The driver scratched one rank armpit, a hint of uncertainty in his expression. His burlier friend nudged him. “Aye, sir. That’s wot it cost to fix a hinge these days.”
Ian straightened. “Then whoever repairs your carriage is cheating you. Let me do you a favor. Take your coach to Wallace’s on Chandler Street, and tell him I want the entire door replaced at my expense. For two guineas, you should at least get something decent.” He drew out his calling card and presented it to the driver.
The man took it reluctantly, then blanched when he saw the name on the card. With a nervous glance at his friends, he muttered, “I only want the hinge repaired.”
“Whatever you wish. Wallace will take care of you. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough, milord.” He scowled at Felicity. “But I ain’t comin’ back for her and her lot like I said I would.”
Ian felt Felicity bridle beside him and laid a hand on her arm. “There’s no need. I’ll take the lady and her family home.”
Her muscles tensed beneath his hand and didn’t relax until the hack pulled away. Then she faced him with typical Felicity impertinence. “Well, well. It seems you understand the ‘principle of the thing’ after all—at least when it’s your money.”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “I admit it—I couldn’t countenance paying off a rascal. Especially one who enjoys fleecing young women.”
Awareness of him flickered in her gaze. It sizzled the icy winter air, making him instantly glad he’d come. “Thank you for your help,” she said softly.
Then a whirling dervish of arms and legs and eager young males stampeded up to them with all the delicacy of bull elephants. Cries of “’Ods fish!” and “Aren’t you the man from the paper?” and “Why did he call you milord?” tumbled from the triplets’ mouths as they circled him. Ian suddenly felt like the bear at a baiting, surrounded by creatures a third his size.
Creatures with worn coats and tattered hose. How strange that their sister would dress them so poorly. His gaze shot to her. Come to think of it, where was the elegant, fashionable attire she’d worn at the Worthings’? Her clothing today was serviceable, but he couldn’t miss the fraying edges of the woolen cloak and the faded color of her simple black bonnet, which had clearly spent too many days in the sun.
“Stop that, boys,” Felicity said sternly. “It’s rude for all of you to speak at once.”
He tore himself from musings about her attire. “They aren’t bothering me, Miss Taylor, but it might be better if we were properly introduced.” Ian smiled at the nearest urchin. “What is your name, young man?”
“I’m William.”
The boy had barely gotten the words out before the one next to him piped up, “This here’s my brother Ansel, and I’m George. But everybody calls me Georgie. And that’s James over there. He’s the eldest.”
“I see.” He used his observational skills to catalog identifying marks for the triplets, quickly registering Ansel’s mole, the scar on Georgie’s chin, and William’s missing tooth. “I’m pleased to meet you all. I’m—”
“—the Viscount St. Clair,” James broke in testily. When Ian cast him a quizzical look, the older boy shrugged his bony shoulders. “I asked Mrs. Box about you that day you came to our house.” He looked defiant. “The day Lissy shouted at you. I thought maybe you’d…that is—”
“I understand,” Ian interrupted. “It’s good you’re looking out for your sister.” He shot Felicity a meaningful glance. “She needs someone to do so.”
Felicity rolled her eyes. “We’ve kept his lordship long enough, boys. I’m sure he has more important matters to attend to.”
Before he could protest, Georgie cut in. “Can’t he come with us to the exhibit?”
Nervously straightening Georgie’s collar, Felicity said, “Lord St. Clair has a meeting and no time to waste with us.”
“My meeting isn’t urgent,” he said. When her gaze shot to his, he added, “And I’ve never seen a waxworks exhibit. Besides, I promised to take you home in my coach.”
“He did. I heard him.” James assessed Ian with eyes as green and sharp as his sister’s. “And it’ll save us half a shilling.”
Ian began to wonder if the Taylor finances were as secure as he’d been told.
Felicity’s anxious laughter only heightened his suspicions. “Don’t be silly, James. Who cares about half a shilling?” She faced Ian. “Truly, Lord St. Clair, there’s no need for you to bother. I’m sure a day with us would bore you terribly.”
