She wasn’t tired, but she’d half hoped to wander the main house a while. But she suspected that Lady Worthing would prefer to show the house to her herself. Besides, this wasn’t a holiday—it was work. And the best time to hear gossip was when one’s subjects were relaxed. “I believe I will join them,” she told the butler.
“Very good, miss. The footman will show you the way.”
Despite the chilly air, the walk was pleasant, affording her a look at the grounds. Though winter had stripped leaves from the foliage and killed the grass, the number of trees and the shapes of the hills led her to think the grounds might be quite fine during summer. A copse startled her gaze in one place, a small, frozen pond glittered like a sapphire in another, and there was a long stand of overreaching oaks that Mama would have liked. Papa had always enjoyed the contrivances of mankind; Mama had preferred the contrivances of nature.
A short time later, Felicity spotted the hunting cottage the servant had described. Had Papa built this, too? Not Papa, surely. He hated anything rustic. And a wooden cottage with a thatched roof and barkless tree trunks for a doorframe would certainly have offended his sensibilities.
The footman ushered her into a scene of warmth and energy. Three men crowded about the substantial fireplace, discussing the advantages of their weapons, while Lady Worthing and another woman chatted in a corner, and the servants bustled about laying a feast of scotch broth, game pies, venison stew, and crusty bread.
As soon as Lady Worthing spotted her, she came forward with hand extended. “You’re here, after all! When you didn’t come last night, I feared the heavy snow might keep you away.”
Overwhelmed by the gracious greeting, Felicity hesitantly took her hostess’s hand. “Some business kept me in town quite late; then I was afraid to venture out at night with the snow. Most of it had melted this morning, however, so I pressed on.”
At the sound of her voice, one of the gentlemen pivoted to stare at her. The Viscount St. Clair. She froze and her pulse quickened treacherously as his gaze locked with hers. Oh, why must he be here? And why must the sight of him strike her with both fear and anticipation?
Within the cramped confines of the cottage, he appeared even larger and more menacing than she remembered. Although his unruly hair and the color in his cheeks enhanced his masculine appeal, the flintlock rifle he held with casual ease did nothing to assuage her fears. In doeskin breeches and a forest green frock coat, he was the very picture of a hunter ready to fire on any troublesome creature thwarting him. Judging from the bulging game bag at his feet, he could use his weapon with great accuracy.
Her muscles tightened in alarm, but she forced them to relax. She was being silly. Even the arrogant Lord St. Clair dare not shoot her, for pity’s sake. Still, she’d feel far more comfortable if he clutched a cane instead of a gun.
Of course, his knowledge of her identity was nearly as dangerous. Would he expose her? Or had he taken her threats to heart?
“I’m delighted you went to so much trouble to get here,” Lady Worthing said warmly, her gaze flitting from Felicity to Lord St. Clair. “Now our party is complete.”
Felicity wrenched her gaze from the formidable Lord St. Clair. Only six of them? And so conveniently—or inconveniently—paired off? Oh, this would be disaster. “But Lady Worthing—”
“You mustn’t stand on ceremony with me. You and I are nearly the same age, and if you’re as nice as your father said, I’m sure we’ll be friends. So please call me Sara.”
Stunned by this further evidence of her hostess’s graciousness, she stammered, “I-I’d be honored. And you must call me Felicity.” She paused. “Have all your guests arrived then?”
“Actually, yes. We expect a hundred at tonight’s ball, but no one else is staying at the manor. Mr. and Mrs. Kinsley were prevented from coming by a sudden emergency. And the Hastings were going to attend with Ian, but at the last minute, they couldn’t.” She cast Lord St. Clair an uncertain glance, then added, “Oh, but I’m forgetting myself. You haven’t met everyone, have you?”
At Felicity’s quick shake of the head, Sara turned to a man as tall as Lord St. Clair and introduced him as her husband Gideon. Felicity murmured a greeting as she studied him. This man had been a pirate? Why, his hair was short, and he bore himself like a gentleman. Perhaps the rumor had been overstated after all. She must find out while she was here, if only to assuage her own curiosity.
