How could he not, when Mrs. Goudge was so eloquently persuasive? He glanced at Ellianne, whose turn it was to smile. He stepped back, out of danger, bowed, and said, “It will not happen again.”
“Damn well it won’t. We don’t need your kind around here. Tell him, Ellianne.”
“I already did, Aunt Lally. I already did.”
Stony bowed again and left, following behind the butler, who was shaking his head in sorrow. Stony felt he had to say something. The old man was more part of the family than a mere servant. “I am sorry if I have disappointed you too, Timms. I meant no disrespect to Miss Kane.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about my lady. She can take care of herself. It’s Mrs. Goudge what has me disheartened. Tell me, my lord, do you think I am too old for sex?”
*
They didn’t need him, like hell! Miss Ellianne Kane needed a man’s protection more than any woman he knew. An infant would be safer on the streets of London than the heiress would be in the parlors of polite society. Why, the girls at his home had more sense than that ninnyhammer. At least they recognized the dangers.
With flaming hair, a fortune in the bank, and a standoffish manner, Miss Kane was nothing but a dashed challenge to a man with shifting principles. Hell, his own scruples were solid as rock, and he couldn’t keep his hands off her.
She didn’t need him? Didn’t need a man’s escort or affection, didn’t need a husband or a lover or a friend? What, did she think her diamonds and her dividends would keep her warm? Dratted, dunderheaded woman!
Stony had half a mind to let her see what would happen without a trustworthy gentleman’s presence at her side.
Unfortunately, the other half of his mind had a different problem. He didn’t know if he could be all that trustworthy anymore. Having tasted her lips once, he worried that he could not live without tasting them again. Need? He needed a cold bath.
*
Aunt Lally was right. They did not need him. Ellianne did not need him. The entire world did not need an insolent, overbearing, immoral churl. Well, Gwen needed him, to be fair, and the young girls he rescued needed him.
Ellianne most assuredly did not. Bow Street could expand its search for Isabelle. For herself, she had her thoroughly satisfactory life waiting for her at Fairview, where she was the one who was needed. No one likened her to a performing pig there, or a statue, or an army officer. No one made her melt there, either, and that was as it should be.
Unfortunately, if she went home he would think she was running away, that she could not stay in town without his support. Worse, he’d think that his kiss had her in such a quake that she had to flee to save her virtue. He was wrong, of course. She was never in danger of succumbing to his charm and his practiced skills. No, never.
Ellianne decided to stay in London, just to prove him wrong. She’d stay as long as it suited her, becoming the darling of society Gwen thought she could be. She would have a different gentleman for escort every night, and, yes, she might even sample a few more kisses, just to prove that Wellstone’s were nothing out of the ordinary. She would enjoy herself, by heaven, even if it killed her.
No, she did not need Viscount Wellstone.
She needed a dry handkerchief.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A well-to-do woman of pleasing mien and passable birth could find at least a tepid acceptance among the ton. An astronomically wealthy female of astounding looks and good enough connections on the maternal side, to say nothing of the approval of the Duchess of Williston, was warmly welcomed. Ellianne did not require any pockets-to-let peer securing her invitations or introductions. She had only to choose the best among the various entertainments.
First was the opera, in Her Grace’s box. Ellianne wore her pearls this time, a magnificent strand ending with a priceless, perfect pearl of enormous size. Another string was wound through her intricately braided hair, causing one top-gallant chap in the pit to shout out that she was a mermaid.
“That ain’t no Neptune’s daughter,” his chum said, standing on his chair, inspecting Ellianne through his opera glasses. “That’s a nabob’s daughter. Miss Coin.”
“Ignore them, my dear,” Her Grace advised, patting Ellianne’s trembling hand. “You wished to be noticed, did you not?”
After that evening no one in London could be unaware of Ellianne’s presence in town. If they had not attended the opera, they had only to read the on dits columns with their morning chocolate. The newspapers estimated the price of her pearls, her gown, and her dowry.