“Not as much as a day with my man of affairs, who considers tallying figures great entertainment. Take pity on me, and don’t sentence me to a morning of arithmetic.” When she still hesitated he added, “I tell you what. Let me come along, and I’ll buy tea and mutton pies for everyone’s supper afterward.”
The shameless bribery worked perfectly, making the boys clamor for him until Felicity sighed. “Very well, but you’ll regret it. These four can be very wearying.”
“I’m sure I’ll survive.” Oh, yes. He planned to ingratiate himself so well with the Taylor boys that their sister would be forced to reconsider his proposal of marriage.
As the six of them headed for the entrance of the exhibit hall, Felicity pulled James aside and whispered in his ear. He nodded, then hurried ahead to catch his brothers and whisper in their ears.
It was all very mysterious and made him struggle to keep from laughing. So they had secrets, did they? Felicity was a fool to think a few words of admonishment could prevent him from prying a secret out of her brothers. Even the Terrors of Taylor Hall were no match for a man who’d once loosened the tongue of Napoléon’s senior advisor.
By the end of the day, he’d know everything. Then he’d use it to make her marry him. Most assuredly.
It took three hours and the realization that they neared the end of the rented hall for Felicity to finally relax. But it had gone well. The boys had let nothing else slip concerning their finances. They’d behaved themselves like gentlemen’s sons…most of the time, anyway. It had even been pleasant, despite Ian’s intrusion.
She surveyed her companions. Georgie, Ansel, and William knelt before a wax sculpture of a Scot, peering under the kilt to determine if the conventional wisdom was true. Ian and James stood in front of her, reading the placard that went with an impressive wax version of Bonaparte.
Look at those two, she thought with a smile, standing so much alike. Both Ian and James stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, and both rested their weight on one foot, keeping the other knee slightly bent. They even looked a bit alike. James’s straight brown locks resembled Ian’s thick black hair, and both of them tended to dishevel it by running their fingers through it when agitated. They could almost be father and son.
She swallowed, a sudden longing curling down into her belly. Ian and a son. Her son. The idea intrigued her, warmed her. What would Ian be like as a father? Judging from his behavior today, he’d be wonderful. He’d halted Georgie’s impetuous impulses with a word, humored William’s fancies, and squelched Ansel’s deplorable tattling.
But it was her sober brother James whom Ian had captivated despite the boy’s initial suspicions. From the moment Ian described in riveting detail the events of the French Revolution while standing before the sculpture of Robespierre, he’d held the bookish, history-minded James in the palm of his hand.
She watched as Ian read a line aloud in French, and then translated it for James. His French was expert, far better than her smattering learned from a long-forgotten French tutor. But then Ian had lived on the Continent, spying for the British or something, for many years. The thought sobered her. She didn’t know what he’d done there, because he wouldn’t talk about it. Or anything else, the secretive wretch.
Last night’s conversations burned through her brain. She’d tossed all night, wondering how much was true. Ian couldn’t have committed rape, but seduction was believable. Was he capable of such selfishness? Perhaps not now. But at nineteen? She wanted to know. She
needed to know. Maybe if she simply asked—
“How do you know French so well?” James asked Ian suddenly.
Ian gazed up at the sculpture with the wooden, aloof expression she’d grown to recognize. “I spent six years on the Continent.”
James cocked his head. “Why?”
Gazing down at the boy, Ian shrugged. “I fought in the war.”
She was still reeling from the fact that Ian had actually admitted his war activities to her brother when James retorted, “But Lissy said you lied about that.”
“James!” She caught him by the shoulder and spun him around to face her. “I did not say any such thing!”
“You wrote it in the paper!” James’s eyes widened with hurt. “I remember it.”
She sighed. “Oh, that. I didn’t realize you read my column.”
“We all do,” James said. “Well, not the triplets, but me and Mrs. Box and Joseph and Cook. We read it every morning, while you and the lads are still asleep.”
