Barbara Metzger (19 page)

* * * *

Mindle said Miss Croft was in the stable. Zeus, Ty hoped she was nowhere near the unpredictable Diablo, whose mischief and meanness were all too foreseeable. He strode in that direction, also hoping that he could think of the right words to say before he got there. He was in mourning; she was in mourning. He was a wooden block around women; she thought all men were maggots. Those right words would be hard for Shakespeare to find. Still, Ty damned his clumsy tongue for going numb and his feeble wits for going begging, just when he needed them.

There she was, in the shadows of the stable outside Diablo’s stall, wearing a dark green riding habit. This was the first time Ty had seen her out of mourning, and she looked magnificent to him. Her red hair was in a long braid down one shoulder, and she wore no hat and one glove. If he had found the words to tell her that he was going to come back, that she must not marry Dallsworth in the meantime or run off with Melinda to the Antipodes, the phrases melted away in the warmth of the welcoming, wondering smile she bestowed on him.

“I ... I ...” he started, taking up her bare hand. “I ... Oh, hell.” He pulled her hand, and her whole person, toward him and lowered his head until their lips touched. She did not back away or struggle, so he kissed her until neither of them had breath left, until they would both have fallen except for the stall door behind her, until she understood what he could never say.

“I
shall
return.”

* * * *

He was too late. For all of Ty’s rushing, his bobbing block of a baby brother had gone and betrothed himself to a Bird of Paradise. The engagement of the Honorable Agamemnon St. Ives to Miss Thea Dunsley was announced in the same newspapers as Belinda, Lady Tyverne’s, obituary.

“Dash it, Nonny,” Ty said as soon as he’d seen the notice, which was within minutes of entering St. Ives House in Mayfair, thanks to an officious, starched-up butler who had been presiding over the house for decades, “you swore you would do nothing foolish until I got back.”

“And so I have not.” Nonny had one of those quizzing glasses the Town bucks favored and was scrutinizing Ty’s bewhiskered coat.

It was bad enough that Nonny had gone back on his word, and worse, that he’d embroiled them all in yet another scandal. Worst of all, he was condemning himself to a lifetime of misery with a demi-mondaine for a wife. Furious, Ty pounded the newspaper on the desk between them. “If this misalliance is not foolish, I do not know what is! You promised to wait.”

Nonny let the glass dangle on its ribbon. “I promised you I would not run off to Gretna Green with Thea before you returned. I did not.”

“Splitting hairs, brother. You knew I meant to convince you of the unsuitability of this match. You simply cannot marry a woman so far beneath you!”

Nonny tapped the newspaper. “You dare to lecture me? It seems an instance of the pot calling the kettle black,
brother.”

“The situations are not at all the same.”

“No, you are the heir while I am a mere third son. I can take Thea to live near Totty in the Americas, where no one has to know her past. You, on the other hand, cannot flee. You will be earl one day, fully in the sight of Society. Yet you, noble Ty, you have wed a rustic young female whose family no one has ever heard of, a female, moreover, who gave birth to another man’s brat, upon which you bestowed our illustrious family name. Even if you are going to claim that Miss—what was her name?—was traveling with the army and carried your babe, do not speak of unsuitable females, Ty. A Hottentot could not be a less fitting viscountess. And do not speak of scandals. My engagement might cause a flurry, but your marriage is a veritable blizzard of
on-dits.
Mine might be the nails in the coffin, but your little escapade will surely send our father to an early grave. The earl will be so mad his blood will boil right in his veins. The only things that might save him from apoplexy is that the child is a girl, and your bride did not survive the honeymoon.”

Ty straightened the newspaper in front of him. Poor Belinda had not even survived the wedding night. “My marriage was different. It was an affair of honor.”

Nonny straightened his spine. “So is my engagement. Thea’s name was being bandied about until I felt I must give her the protection of mine. The real difference is that I love her. You never even knew Miss whomever, did you?”

“It is Miss Gannon, and whether I knew her for a sennight or a century is irrelevant, dash it. We are not speaking of my marriage; we are speaking of yours, by Zeus. You are too young to be wed. You have no career, and no income other than what the earl or I provides. How are you going to keep your lady bird in fancy feathers?”

