprehend through this fog-screen you are throwing up, on your doorstep in full view of the world for several hours.” The Earl stalked to the tea tray and ate a sandwich in two pugnacious bites. “My servants don’t gossip, Lady Ramsey. Couldn’t if they wanted to, because I doubt a one of them has any friends. The thing on the doorstep looked like a black lump. Later it—she—looked like a boy. If anyone noticed her in all that rain I’ll think of a story. But I won’t be compromised into marrying that little fiend and you’d better be ready to back me up whatever I say.”
“I shall corroborate any story you choose to give out,” Margaret said pacifically. “Why don’t you sit down, Mark, and try to be coherent. If I’m quizzed, I don’t wish to make any mistakes.”
“Yes. My apologies.” He sat across from her and was up again immediately, pacing the room with something Margaret would have described as nerves in anyone but a Coltrane. “I’ll start from the beginning, but don’t interrupt or I’ll lose my train of thought.”
“Yes, Milord,” she agreed with a secret smile. “And don’t be insolent. That’s another thing I’ve had enough of today. I got home about noon, and it was raining.”
“Noon?” Margaret couldn’t resist asking.
Mark spun around. “Yes! You know I have a mistress, and it’s a precious sight warmer in the Swan’s Nest than—”
“The tomb at Berkeley Square,” she finished. “But you digress.”
“Megs, in another minute I’ll wring your neck. I’ve wanted to wring someone’s neck for the past several hours, so be warned.”
Margaret chuckled when he ran a shaking finger under his starched collar. “It was raining,” she reminded him.
“Cats and dogs. Devil take it, Jaspers left that child out there for five hours. Now be quiet and listen. When I got home, she fought her way into the house and—”
“Fought her way?”
“Megs!”
“My dear boy, you fling out these tidbits and rush right past them before anyone gets a mouthful. Slow down and tell me the whole. In detail.”
“She bit Jaspers.”
“Ah. I like her already. Let me see now. That affront to butlerdom would not admit her. She waited until you got home, and when the door opened up she shoved herself in. Took a chunk out of Jaspers on the way. Have I got it right?”
“In a nutshell,” Mark said with admiration.
“I’m beginning to get the picture. You heard her out and put her to bed, chastely, of course, and now you don’t know what to do with her.”
“That sums it up. She’s been living on a farm somewhere, paid an allowance to run the place, and when it stopped she came down to London on her own to see why. Tomorrow I plan to call on John Lakewood. He’ll know what this is all about. There must be a written contract somewhere.”
“Why didn’t you bring her here, Mark? Right away, before there could be any scandal?”
“I should have done so,” he confessed. “But she was sick. And I wasn’t sure you’d have her. Besides, the damage was done. She was on the doorstoop for hours. I don’t think anyone could make out it was a female, though, and my servants are more incestuous than royalty, so I don’t think they’ll talk.”
Margaret was less optimistic, but let it pass. “Jillian Lamb. Twenty-four, lived on a farm, now your ward. So what will you do with her?”
“God knows.” For the first time in memory, the Earl raked his fingers through a flawless hair arrangement. “She wants me to send her home, with the allowance.”
“Well, that’s simple enough. I know you can afford whatever she asks, and obviously you want to be rid of her. Pay her off and send her off.
Make an end to it.”
The Earl of Coltrane had a cowlick, usually tamed by his valet, but it stood prominently now. “I knew you’d have the answer, Megs. See, I told you it wasn’t important. I expect things got muddled up by that larcenous business manager I took on when Lakewood retired.”
“That’s what comes from employing a relation of Mr. Jaspers,” Margaret said dryly. “You ought to fire that idiot.”
“That’s what Jillian thinks. Said he was a disgrace to his profession.”
“And so he is, my love. What does she look like?”
“Jillian? Oh, she’s short.” The Earl waved his hand about waist level. “Big eyes. Brown, like coffee. Big mouth, too. A dimple, about here.” He poked a finger into his left cheek. “Thin, most places.” His hands formed the universal male gesture for a shapely female. “Curly hair, dark brown and out to here.” The Earl indicated a circle wide enough to encompass an ascent balloon. “And she swears like a sailor.”
“Really? For example . . . or can’t you say?”