The revelation startled her. She’d never imagined her audience might include her family. She knew Mrs. Box read the thing; that was to be expected. But her brother? She didn’t know whether to be proud or mortified.
In either case, she must set him straight. “What I wrote about Ian was a mistake. I was misinformed. Ian did serve his country.”
“Ian?” James asked with all the innocence of a child.
She groaned. “Lord St. Clair. He didn’t lie. I was wrong.”
James looked confused. “But you’re never wrong. Everyone always says that. ‘Lord X has the way of it,’ they say. ‘He knows the truth.’”
She sighed. What had she started, for pity’s sake? When she’d irresponsibly written that last column, she hadn’t thought of how far-reaching the consequences could be.
“I know what everyone says,” she told her brother, “and I do try to write the truth. But I make mistakes. No one is perfect. You mustn’t always believe what you read or hear. Sometimes it’s exaggerated or even untrue.”
She should listen to her own advice and treat Lady Brumley’s claims cautiously, and Mr. Lennard’s more so. She glanced at Ian to find him regarding her with a guarded expression. Until she had all the facts, she would make no assumptions. Not this time.
She returned her attention to her brother. “Now apologize to Lord St. Clair. No matter what you thought, it was impolite to mention the gossip.”
James faced Ian, suitably chastened. “I’m sorry, my lord. I spoke out of turn.”
“It’s all right.” Ian laid his hand on James’s shoulder, but his gaze locked with hers. “I don’t mind when people ask questions, only when they jump to conclusions.”
That annoyed her. “Perhaps they jump to conclusions because you don’t answer their questions.”
“Perhaps their questions concern private matters,” he countered.
She raised an eyebrow. “James, why don’t you fetch your brothers before they topple that sculpture?” As soon as he’d scurried off, she smiled sweetly at Ian. “The trouble with you is that you consider everything a private matter. I suppose you even enjoin your housekeeper not to discuss the contents of your closets with strangers.”
“Don’t you? No, I suppose not, considering your housekeeper. Mrs. Box loves to talk about you. Shall I have a long conversation with her when I take you home? See if she’ll tell me the contents of your closets?” His low voice hummed through her. “I wonder if one of them contains that fetching scrap of lace you wore at Worthing Manor.”
Slowly his gaze drifted down her body. Her breath caught in her throat. Good Lord, not again, she thought as a tumult of feelings roared through her—feminine delight, anticipation, desire…To her shock, his eyes seemed to mirror her feelings.
He bent his head to whisper warmly, “Or better yet, you could show me later, when we’re alone.”
A delicious shiver tripped along her spine. He still wanted her. Despite all the women he’d courted this week, he still wanted her.
She stiffened. Yes, what about all those women? With an arch look, she edged away from him. “We shan’t be alone later. You forget that you have several women to court tonight.”
His smile—dark, sweet, and dangerous—sent a frisson of excitement clear to her toes. “Ah, but I’ve given up on that. I’ve discovered that all the women I’ve met and courted in the last week lack something necessary to me in a wife.”
“And what is that?”
“They aren’t you.”
Her heart leapt in her chest, like a bird trapped inside a glass box. His tender words resounded through her body and sent hot need flooding her veins.
Georgie skidded up to them, followed closely by her other brothers. “Lissy, Lissy, the Separate Room is next door! Can we go in? Please?”
Thank God for her rascal of a brother, who drew her thoughts from the darkly handsome man at her back with his tempting hints about later and alone. “Now, Georgie, I told you last night that you couldn’t. The Separate Room isn’t for boys your age.”
“But Lissy, I’m almost twelve,” James said. “That’s practically a man.”
James had a point, but there’d be hell to pay if she let him enter without the triplets. “I’m sorry, James. I think it best we end our tour here.”
“Aw, Lissy,” Georgie cried in abject disappointment. “Why can’t we go?”
Ian spoke up. “Yes, Miss Taylor, why not? I don’t mind taking the lads through if you have no desire yourself to enter.”
Frustration over his flirtations made her temper flare at his intrusion on her authority. “It’s not myself I’m concerned about,” she said firmly. “It’s the boys. Such things give them nightmares. Everyone says the Separate Room is gory.”
