by Lynn Kerstan
“Relax, brat. I shall merely deliver you and get out of the way. Margaret will draw her own conclusions, but heaven help you if she decides not to take you on.
“And what does that mean?” Leaning forward, Jillian tried to catch his eye. “What happens to me if she says no?”
The Earl avoided her gaze. “It won’t be pleasant,” he said to his lap. “One way or another, my girl, you will be brought to heel, so remember that when you are tempted to make an unseemly display.”
“I can promise you one thing,” Jillian told him sweetly. “If it would get me away from you, I’d cluck like a chicken in the Halls of Parliament. Whatever it takes, I shall escape your tomb of a house and your condescending staff and your even-more-obnoxious self. Does that please you, My Lord?”
“Your imminent departure? More so by the minute.” Folding his arms across his chest, the Earl settled back on the leather squabs. “For now, Miss Lamb, think good thoughts. For example, I am leaving town and you won’t have to put up with me for at least a week. Furthermore, you will like my aunt, and if you refrain from giving her an absolute abhorrence of your behavior, she will deal with you as she would her own daughter. Margaret is quite the best of the Coltrane family, and I value nothing more than her affection.”
Jillian gazed at him curiously. Every now and again he said something almost . . . human. She wished he would not. It threw her off balance and called to mind other things about him she was endeavoring to ignore. Above all, she could not afford to like Mark Delacourt. Everything was difficult enough already.
The carriage pulled up before a friendly-looking white brick townhouse in Grosvenor Square. The Earl descended, and as Jillian made to follow him, he gripped her waist and lifted her to the pavement. Startled, she shot him a murderous look. Damn but he was strong, and when he touched her, tingly things happened to odd parts of her body. She would feel those hands on her waist for an hour. When he offered his arm, she shook it off and charged up the stairs ahead of him.
He caught up easily. “Be good, imp,” he cautioned. “I know you can do it.”
Go suck an egg, she muttered under her breath. The Baroness greeted them in the rose-marble foyer. “My dear Miss Lamb,!’ she said in a pleasant alto voice, “I am so very pleased to meet you.” Margaret Ramsey was Coltrane—tall and slender, but her eyes were a deep, rich blue, not the forbidding icy blue-grey of the Earl. She was beautifully dressed, in a green morning gown with lace at the high neck and around the hem and sleeves. Her hair, a light brown so pale it was almost silver, swept in wings over her ears into a relaxed chignon.
Jillian, mystified that this gracious lady was related to stodgy Mark Delacourt, scarcely noticed when the Earl took his leave. Lady Ramsey ushered her into a cheerful salon, chatting inconsequentially as they settled on comfortable chairs near a low table. Moments later, a maid appeared with an enormous tea tray laden with delicate china, tiny sandwiches, and pastries. To Jillian’s horror, she placed it on the table right in front of her.
“Will you pour, my dear?” asked the Baroness. “And may I call you Jillian?”
“Yes, please do,” she murmured, thinking rapidly. The tea tray was, she suspected, her first test. Ought she to pass or fail? “What shall I call you, My Lady?”
“Would you think it presumptuous if I asked you to call me Aunt Margaret? Margaret will do, or even Lady Margaret if you must, but if we are to live together, I would rather not stand on ceremony. That I leave to my nephew. He’s so awfully good at it.” Off guard, Jillian flashed a dimpled smile. “Isn’t he, though?” A blush swept her cheeks. “I mean—”.
“Always say what you mean, at least to me, Jillian. I’ll take no offense, and indeed I would be very surprised if you had developed a fondness for my nephew. I’ve known Mark since he was in nappies—well-starched nappies, I might add—and he can be a proper pain in the derriere.”
Jillian gulped, forcing her attention to the tray even as she tried to imagine Mark Delacourt in nappies. Surely the man was born old. With the practiced motions taught her by Annalisa Lindstrom, she poured tea through the strainer and added milk and sugar when Lady Margaret nodded. She’d meant to spill something, but was so astounded by the conversation that she forgot to be clumsy.
“Have I shocked you?” the Baroness was asking. “I do hope so. I thought that if I said something outrageous, you would not hesitate to speak your own mind.”