“Do not speak of Thea in that tone!”

Heedless, Ty went on: “When you are ready to take a wife, you will find one with a dowry, lands, a well-respected name.”

“Like the duke’s daughter Father wanted you to wed?” Nonny asked with a sneer. “Or the cabinet minister’s girl? You did not jump at either chance. What did Miss Gannon bring to your match, then, my lord Tyverne, besides a bastard?”

“Dash it, do not speak of Belinda in that tone,” Ty echoed, “or of my daughter. What Belinda brought me cannot be measured in pounds and pence, and I have need of neither.” He did not want to mention the dog, or Dover, or the treasure that was Miss Croft’s kiss. “Once and for all, we are not speaking of my marriage but yours. A gentleman simply does not marry his mistress!”

Nonny pounded on the desk. “You do not know what you are talking about. Just like Father, you’ve made your mind up without letting me explain.”

Ty pounded the desk, too, enraged to be compared to the earl. “What is there to explain, dash it? You met the woman in Sukey Johnson’s brothel, correct?”

“Yes, but—”

“And you paid Sukey for her services, did you not?”

“That’s not—”

“And then you set the woman up in a love nest in Kensington, is that right?”

“But—”

“But nothing! The woman is your mistress, dash it, and that makes her ineligible to be your bride.”

“Not if I love her, it does not.”

“Deuce take it, you can love a woman without marrying her. Men do it all the time. In fact, I’d wager more men love their mistresses than love their wives.”

“I could not dishonor the woman I love that way. I thought you would understand about honor, but I was wrong. It is love you do not understand. You are our father’s son after all, no matter how much you kick over the traces.”

“Blast it, do not speak to me of the earl. He wants power and prestige. I only want you to be happy. All this talk of love and honor is for mooncalves. You are still bedding the girl, aren’t you?”

So now Ty had a black eye to match his black armband.

Chapter 22

His sister did not hit him. Ann was a lady, the Duchess of Illington. She poured scalding hot tea in his lap, instead.

“How could you, you dolt? I expected better of you, the heir to the earldom, a war hero, a leader of men. Hah!”

So Ann had read the announcement, too. Ty mopped at his pantaloons, wishing Mindle or Winsted were in Town to see about his wardrobe, instead of that old stick at St. Ives House. He did the best he could, then said, “I am trying to dissuade Nonny against this disastrous alliance.”

“What, with your fists?” Ann shook her head. “If that is not just like a man. I am not, however, speaking of Nonny’s calf love.”

She had read both announcements. He sighed. “My marriage was a matter of honor. A debt of obligation.”

“I never assumed anything else, you gudgeon. What, Tyverne the True acting the cad? I will believe that when the cows come home. Whatever reasons you had for marrying this unfortunate Miss Gannon must have been good ones. There are no explanations on earth good enough, though, for not inviting your one and only sister to the wedding!”

“There was no ti—” he began.

“That I should have to read it in the newspapers? Be quizzed by every gossip in Town without knowing what you wished me to say?”

“I did write to you.”

She waved his own letter under his nose. “After the fact, and only because you wanted something. And that is another thing, you great ox. How could you think I would refuse to have my niece here? That you would so much as doubt your daughter’s welcome in my home is an insult, sirrah, and I am glad Nonny darkened your daylights for you!”

“Boxing cant, Your Grace? Perhaps I ought to reconsider bringing Melinda here after all.” He knew enough to duck the pillow she tossed his way.

“And worst of all”—Ann had the St. Ives nose, too—“how could you possibly leave a child, a tiny, fragile infant at that, with a ... a pig farmer? If you had not returned today, I was going to fetch her myself, with a nurse and a maid and a respectable wet nurse.”

“I take it, then, that the infant and her attendants will be greeted favorably.” He studied the wet spot on his pants. “Does that, um, include Miss Croft?”

“The young woman in the letter?” Ann knew precisely whom he meant, having read the missive ten times, but she could not resist making her stiff-rumped eldest brother squirm. She was intrigued to see a flush creep up his cheeks. Definitely the young woman in the letter. “I see no reason for you to think I suddenly need a companion,” she began, just to tease him further. “It is not as if I am in my dotage, you know. I am still years younger than you. Just how old is this Miss Croft?”