With mischief glinting in his eyes, Ian laid his hands on Georgie’s shoulders. “But boys have an abiding need to steep themselves in gore. I certainly did.”
“At six years old? They’re too young, I tell you.”
“Perhaps you should let them be the judge of that,” Ian said.
He thought this a grand joke! Let six-year-olds decide what they could handle, indeed! Six-year-old boys thought they could fly, for God’s sake. Only last month Georgie had planned to spring from the balcony armed with wings he’d fashioned from tin. Thank God for Ansel’s tattling.
“May I speak to you in private, Lord St. Clair?” she said coolly.
“Certainly.” He followed her to a spot a few paces away from her brothers.
She fought to keep her tone reasonable. “I know we’ve had our differences, but you mustn’t let that influence your judgment. James is old enough, but the triplets are only babies. They have wild imaginations and frighten easily.”
He looked at her askance. “The Terrors of Taylor Hall, as your housekeeper calls them? Trust me, boys are more resilient than you think. They enjoy a good scare.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Tell me, would your mother have let you see such things?”
“No, but then she wouldn’t have let me go to a waxworks exhibition at all. Father wouldn’t have approved.”
“I can see why, if you wanted to study sculptures of bloody bodies at the tender age of six.”
A muscle worked in his jaw. “Whether I’d been six or sixteen, they wouldn’t have let me go. I wasn’t allowed to attend fairs or play games or—” He broke off. “Father considered such entertainments unproductive. He was…a rigid sort.”
The admission stunned her. It was the first time he’d spoken of his past or even mentioned his parents. She rejoiced in this evidence that he could do so. She even sympathized with his feelings. But he was wrong about the boys.
“I agree that children need entertainment, but—”
“I tell you what. Go in with us, and if you consider it unsuitable, we’ll come right back out. I swear it. You, of all people, know how newspapers exaggerate to sell tickets. It probably only contains old dog bones and an ax or two.”
He had a point. She glanced from I
an to her expectant brothers. “Very well; we’ll take a quick look. But if I see so much as a smashed finger displayed in that exhibit, I’ll—”
They were already racing off to the opposite end of the hall where a doorway covered in a black curtain awaited them. Next to it a big sign read WARNING in bold letters, followed by smaller script, no doubt extolling the faint-inducing properties of the room’s contents.
Uneasiness gripped her. If Ian were wrong…
She only prayed he wasn’t.
Chapter 15
Though overindulging a child is unwise, what constitutes overindulging? One parent considers an extra apple tart a mere concession to hunger, while the other believes it leads down the road to perdition. Is it any wonder that children grow up confused?
LORD X, THE EVENING GAZETTE,
DECEMBER 22, 1820
“She’s mad at us, ain’t she?” Georgie whispered to Ian across the carriage, so loudly that even passersby outside could probably hear him, Ian thought. Certainly everyone inside did, including the motionless woman who sat beside the young scamp.
He couldn’t see her reaction in the meager glow of the scarce streetlamps. Then a trickle of light crept across her face to dapple her cheeks with silver and highlight her fixed gaze. His breath caught in his throat. He’d never seen her look so forlorn.
He shifted on the seat he shared with James and William. His normally roomy carriage was cramped and hot with six bodies squeezed into it. “She’s not mad at you.” Ian didn’t bother to lower his voice. “She’s mad at me.”
Felicity ignored him.
“Why?” Georgie asked.
“She thinks I was wrong to take all of you into the Separate Room.”
The boys began reassuring him that he wasn’t, that they’d had a fine time.
Then Felicity spoke. “I’m not angry at any of you, unless it’s for speaking of me as if I’m not here.” Her gaze scoured them all. “I’m angry at myself. I allowed you children to enter that dreadful place when I should have stood firm.”
Ian stifled an oath. Yes, stood firm against him. And if she wasn’t angry, why did the smoke of her disapproval clog the air in his carriage?
The Dangerous Lord Page 20