Sara introduced the older couple, who proved to be the Marquess and Marchioness of Dryden, Gideon’s parents. What an illustrious—and unusual—group she’d stumbled into, thanks to Papa’s talent. They’d make interesting companions for the next few days, but sadly wouldn’t provide her with material. Their familial association made it impossible to use what they said, for they’d guess that the only stranger in the group had been the one to pass on the rumors. Besides, she could never speak badly of people who were so open and lacking in haughty airs.
Drat it all. Not only had this been an almost pointless excursion, but it had thrown her into the company of the vexing viscount.
Then she brightened. At least the ball tonight would be rife with rumors.
“Felicity’s father designed Worthing Manor,” Sara was explaining to her mother-in-law. “I thought she might like to see how it looked now that it was finished.” The others had already begun expressing their compliments over the design when Sara added, “Oh, no, I forgot to introduce Ian.”
“No need,” Lord St. Clair remarked. “Miss Taylor and I have already met.”
Felicity shot him a wary glance. This was the moment she’d feared. He would expose her to his friends. Well, if he did, she’d make him regret it. Just let him try.
Lord St. Clair’s words seemed to intrigue Sara. “Have you indeed? I had no idea. Where did you meet, Ian?”
“Perhaps I should let the lady tell you.” He taunted Felicity with a smile of such challenge it made her grit her teeth.
What did he expect? That she would expose herself? Or lie, so he could accuse her once more of “inventing” things? Well, she wouldn’t do either. “Actually, we met at Taylor Hall.” When the others looked shocked, she added, “Lord St. Clair came to pay his respects after Papa died.” It was true. He had paid his respects…in a fashion. Still, calling on an unmarried woman to whom one hadn’t been introduced was scandalous under any circumstances.
Well, she thought, she’d certainly laid down the gauntlet. If he wanted to expose her, now was his chance. They might as well get it over with.
His smile vanished. “Miss Taylor, you’ll tarnish my reputation as a gentleman. You fail to mention my companions, the ones who introduced us at your home.”
Her heart skipped a beat. Apparently he wouldn’t risk an open discussion of her column before his friends. That knowledge emboldened her. “Oh, yes, your companions. You and I were engaged in such lively conversation that day that I’d quite forgotten about them. Remind me again of who they were?”
He raised one eyebrow and opened his mouth to retort. She even found herself eagerly anticipating his reply.
Then Gideon broke in. “I hate to interrupt, but may we continue this discussion over luncheon? Hunting in this foul weather rouses a man’s appetite something fierce.”
Sara laughed. “Yes, of course, my dear.”
Pleased to have had the last word in the skirmish, Felicity took the nearest seat and flashed Lord St. Clair an impudent smile. Although Gideon and his father flanked her, Lord St. Clair seated himself directly across the table from her, and his determined expression showed he had no intentions of retreating from the battle yet.
Good. She was ready for him today.
As soon as everyone was settled and the servants began serving them, Sara leaned forward a little to look over at Felicity. “You must excuse my husband’s rudeness, Felicity. We spend a great part of the year on a remote island where blunt speech is more common than here in England.”
“I don’t mind blunt speech,” Feli
city replied, casting Lord St. Clair a pointed look. “It’s preferable to deceptive speech.”
He lifted his wineglass, a half smile playing over his lips. “Ah, then I suppose you never participate in that female diversion called ‘gossip.’”
Before Felicity could reply, Sara answered him. “Like all men, you find any female talk suspect, and I’ll admit it can sometimes be vicious. But even gossip has its uses. The Ladies Committee relies on rumor or the threat of it to convince recalcitrant members of Parliament that they should aid our cause.” She served herself some venison stew from the plate proffered by the servant at her elbow. “And it has social uses as well, by urging unsavory men and women to avoid public censure by being more discreet in their vices. That prevents them from unduly influencing our young, don’t you think?”
Felicity had never heard a more eloquent defense of her profession. She instantly added “reason” and “intelligence” to her growing list of the countess’s appealing traits.
Lord St. Clair shifted his disturbing black gaze from Sara to Felicity. “And if the gossip is untrue?”