“And it is good for you to be seen without Viscount Wellstone at your side. You would not wish to be considered one of his charity cases. Or have him deemed your divertissement,” she added politely.
The papers were also filled with speculation about Ellianne’s marital prospects, noting that her usual escort was absent at the opera. They also dredged up the story of Aunt Augusta’s death, nearly two months ago now, mentioning that the lady’s younger niece had been the last to see her alive. And where was Miss Isabelle Kane?
Ellianne was desperate to know that, too, since the Runners were reporting back that Isabelle had not gone north with Aunt Augusta’s remains, or anywhere else they could discover. No one else came forward with any information or inquiry, despite Ellianne’s notoriety.
Since her goal of being seen had been so successful, and so unpleasant, having all those eyes on her, all those tongues wagging, Ellianne declared a holiday. She and Aunt Lally and Timms went out to Sadler’s Wells to see the clowns. Ellianne invited Mr. Lattimer to accompany them as a reward for the Bow Street man’s efforts, despite their lack of progress. Despite a certain gentleman’s opinion, Ellianne did know how to have a good time for herself. She did not spend all of her hours with bank ledgers and account books, merely what was necessary.
Timms enjoyed the pantomime. Aunt Lally, whose fickle vow of silence was becoming as faded as her husband’s memory, cheered at the farce. Ellianne was happy to have the performers on display, not herself. Here only Mr. Lattimer watched her instead of the stage.
Ellianne thought of starting her experiments in kissing with the Runner, but decided that would be beneath contempt. She feared the young man was already unduly encouraged by her invitation to the comedy. Heavens knew what the mooncalf might dream of after a kiss. No wishes she was prepared to grant, that was certain.
He was a pleasant enough young man, although no laughing, lively, well-read companion, and he was attractive enough, if one ignored his somewhat elephantine ears. Ellianne had never held a man’s work against him, not even her departed uncle Goudge’s, although she did have reservations about smuggling. Ladies of the ton would deem a Runner, any Bow Street officer, beneath their consideration as an eligible bachelor, but Ellianne was not looking for a husband, only a gentleman to weigh Wellstone’s kisses against. There was nothing wrong with Mr. Lattimer, nothing except the fact that she simply did not find him, or the idea of any intimacy with him, appealing.
Ellianne had not changed her mind about marriage, although she did have a new understanding that parts of the bargain might not be entirely distasteful. Which was to say—which she would never say, of course—that Lord Wellstone’s embrace had left her wanting more. But not with Mr. Lattimer.
Or with Sir John Thomasford. The man’s devotion to his chosen career was admirable, but a trifle macabre for Ellianne’s comfort. She did not find him as ghoulish as Wellstone did, but his fascination with solving crimes through science did seem a bit fanatic. And his appearance seemed to be deteriorating with each successive murder he could not unravel.
Yet another young woman had been discovered slain, naked and hairless. This one had hazel eyes and was short and plump. Someone recognized her from Ellianne’s poster as a chorus girl at the opera house, so her body was claimed for burial by her friends and coworkers. At least this woman would not go un-mourned, and someone beside Ellianne would see that flowers were placed on her grave. Ellianne could not help thinking that
she might have been at the young woman’s final performance, sitting in the duchess’s box looking to see if Stony was in attendance instead of watching the performers.
She also could not help thinking that the unsolved deaths were weighing heavily on Sir John, too. He was obviously losing weight, his formerly well-tailored clothes hanging loosely on his frame. His eyes seemed more sunken in his head, as if he never slept, yet they maintained the glitter that Wellstone had called a feral gleam. His hair was still carefully swept back from his face, but now the strands were separated, lank, and dull, as if he had not washed off yesterday’s pomade.
Ellianne felt sorry for the poor man, working so hard his health was suffering, so she accepted his invitation to a lecture at the Medical Society. Aunt Lally snored beside her, but Sir John seemed to find the subject of bloodletting engrossing. Ellianne found it off-putting enough that her appetite was gone by the time they went to dinner at the Clarendon after the lecture. She had no desire to taste the prawns in butter Aunt Lally was devouring, and no desire to taste Sir John’s kisses.