“I’ve never been exactly shy about that,” Jillian confessed. “But I have strict instructions to mind my tongue.”
“I daresay.” Margaret sipped her tea with pleasure. “Ah, this is perfect, my dear. Just how I like it. You must try the poppyseed cake. It’s Mark’s favorite.” Jillian stared uncertainly at the thin, moist slices. The poppyseeds looked like tiny black eyes. Accusing, critical eyes. She broke off a bit and held it between thumb and forefinger, as if expecting it to bite her. Finally, she set it back on the plate. “I doubt I would care for it, My Lady. The Earl and I don’t seem to like many of the same things.”
“With the exception of his aunt.”
Jillian looked up in surprise.
“Well, you do like me, do you not?” Margaret raised a well-shaped eyebrow in a gesture that was pure Coltrane. “I warn you, Miss Lamb, I shall be excessively charming until you are won over.”
“Oh dear.”
“Maddening, is it not? We Coltranes do that, to get our own way. Bit by bit, we wear you down.”
“The only Coltrane I know,” Jillian snorted, “wears me down like an avalanche. You will do this. You will not do that. Sit down. Be quiet. I know what is best for you.” Her hands clenched into small fists. “Just who does he think he is?”
Margaret laughed. “He thinks he is his father, more the pity. For all that I loved Richard, one of him was quite enough, and it gives me no pleasure to watch Mark try to recreate him. I cherish some hope he will not succeed. For now, shall we discuss something more pleasant? Will you tell me about yourself?”
Jillian set down her teacup. “Lady Margaret, you are making this so difficult. I didn’t want to like you, and I don’t want you to like me. Indeed, I’d counted on you taking one look and sending me away.”
“Because of that lamentable dress?”
“That, and my hair and shoes and these.” She held out her small hands, showing stubby nails and callused palms.
“In general, you will be wearing gloves in public, Jillian, but lotions and a good manicure will undo the damage. As for your hair—”
“Nothing can be done about that!”
“Your hair is an overgrown mass of curls allowed to run riot on your head,” Margaret persisted calmly. “I cannot approve your hairdresser, my dear.”
“I am my hairdresser, except where I can’t reach to cut it in the back. My housekeeper does that, or Jock, depending on who’s around. He’s the dog trainer.”
“Not poodles, I apprehend. They are generally clipped to better advantage.”
Jillian bubbled over with laughter. It was impossible for her to overset this woman. “Oh, I give up,” she gurgled. “Already you have worn me down.”
“A Coltrane never fails,” the Baroness said serenely. “So now you will tell me all about yourself, in strictest confidence of course, because what Mark does not know cannot hurt us.”
Jillian relaxed for the first time since coming to London. For the next half hour, as she described her education and skills—she refused to call them accomplishments—her conviction that Lady Margaret was a friend and ally continued to grow.
“I declare,” said Margaret when Jillian finished her recital, “you have played perfect Maygame with my nephew. He thinks you a complete hayseed. As well you are aware,” she added with a shrewd grin. “I shudder to imagine how you’ve comported yourself with him.”
“Disreputably,” Jillian acknowledge
d without shame. “At first I thought, it would compel him to send me home on the first mailcoach to Kent. Now I do it to annoy him.”
“Continue to do so with my blessing,” Margaret said complacently, “but only en famille.” She leaned forward, her blue eyes serious. “Will you tell me, Jillian, why you are so bent on returning home? Cannot your household do without you for a little time?”
Jillian sat back, gazing unhappily at the ceiling. “I suppose so. But what is the point of all this? I must go home eventually. I cannot do otherwise. And I promise you, I shall not remain here long enough to marry, because I’ve no wish to do so.”
“Then you will not, of course. I’ll not permit Mark to keep you beyond a few months, but until he is convinced that you’ve given London a fair chance, he will be impossible to sway. In his own way, he believes he is doing you a kindness.”
“I know,” Jillian said somberly. “But he is not doing it to be kind. He thinks it is his duty to order my life.”