Felicity smiled smugly. “Gossip is more often true than not. Haven’t you ever heard the saying, ‘Where there’s smoke, there’s fire’?” God knows, Lord St. Clair had been smoking like a chimney.
“Yes, but who set the fire?” He drank deeply of the burgundy in his glass. “If you set a fire in my house, then report on its smoke, that only proves you can set a fire that will smoke. It proves nothing whatsoever about my tendencies to arson.”
“I did not set—” She broke off when she caught the others staring at her. “We women don’t set the fires, Lord St. Clair. Men build so many fires on their own that it’s all we can do to keep the smoke from choking us.”
“We’re still discussing gossip, aren’t we?” Gideon put in dryly as he cut a bite of squab pie. “You’ve lost me with all this talk of fires.”
Sara shot her husband an exasperated look. “Only because you men think so literally. Everything is in black and white. Gossip is bad, truth is good. But sometimes gossip is good and truth is a very nasty antidote to one’s vanity.” When Ian started to retort, she added, “Besides, Ian is only complaining about gossip because he was the subject of it in this week’s Gazette.”
“Really?” An urge for mischief seized Felicity. “I don’t recall reading anything about his lordship in the paper. Do tell what was said.”
“It’s about his latest mistress.” Sara’s eyes twinkled. “How many is it, Ian, since you returned from the Continent? Fifteen? Twenty? And that’s after Josephine and all those Spanish women. If the gossip is to be believed, you spend all your time in bed.”
“That’s enough of the boring and patently false rumors,” Lord St. Clair clipped out. “Besides, we were discussing Mr. Taylor’s work on Worthing Manor. Tell me, Sara, was that round staircase by the back parlor his idea or yours?”
With those few words he changed the subject so easily—and effectively—that he roused Felicity’s grudging admiration. Trust Lord St. Clair to hit upon the one subject guaranteed to distract her.
Loath to let him win, she nonetheless couldn’t resist listening when Sara began her saga of the building of the house. Soon Felicity was asking questions, scrabbling for some piece of information about those last few weeks of her father’s life. Once or twice she caught Lord St. Clair watching her so closely she wondered if she’d dropped mustard on her chin or something. But she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her react. She ignored him instead.
As soon as everyone had finished their apple charlotte, the gentlemen returned to their sport. She relaxed the moment the irritating viscount disappeared out the door with his companions. Now if only she could avoid him entirely for the next few days…
Lady Dryden decided to walk back to the house for a nap, but Sara invited Felicity to stay in the cottage and join her for some tea. Within moments of the men’s defection, the servants had whisked all the dishes into a waiting cart and tidied up. So it was with some anticipation that Felicity found herself alone with her hostess.
Sara handed her a cup of tea, then gestured to an ancient but comfortable sofa near the fireplace. As they seated themselves, Sara smiled at her. “I was astonished to discover you’d already met Ian. But I suppose I shouldn’t have been. With his recent search for a wife, I’m sure he attends many of the same social gatherings as you.” Sara leaned forward and added, “The two of you seem quite comfortable together. I hadn’t realized you knew each other so well.”
Felicity started to protest the conclusion the countess had clearly drawn, then caught herself. This might be her chance to learn more about the progress of his courtship of Katherine since Lord X’s article had appeared in the Gazette. Katherine and her parents hadn’t been “at home” to anyone recently, even her.
She dropped her gaze in seeming embarrassment. “It was my understanding that Lord St. Clair had already found a wife. Isn’t he seriously courting Miss Hastings?”
Sara hesitated, as if debating what to say. Then she set down her teacup. “Yes, he was. But I have it on good authority that he isn’t any longer.”
Elation swept through Felicity. Her article had worked! Katherine was free of him! “Has Miss Hastings broken with him, then? I can’t blame her, you know—there seemed to be no deep affection between them.”
“I think you’re right. His reasons for seeking a wife—the usual ones of needing an heir and perhaps some companionship—didn’t require deep affection. I suppose he thought Miss Hastings would fill the position well enough.”
“Not well enough if he’s keeping a mistress,” Felicity mumbled without thinking.