“Sheep dip.”
“Mark, no sailor in his right mind says sheep dip. What else?”
“Devil take it, Megs, bad language. Unseemly language. Hell’s bells. No proper female says hell’s bells.”
“What a prig you are, boy. The only difference between Jillian Lamb and the rest of us is that she says it to you. Which she ought not, of course,” Margaret added hastily when he glowered at her.
“She called me a toad,” he said sullenly.
The Baroness swallowed a laugh. “Dear me,” she choked.
“To be precise, an odious toad.”
She bit her tongue. “Well, you must admit it has a nice ring, and I expect she was only trying to rile you. Keep in mind that you left her out in the rain for hours while you frolicked with the Swan. I’d have called you a blessed sight worse under those circumstances. In any case, she’ll soon be gone again. You will determine if you owe her an allowance and the amount, and then you’ll send her back where she came from. All settled and done. As you said, the decision is already made.”
“You said that. I said I didn’t know what to do.”
“Gammon. You’ve already decided on a plan, so long as I cooperate, and you needn’t look surprised, Nephew. I know exactly how your mind works. Remember, I grew up with your father and you are too much like him for comfort. So, what is it and how do I fit in?”
“More and more, I become convinced that you and that infernal little demon will end up thick as thieves. How did you ever get to be such a baggage, Megs?”
“I got away from the Coltrane family, Mark,” she said gently. “I fell in love. Raised a child. A good boy, and a fine man. You were a poker-backed little boy, sweets, but you grew to be a fine man, too, and for all I harp at you, I also trust your judgment. So tell me, what have you in mind for Jillian Lamb?”
The Earl swallowed, trying to rid himself of a melon-sized lump in his throat. He was unac-customed to praise, at least any that he cared to hear. His father had met all failures, no matter how slight, with punishment or an icy set-down that was worse than a birching, while successes went unremarked. A Coltrane was expected to excel. But for some reason, hearing Megs call him a fine man sent an obstruction to his throat that would not be dislodged. Past it, he mumbled, “A husband.”
“Oh.” Margaret examined her long manicured nails. “Anyone in particular?”
“Someone blind, deaf, and infinitely patient,” rejoined the Earl. “Seriously, Megs, the chit has a tongue as sharp as her teeth and less refinement than a milkmaid. I would not presume to ask you to take her on without seeing for yourself.”
And now, at long last, we get to it, thought Margaret as the Earl sat himself again at the tea table.
“She needs a keeper,” he said flatly. “Someone who will take her over and set her to rights. She certainly cannot manage an estate alone, and any girl who’d take a common stage to London without an escort, plunk herself on an earl’s doorstep in the rain, and then bite a butler, can do with some settings to right. I’m not sure that made sense, but you know what I mean. There may be hope for her, Megs. She’s a wily sort of creature, and a fetching little thing when she isn’t snarling and swearing and sneezing. It seemed to me you could judge if she’s salvageable.”
“And if I decide that she is? I presume you mean her to make her debut, even at the advanced age of four-and-twenty? Bring some blind, deaf old codger up to scratch?”
“That’s a long shot, but yes. She has no looks, mind you. Well, a good figure and nice eyes and rather a wonderful smile, but my own taste runs to tall and blond, so perhaps I’m missing something.” You aren’t missing a thing, thought Margaret. You just don’t know what you’re looking at. Never in her life had she wanted to meet anyone more than she wanted to meet Jillian Lamb. If nothing else, the girl had lit a fire under Mark Delacourt’s tail, and for the first time since receiving word of Trevor’s death, she felt a genuine thrill of excitement. Not good to let Mark know it, though. Delacourt men shunned excitement like the plague. “When can I meet her?” she asked calmly, breaking off a bit of poppyseed cake and popping it in her mouth.
The Earl visibly relaxed. “Not tomorrow, because I need to see the lawyers. And as I told you, she has a cold. Maybe Wednesday, but I’ll send word. If she’s not legitimate, I’ll naturally send her packing. And if she runs riot in my household, I’ll do the same. Otherwise, I’d appreciate you giving her the once-over and telling me what you think. I expect it will take several weeks, if not longer, to get her into shape. The hair is abominable, she has no wardrobe, and heaven knows if she can dance or pour tea.”