She thought of experimenting to see if Lord Strickland’s kiss was as repulsive as she remembered. Perhaps her new awareness and appreciation of a man’s physicality could alter her view. Ellianne knew she could have the baron on one knee in an instant; all she had to do was dangle Fairview in front of him. But she did not want Lord Strickland. She only wanted to see if another man’s touch could make her blood sing and her bones melt. If just any man would do, then Lord Wellstone was nothing out of the ordinary, and she could put him from her mind once and for all.
Besides, Gwen seemed taken with the thick-bellied baron. She was taken with the notion of reforming him, at any rate. If Strickland was busy, Lady Wellstone reasoned, he would have no time to visit the brothels and bordellos. If he was exhausted from dancing and driving and doing the pretty at four different entertainments a night, he might not need any additional female companionship. He might turn out to be a decent enough gentleman of middle age, Ellianne was forced to concede, now that his linen was clean and his nose hair was trimmed, if his heart did not give out before then.
He was more comfortable in her company now too, especially when card playing was part of the evening’s activities. She agreed to accompany him and Gwen to Lady MacAfee’s small gathering rather than attend one of the larger balls. Ellianne was not particularly fond of cards, but neither was she brazen enough to walk into an assembly without some chaperon or escort. Besides, there was little chance of encountering Wellstone at such a tame affair.
As Ellianne discovered, she was still unused to the vocabulary of London society. By a small gathering, they meant a mere hundred guests or so, not the three hundred or more that ambitious hostesses crammed into their ballrooms. She was happy enough to take a seat in the card room, rather than suffer through more introductions and importunings.
Gwen waved her off gaily, happy among her court of old bachelors and widowers, where she could dance and gossip and sip champagne. As long as Miss Kane was in the card room with Strickland, Gwen decided, she could relax the vigilance her dear, mutton-headed stepson had decreed.
With her hand on Strickland’s arm, Ellianne proceeded across the ballroom. She knew everyone was watching her, and she knew she looked worthy of their regard. Her gown was the most expensive she had ever owned, of dark gray shot silk with jet beads worked into filigree patterns across the bosom and the hem. It was worth the price of having each bead painstakingly sewn in place, for she felt like a queen in it. With it she wore her ruby pendant, and a black feather in her coiled hair that curled down against her cheek. She must be getting used to being the focus of so much attention, for she did not even blush. See, she told herself, she did not need the confidence of Stony’s support. She could do fine on her own.
She smiled at Strickland, and he almost tripped. “I say, I don’t have gravy down my chin, do I?”
“No, nothing like that. I was just wondering….” So was the baron. He was wondering if she’d know how much of the winnings he kept instead of donating it to plaguey charities.
Ellianne looked around and spotted the door to the supper room, which was empty at this time. She pulled Lord Strickland inside.
“Eh? What’s this? If you are hungry, girl, you’ll have to wait. Though you don’t look like you eat more’n a hummingbird. All skin and bones, eh?”
So much for thinking she looked pretty in the new gown. Ellianne was determined, though. “No, my lord. I am not hungry. I am curious. I wish to know if you still want to kiss me.”
Strickland took three steps back, eyeing the distance to the door. “Can’t say as I do. Unless you’re fixing to hand over Fairview. Then I’d kiss your arse if you wanted. That is, begging your pardon, I’d be grateful.”
“But you no longer want to marry me?”
“Devil take it, I never wanted to marry you! I want the estate your blasted bank won from me.”
Ellianne tapped her foot. This was not going at all as she expected. “Once and for all, the bank did not win it; you forfeited your lands by not paying your loans.”
“Then what is this argle-bargle about? Kisses and marrying, eh?” He wiped at his forehead with a handkerchief. “Don’t tell me you are looking to get hitched and you’ve chosen me?”
“Good grief, no.”
“Well, you don’t have to sound so shocked. It was you who brought up the subject, wasn’t it? Kisses, my big toe. No proper young miss talks about such things. Indecent, it is.”
