Elizabeth Powell (9 page)

He gestured with his riding crop. “The fog will not lift for some time yet, I think. Let us ride a while together.”

She wavered.

“Unless, of course, you need to return home,” he added.

She thought about the oppressive silence that reigned over their rented town house, then shook her head. “No … I have no pressing engagements.”

“I understand if you do not wish to reveal the cause of your distress,” he began, “but I entreat you to look upon me as a friend. I suspect you are in need of one.”

“My mother would tell me that ladies do not form
friendships with gentlemen,” Jane replied, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice.

Again that appealing, lopsided grin. “But you have stated before that I am no gentleman, so I believe you are safe on that account.”

“You delight in teasing me.”

“I do, but only because you need teasing. Why, you barely smiled at all last night. You are too young to be so somber and serious all the time. How old are you? Seventeen? Eighteen?”

“I shall be nineteen this autumn.”

“There, you see? When I was eighteen I had not a care in the world.”

“If only I could be so fortunate,” Jane murmured.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Do you have family, my lord?” she asked suddenly.

Lord Langley’s face went blank. “There is only my father, the Earl of Stanhope. My mother died when I was very young.”

“No brothers or sisters?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “One brother. Alexander—Alex.”

She recognized the name. “Ah … you were conversing with him in the garden yesterday, weren’t you?”

“You were eavesdropping,” he accused.

“I did not make a point of it,” she replied. “But I could hear you quite well from my side of the wall.”

The viscount rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, I suppose I was speaking to Alex, in a way. He has been dead for the last five years. The house used to belong to him.”

She gasped. “I am so sorry. Was he—was he with the army in the Peninsula?”

“No. Alex’s death was the most singular piece of idiocy …” He stopped himself, then exhaled in a long,
controlled sigh. “My father had summoned him home for Christmas, even though the weather had rendered the roads nigh unto impassable. Alex was traveling through a snowstorm when the carriage broke an axle and overturned. The coachman was killed; my brother suffered a broken back and could not move. No one found him until a few days later. By then he was dead.”

Jane’s eyes rounded in shock. “How terrible,” she breathed. “Why would your father insist that he travel in such weather?”

“Because my father is a tyrant.” Lord Langley’s voice quivered with anger. He paused a moment and composed himself. “Forgive me. I presume too much familiarity.”

“You need not apologize, my lord; I understand your anger. You blame your father for your brother’s death.”

“I do, and I have made no secret of it.”

“We have more in common than one might think; your father sounds very much like my mother.”

His lips quirked in a faint, sardonic smile. “With one possible exception: my father does not breathe fire. He prefers to ignore me.”

“Then I envy you. If my mother had enough sense to do the same, I would be the happiest girl in the world.” Jane clapped a hand over her mouth. “I should not have said that.”

The viscount chuckled. “You little hypocrite. It’s all right to think such things, but God forbid you should actually say them.”

She pulled a face at him.

“I take it your mother is the cause of your blue devils?” he asked. Then, more softly, “Did something happen last night?”

Jane sighed. “No, nothing happened, and that is precisely the problem.”

“Indeed?”

“My mother has decided that my sister must marry a peer,” she explained. “Preferably an earl or a marquess.” She glanced sideways at him. “Although she has not ruled out viscounts, especially those who are heirs to earldoms.”

“So I gathered,” he drawled. “And … ?”

“And Pen is not making her choice fast enough to please my mother.”

“Penelope choosing from among her suitors,” murmured Lord Langley. “An irony of mythical proportions. But the Season has just begun. Surely Lady Portia does not wish your sister to make a hasty decision, one she might later regret.”

“Then you do not know my mother. I have a theory, my lord. I believe she wishes my sister to marry well because she herself could not. If Pen makes a brilliant match at the beginning of the Season, Mama can crow about it to everyone who snubbed her in the past. If my sister refuses too many offers or takes too long to make her choice, my mother will feel humiliated.”

“A cork-brained notion if ever I heard one,” he muttered.

“Last night she berated Pen mercilessly because she did not encourage your attentions—or those of any of her other illustrious admirers, for that matter.”

“I assume your sister has a reason for doing so.”

“Of course she does!” Jane exclaimed. “She cannot choose a husband on the merit of his title alone. She is entitled to know something of a man’s character before she accepts his proposal of marriage. One dance does not constitute grounds for an engagement.”

“Very sensible of her,” he replied. “I take it Lady Portia does not see the wisdom of this approach.”

“No. And it does not help that Pen is shy of strangers. You seem surprised, my lord. Had you not noticed her reticence?”

“Yes, but I merely thought her unreceptive to my charm.”