“Well, I am certain heaven keeps a close watch on dancing and tea-pouring,” Margaret said acerbically. “Bring her over, Mark. I want to meet her no matter what the solicitor tells you, and I’ll accept no excuses. If you want nothing to do with her, perhaps I’ll take her over myself. I always wanted to fire off a daughter.”
“Not like this one,” the Earl cautioned. “I won’t hold you to any promises, Megs. If she truly was my father’s ward, she is now mine, and I must do right by her.”
“Because Delacourts always live up to their obligations.”
He’d heard that somewhere before. “Exactly. But I’m glad you’re with me, best of all aunts.”
“Smoothly said, rascal, but you can’t cozen me. Come off your high ropes for once and admit it. This could be fun.”
“Reserve your judgment,” he said with a characteristic lift of his eyebrows, “until you’ve met Jillian Lamb.”
With a quick buss on her cheek, the Earl took himself off to Watier’s, leaving his aunt to meditate on the wonder she’d just witnessed. She sat for a long time, absently devouring poppyseed cake until the plate was empty, weighing her impressions. It was true that she was anxious to meet the girl, but she was even more intrigued by the Mark Delacourt that had suddenly reappeared. It was the boy from Cambridge, haring down to London with Trevor between terms, regaling her with the latest escapades of the Merrie Men. A Mark Delacourt that slouched and reddened with embarrassment and a touch of pride when his own particular crimes were described.
For all his disclaimers, the Earl was fascinated by Jillian Lamb. Appalled, certainly, but fascinated all the same. He was ever punctilious about family responsibilities, but if Richard had thought his own obligation to the girl could be satisfied with a regular allowance, that ought to be good enough. Clearly Mark wanted to keep her around, and he was looking for an excuse to do so. Not that he was aware of it, of course, and she’d no intention of enlightening him. Whatever else Jillian Lamb proved to be, in Margaret’s mind she’d assumed the form of a very large lever.
Lip between her teeth, the Baroness went to her desk and pulled out a sheaf of notepaper. By tomorrow evening she would have most of the information she required for her
campaign, and before Jillian set foot at Grosvenor, arrangements would be underway for her wardrobe, a dancing master, a hairstylist . . . oh yes, this would be fun.
Margaret chewed the tip of her pen. It wasn’t only Mark whose ordered existence was about to be changed by this girl. Blood was singing in her own veins, and it didn’t occur to her that Miss Lamb might be unwilling to go along. After all, what young lady wouldn’t jump at the opportunity to be launched into society aboard the sleek Coltrane yacht?
Chapter Five
WATIER’S DINING room overflowed with patrons by the time Mark arrived, and he decided supper could wait until the crowd thinned. Scouting the parlors, he found two recently abandoned chairs in front of a blazing fire, gathered a sheaf of newspapers from the rack, and selected one at random. The others he scattered on one of the chairs to discourage company. Stretching his long legs across the hearth, he held the paper loosely below eye level and stared moodily into the fire.
He always planted himself close to a fire. He drank to stay warm. Wore a greatcoat on sunny spring days. Scorched his skin in over-hot baths. Once he’d have sold his soul to be warm, just for an hour. In the dungeon near Rouen he had all but frozen to death, the bitter cold more hellish than the rackings.
Those were discontinued after the first few days because he was worth more in ransom than information, but three months into his captivity he’d undergone another brutal inquisition. No one, he was told, wanted him back. Neither government nor family was willing to pay a mere thirty thousand pounds for the Coltrane heir. Would he care to buy his life with a list of his contacts?
He scarcely felt the pain. What was a racking compared to the agony of what he’d just learned? Numb with shock; he managed to hold to his story that time and every time thereafter. Why would family or government pay a sou to ransom a traitor? Everyone on both sides of the channel knew him to be a fribble. His own father despised him as a worthless, no-account popinjay, and no one was surprised when he fled the tyrannical Earl of Coltrane. His mother had done the same thirty years earlier. He was half-French, after all, and enjoyed the good life. Where better to find it than Paris? What did it matter that he hosted elegant dinners, drank to excess, and romanced the ladies? It was the worst anyone could say of him, or prove.