Gwen ought to be proud of her handiwork. She’d taken a perfectly loathsome philander and turned him into a prig. “You are quite right,” Ellianne said. “Shall we proceed to the card room?”
*
Stony was watching.
He’d been at the opera, watching Her Grace’s box in case any bounder tried to lure Ellianne off for lemonade or licentiousness. He’d followed her party to Sadler’s Wells at a distance, not trusting the Bow Street man to keep her safe. He’d trailed the carriage through the park when she and Gwen took a drive, and he’d window-shopped on Bond Street when they went for fittings.
He had not gone to the medical lecture on bloodletting. There were limits to even his loyalty. Furthermore, Sir John was morbid, not immoral. And Mrs. Goudge carried her sewing bag with her.
But tonight he couldn’t take his eyes off Ellianne. The beads on her gown caught the candlelight and shimmered like fireworks. The black feather against her face emphasized her fine cheekbones and porcelain complexion. The ruby at her décolletage emphasized her high, milky breasts. She was magnificent.
She was a fool. Everything about her emphasized her damned wealth. And what was she doing, going off with Strickland like that? No matter what Gwen said, the man wanted her property. He’d already proved he’d do almost anything to get it.
Stony followed them to the door of the supper room, then laughed at himself. Strickland was most likely looking for Dutch courage just to sit at the card table with Ellianne. He was in a sweat when they came out minutes later, and walked as far from her as possible on their way to the game room. Stony watched them take their seats, then stepped out to the balcony to blow a cloud. He was satisfied. Miss Kane was safe for now.
When he returned, glancing in from the door, they were still at it. Ellianne was looking bored, watching the other players while her opponents deliberated. Strickland was grinning, and no wonder, at the stack of coins piling up in front of him. Stony supposed the baron was resigned to giving his portion to charity, but played now for the sport of winning. With all the blunt he was saving by not visiting the houses of accommodation, he could afford to be generous.
He left them in mid-deal to check on Gwen in the ballroom. She was standing with their hostess and a number of other ladies, likely planning some poor bachelor’s fate. He headed in the other direction.
Charlie’s betrothed was sitting by herself next to a drooping aspidistra. Lady Valentina looked just as unhappy as the potted plant.
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Stony sat beside her. “What, never tell me Lord Charles has deserted you already, and the engagement ring still new on your finger?”
Lady Val looked up at him and smiled in relief that she would not be forced to sit out the entire dance set by herself, like some unfortunate wallflower. Instead she would have the best looking man in the room at her side. “Hallo, Wellstone. Your friend is upstairs making repairs. The clumsy oaf tripped again during the quadrille. At least he tore his own sleeve this time and not my gown. He made us both look embarrassingly awkward.”
Stony laughed at her petulance. “It could have been worse. He could have ripped his trousers. Yellow pantaloons, weren’t they?”
Lady Val smoothed out a matching yellow ribbon trailing from her high waist. Wellstone was in dark blue and buff, and as handsome as a storybook hero. “You really do have a nice smile, you know. And you are a much better dancer than poor Charlie.”
“While you are engaged to him, minx, and happily so.”
“I am,” she confessed with a sigh, “but I do love to waltz.”
How could he not respond to that plea in her voice, that dramatic exhale, that manipulation? So they waltzed, and he wondered if Miss Kane was a graceful dancer. At least he would not be looking down at the top of her head, or be trying to push a sack of lard into a turn.
They waltzed around the ballroom, avoiding other couples on the crowded floor. One of those couples was Godfrey Blanchard and Mrs. Collins, the widowed connection of Gwen’s. Now there was a marriage of true minds, Stony thought, but a match that would never come about. The union might be consummated, all right, but no wedding lines would be spoken. Blanchard’s gaming debts were too high to wed a dowerless woman, and Mrs. Collins was too ambitious to settle on a gamester at the fringes of society.
Stony was glad neither was his problem.
A Perfect Gentleman Page 22