“And nothing drives Mark so fiercely as a sense of duty.” Margaret’s lips curved in a sly smile. “My dear, we must let him have some of his way, part of the time . . . always a good rule of thumb when handling obstinate men. When his conscience is satisfied and your London triumph complete, I shall see you home if that is still your wish.”
“Triumph?” Jillian paled. “Surely not.”
“Shall we leave it to the Earl to underestimate you? Be assured, I do not.”
Sitting straighter, Jillian cocked her chin. “If it requires a triumph to get me home, London will be at my feet.” With a giggle, she lifted one foot. “Not in these shoes, of course.”
“Indeed not.” Lady Margaret tugged the bell cord. “Tomorrow you have appointments with a mantua maker and the dancing master, which will take most of the day. The hair, I’m sorry to say, will have to wait, but I’ll see about something for your feet. You cannot take a dance lesson in half-boots.”
Jillian regarded her blankly. “You made appointments without even seeing me?”
The Baroness stood and rested a long-fingered hand on Jillian’s shoulder. “I would do anything for Mark,” she said simply. “And while I was never blessed with a daughter, I’ve longed to sponsor a charming young lady and share with her the delights of a London Season. You will be doing me a kindness, my dear.”
“B—but what if I’d been altogether impossible?” Jillian lifted watery eyes. “I tried to be. The Earl is convinced of it. Perhaps I am.”
“My dear, you are exactly what I hoped for. We shall deal together famously. For now, Mrs. Potter will show you the house, and while you are upstairs, select the room you’d like for your own. Mark will return any minute, and I wish to speak with him privately.” When Jillian tensed, the Baroness hastened to reassure her. “I am the soul of discretion,” she promised, “and rather enjoy watching my nephew stumble around in the dark. You may enlighten him yourself—when and if you decide to show your true colors.”
Bewildered and with a lump in her throat, Jillian rose and curtsied gracefully. “Thank you, Aunt Margaret,” she said softly. “I shall like very much living here with you.”
“No more than I,” Margaret told her past the lump in her own throat.
The Earl took one look at Margaret’s pensive face and groaned. “How bad was she?” he asked bleakly. “Never mind. You needn’t tell me.” Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he crossed to his favorite position by the window and stared at the grey sky. “I don’t know what flight of fancy led me to believe anything could be made of her, but I yield to your greater wisdom.”
“That will be the day,” the Baroness murmured.
“What exactly were you trying to accomplish, Mark? The girl wants no part of a London debut, and if you hesitated to present her to your own aunt, how could you have thought to introduce her to the likes of Sally Jersey and Countess Lieven?”
Mark rocked back on his heels. “It was a foolish idea beginning to end. We’ll say no more about it.”
“As you wish. But what will you do with Miss Lamb now that you’ve decided I won’t sponsor her?” Oblivious to her mild sarcasm, the Earl shook his head. “I have no idea. I can’t send her back to the farm, that’s certain. And she’s too old to be put in a school.”
“Newgate?” suggested the Baroness. “Bedlam?” Mark scowled. “Don’t tempt me. The devil of it is, I really thought you’d have her.”
“Indeed.” Margaret templed her hands. “For what reason? What did you see that I missed?”
“When have you missed anything, Megs? She’s a bright girl, better educated than you’d suspect, but that comes from having a scholar for a father. A little firecracker, until something strikes her funny. The fiend has a wicked sense of humor, I’ll say that for her. You can’t imagine the things she’s done to Jaspers.”
“You refer to the now-legendary bite?”
“That was only the beginning.” Mark went back to the table and broke off a chunk of poppyseed cake. “So far I know about the fish, the clocks, and his unmentionables. God only knows what else she’s been up to.”
The fish and clocks were interesting, but . . . “His unmentionables?”
The Earl sat down and fixed his aunt with a stern gaze. “I shouldn’t tell you this, Megs. It can’t go past this room. Don’t ask me how she got at them, but the chit dumped something—raspberry juice, I think—into a vat of Jaspers’s laundry. Now his undergarments, all but those he was wearing, are stained a peculiarly violent shade of pink. This morning he raged into the library, flapping drawers in my face and demanding to know what I was going to do about them.”