Sara shot her an interested look. “Ah, so you did read that article in the Gazette. You pretended otherwise at lunch.”
This time Felicity’s embarrassment was genuine. At a loss for words to explain why she’d taunted Lord St. Clair, she hesitated.
Thankfully, Sara didn’t wait for an explanation. “I understand your feelings. It did seem rather blatant of him to flaunt a mistress while he courted someone. But Ian explained the situation to all of us today.” She smiled sheepishly. “We wouldn’t stop teasing him about his newfound fame, so he finally told us the entire story. I suppose I shouldn’t discuss it, but I hate to see Ian unfairly accused.”
Felicity’s ears pricked up. “Unfairly?”
“Yes. You see, the situation isn’t at all as that newspaper person said. Ian was simply helping a friend of the family.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “I believe he said the woman was the wife of a compatriot during the war. Or was it the man’s sister?” She shook her head. “In any case, after Ian’s friend died, the poor woman fell on hard times, and Ian stepped in to help. Ian’s like that. A very generous man.”
Felicity had to stifle a snort. Lord St. Clair’s friends were as gullible as they were loyal if they believed the story he’d tried to pass off on her. “I would never have guessed that Lord St. Clair had served during the war. He doesn’t seem the type.”
“It did take us by surprise.” Sara hastened to add, “Not that he would fight, he’s not a coward or anything. We were merely surprised he never told us about it.”
“I dare say he’s modest about his accomplishments,” Felicity remarked dryly. It was easy to be modest about nonexistent accomplishments.
“Ian is indeed modest. And it upset me to hear how he’d been misrepresented in the paper.” She sighed. “I don’t think it did him any harm, however. If anything, it might have saved him from making a terrible mistake. Apparently, his prospective fiancée had her own side interests.”
“What do you mean?”
“You haven’t heard? Everyone in London was talking of it this morning—or so said Emily, my sister-in-law. Emily and my brother Jordan live close by here, you see. They came in from town this morning and stopped by on their way home. Emily and I talked privately, and she told me the most astonishing news.” Sara leaned forward
with a conspiratorial air. “According to her…”
Chapter 6
Beware, my friends, the traps of romantic entanglement: vanity, unchecked urges, the arrogance of believing that the subject of your affections must needs return them. Nothing is so tragic as a woman—or a man—who mistakes a friendly smile for courtship.
LORD X, THE EVENING GAZETTE,
DECEMBER 9, 1820
Ian scanned the Worthings’ crowded ballroom with an expert eye. How he tired of this bloody pointless endeavor. Only one thing kept him playing the wife-hunting game—the knowledge that if he didn’t, he’d be handing his father’s legacy to a man with the character of a snake.
He spotted an insipid woman bedecked in virginal white lace and couldn’t repress a shudder. To think he’d come to this—surveying eligible women at a Christmas ball. He should never have delayed the search so long. After Father’s death, when he’d first heard the terms of the will, he’d wasted precious months searching for a legal means to overturn it. The laws of entail should have protected him. But his grandfather’s untimely death when his father was a child had prevented the man from carrying on the entail to Ian, leaving his father in a position to do as he liked. And in his usual manipulative fashion, Father had done exactly that, leaving a most abominable will. Ian’s realization that he couldn’t break it had fallen heavily upon him.
Reluctantly, angrily, he’d sought a wife who could give him the heir he needed to fulfill the will’s terms. To his surprise, he’d found he was a very ineligible bachelor, thank to all the absurd rumors. Too many people had speculated viciously about his abrupt departure from England. Too many others had whispered that he’d spied for the French.
Refuting so many long-standing rumors was impossible, especially when he had no wish to talk about what he’d actually done all those years. Besides, discussion of his activities on the Continent might provoke discussion of why he’d fled England, and that was unacceptable.
Thankfully, his unfailing attempts to behave like the perfect gentleman in the past year had softened public opinion toward him, though many people still distrusted him with their daughters. Many agreed with Miss Taylor’s belief that all smoke signaled fire. Some probably saw past his façade into the howling blackness beneath.
The Dangerous Lord Page 7