Now the viscount examined his boots for scratches. “Um, the perfect age,” he mumbled into his collar.

So there was hope for Tyverne yet, his sister was delighted to see. “Well, I suppose we might see if we suit.”

“You will. You have to. She is ...”

“Perfect?”

Now he grinned, relieved to have Ann’s approval. “Almost. She has this little space between her teeth—”

“Save me the rhapsodizing, brother. I got enough of it from Nonny about his Miss Dunsley.” She poured him out another cup of tea, with nary a drop going amiss this time. “Just tell me when to expect them.”

“As soon as I resolve a few matters here in Town. But don’t you need to confer with the duke before bringing an entire entourage into his home?”

“Illington will not care. I doubt if he would even notice, he is here so seldom,” Ann said in bitter tones.

“I, ah, I am sorry.”

“Do not be. We both prefer it this way. He is off at some house party or other with his cronies and their inamoratas, even though the physicians warned Illington that such drinking and whoring will kill him. I am content to stay in London with the theater and the libraries, the balls and my charity work.”

That sounded dismal to Ty, very similar to his parents’ marriage, except Lady Stivern had managed to present the earl with tokens of whatever affection they shared on at least four occasions. “What about children?” the viscount asked. “I know you always wanted a houseful.”

The duchess busied herself, straightening the sugar cubes in their dish. “His Grace’s first wife never conceived after their daughter, nor any of his mistresses, it seems. He gave up after two years or so of our marriage, to my relief. So you can see why I am so eager to have your daughter come to stay.” She swiftly changed the subject: “So what are you going to do about Nonny?”

Ty relaxed against the cushions. “Lud, there is not much I can do, short of tying the nodcock up for a year or two. I thought I might try buying the woman off. I’ll need to see my man of affairs first, to find out what a third son is worth to a fortune hunter.”

“But what if she is not an adventuress? And how sad for Nonny if she is, and he truly loves her.”

Ty sat up again, not comfortable with talk of true love. “How am I to know?” he asked, not sure which question he was asking.

Ann was no help to him either way. “How am I supposed to know? I was married to Illington straight out of the schoolroom, nearly.”

“Yes, but since? I know you have a court of admirers.” Ann was a deuced handsome woman, Ty recognized, even if she was his sister. She was tall like the St. Ives men, but instead of their breadth and bulk she had a full, lush figure, thank goodness, and dressed in the height of fashion. The devil, he thought, the Duchess of Illington must set the style. She had the same gold hair as her brothers, piled now in some intricate arrangement atop her head, and the same blue eyes. Aside from her beauty and her intelligence, the duchess had an air of regality about her, an elegance men would prize to have at their sides. To say nothing of her generous charms in their beds. “Surely one of your cicisbeos
...
?”

Now she did hit him. “I spoke my marriage vows the same as you did, brother. Women understand honor, too.”

* * * *

Ty went to his club that evening. Not Brooks’s or Watier’s, where he knew he would be the main course in the dining room and the joker in the card room and the footnote in the reading room. No, he went to Gilson’s, a small place where military men gathered to discuss the war—not women, weddings, or who was tupping whose wife. No one there offered congratulations or condolences. No one mentioned his brother, his baby daughter, or his black eye, thank goodness. Instead they conducted serious business, soldiers’ business, mapping the course of the Peninsular Campaign on a chart on the wall, with pins and flags and scraps of paper.

The other men, retired officers, mostly, but some serving soldiers home on sick leave or army business, wanted to know what news Major Tyverne had.

The war could have moved to Mongolia for all Ty knew. Or for all he cared tonight. Suddenly the very foundation of his life was turning to quicksand, and he did not know where to find solid ground. He settled in a comfortable leather chair in the corner with a bottle of cognac and a glass, letting the battle talk wash over him while he contemplated life, death, and a pair of green eyes.

Considering that poets and philosophers had been cogitating for centuries on the same questions—except for the green eyes, of course—Ty was not surprised he had not come to a conclusion after three hours and half the bottle had disappeared. After the other half, the viscount considered, perhaps he would no longer care that he was drowning in a sea of confusion.