When Margaret erupted into laughter the Earl grinned, chuckled, and finally gave in. Soon the two of them were bent over the tea table, helpless with mirth.
“Well, what did you tell him?” Margaret asked when she could speak.
Mark could barely answer. “I s—said pink was very becoming to his complexion. Advised him to wear it more often.”
“I only wish I’d been there to see it!” Margaret pulled out a lacy, handkerchief and wiped her streaming eyes. “But never tell me you are punishing the girl by compelling her to remain in London, which she clearly does not wish.”
The Earl sobered immediately. “Certainly not. I may referee if things get out of hand, but Jaspers is on his own in this underground war. And it will soon be over, because the chit must be removed from my house before anyone knows she was there. Already I’ve been forced to squelch a few rumors. Miss Lamb was seen on the doorstep, but so far no one knows exactly who or what was there.” He fumbled with a spoon. “Devil take it, things were nearly in order, and now this. But, not your problem, Megs. Tomorrow I’m on my way to inspect the farm and see what needs to be done. She’s been running the place without a manager, so I’ll hire one—from the neighborhood, if possible, or I’ll put Barrows onto it when I get back. Meantime she’ll stay at Berkeley, under lock and key if necessary, and while I’m gone I’ll . . . well, I’ll figure out something to do with her.”
“Ah, you have worn me down/Margaret exclaimed. “I’ll take her in.”
“No!” Practically leaping from his chair, the Earl paced the room with his hands clasped behind his back. “Jillian Lamb is my responsibility.”
“She isn’t, you know.” The Baroness folded her handkerchief into a tiny square. “She is a woman of considerable intelligence and seems to have got along very well on her own. But that’s the sorrow of it, Mark. She is on her own and perhaps could use a friend. One who does not run roughshod over her.”
“Megs, trust me, that little demon needs an iron hand. And I don’t wish to take her over. I’m . . . dammit, I’m trying to get rid of her!”
“Then send her home.”
“Impossible. If you won’t take her . . .”
“Exactly when did I say that?” Margaret
asked bemusedly.
The Earl blinked. “When . . . that is . . . the look on your face was . . . you don’t want her!
“But I do. Very much. She!s an absolute delight. A handful, of course, but honorable to the bone. It will give me great pleasure to sponsor her, Mark, and I believe she will favor me with her affection. I hope she will.”
He closed his eyes. “Got to you, did she?
“She does have a way about her,” Margaret acknowledged. “Why don’t we call her in and tell her the news? She must be ready to chew the curtains by now.”
Minutes later, Jillian stood in the doorway, an hour of nervous waiting showing on her white face and tight lips.
“You have found favor with my aunt,” the Earl said without preamble. When she scowled he turned away, moving to the window. “For as long as you behave yourself, the Baroness has condescended to sponsor you.”
Two pairs of female eyes melded in complete understanding and two pairs of lips curled. Jillian curtsied profoundly to a broad, stiff back. “My gratitude knows no bounds,” she simpered. ‘I am honored. Awed. Eternally in your debt.”
Pivoting, Mark saw long eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings and sliced a look at his aunt’s impassive face. “See what I mean, Megs? You can still change your mind. I won’t hold you to anything.”
“And how could you?” Turning her attention to Jillian, she stifled a laugh when their eyes met again. The man was impossible. “Did you find a room that suits you?”
“The blue and cream one, if it pleases you. The one filled with daisies.”
Mark’s old room. Wouldn’t you know? Margaret saw him flush as he recognized the one Jillian had chosen. “It’s perfect,” she agreed.
Biting her lip, Jillian moved into the parlor and stopped directly in front of the Baroness. For a long moment she gazed into her clear blue eyes, tears welling in her own. “Thank you, Aunt Margaret,” she said. “For everything. You are so very kind.” Leaning down, Margaret kissed her on the cheek. The Earl watched them from hooded eyes, feeling shut out. “I’ll have her sent over tomorrow,” he said, as if consigning a parcel to the Mails. “Barrows will see to it that you can draw on my account, Margaret. Don’t spend a penny of your own. Come along, Miss Lamb. The carriage is out back. Drape your cloak over your head and try to be invisible. I’ll be picked up in front.”