“My sister would like to take her time and make a prudent match, but Mama is growing impatient. Let me put it to you this way, my lord. My mother wanted her to accept the Earl of Haydon simply on the basis of his rank.”

“Haydon?” Lord Langley’s brows rose in surprise. “That old reprobate? The man’s a loose screw if ever there was one.”

“Which is precisely why my sister refused him. Mama was most displeased. And when she is displeased … My mother has quite a temper, my lord, and can be very cruel when she wishes to be. But last night—last night she was in rare form. Pen took to her bed in tears.”

“Poor creature. Is there anything I can do to help you cheer her up?”

Jane eyed him speculatively. Did he ask out of genuine concern or because he wanted to win Pen’s favor? “What did you have in mind?”

“Is she fond of any particular sort of sweet? Ices, perhaps? Or flowers?”

“Every day her other admirers send so many posies that every flower shop and greenhouse in London must be stripped bare. And Pen has never been one for sweets—anything with almonds in it, especially marzipan, gives her a dreadful rash. But she likes Spanish oranges very much.”

“Do you think such an offering would please her?”

“It might.”

“Then I will see to it immediately. I sympathize with your sister; I know what it’s like to be the object of a parent’s
unrelenting censure.” He cocked his head. “What about you, imp?”

She started. “Me?”

“What sort of offerings please you?”

“You are teasing me again, my lord.”

“Not at all. You mentioned the trinkets your sister receives, but what do your admirers send you?”

“My admirers?” she echoed. All she could think of was Augustus Wingate’s trout-like countenance. “I don’t—that is …”

He stared at her for a moment. His eyes narrowed. “The book does not belong to you, does it?”

“Why do you say that?” She clutched at the reins as a wave of coldness swept over her.

“If it did, I suspect you would readily admit to being courted by the gentlemen whose names are listed therein.”

“What—?” Jane’s heart pounded wildly within the prison of her chest. “You had no right to read it—how dare you!”

The viscount had the good grace to look ashamed. “I do apologize. I opened it thinking it was yours, that it would provide me with your name, since you would not.”

Tamerlane snorted and tossed his head until Jane loosened her grip. “Your noble intentions give me little consolation, my lord,” she fumed. He knew.
He knew!

“I assure you I did not make the connection until now. The names in the book, the fact that your sister must marry a peer, her thoughtful, deliberate manner, and— forgive me—your own lack of visible beaux.”

Jane’s blush scalded her skin all the way to her hairline.

“So I must conclude that the book belongs to your sister. How did it come into your possession?”

Jane’s head snapped up. “I did not steal it.”

“I never said you did.”

“My sister feared our mother would find out about it, so she entrusted it to me. And I lost it. And now you know, and everything is ruined!”

He held up a hand. “Calm yourself. Your secret—and hers—is safe with me. I have no wish to embarrass either of you.”

She glared at him. “Will you promise me that you will never speak of this to my sister?”

“I give you my word of honor. You love your sister and would do anything for her. I envy you that.”

She blinked. “You do?”

“I have seen too many families torn apart by jealousy or favoritism,” Lord Langley said grimly, “including my own.”

“You and your brother?”

“Yes. Alex and I were never allowed to be close. When I think about how many years I wasted hating him, wanting to be like him, I—” He broke off, then shifted in the saddle.

“I am sorry, my lord,” she said softly.

A look of pain distorted his handsome features. “Go home to your sister, Miss Jane. Go home, and put your mind at ease.”

“Thank you.” Jane swallowed around the lump in her throat “I—I was wrong about you, my lord. You are indeed a gentleman.”

She turned her mount and rode off. Sebastian watched as she and her gray gelding disappeared into the mist, her groom trailing behind. A fey girl on her fey mount … He shook himself. Egad, when had he become prone to such ridiculous flights of fancy? He nudged his mare with his knees and headed for the park gate.

Imagination or not, astride that long-legged gray, in a close-fitting habit of spruce green wool that turned her huge eyes the color of lichen, Jane Rutledge had looked more like an elfin creature than ever this morning. And where had she learned to ride like that? Few females of Sebastian’s acquaintance could handle a horse of that size with such ease.

What he found even more odd was the fact that she inspired such trust. It was not like him to share a confidence on the spur of the moment, yet he had told her about Alex. He had never revealed so much of himself to anyone but Nigel and Jace, and he had known them for years. And now he had just imparted something of his own private hell to her. What the devil had come over him?

If only she were an heiress. The viscount smiled ruefully. Another flight of fancy. While he held a certain fondness for her, they would never rub along well together, and she certainly would never accept the sort of marriage he was after. To accomplish that he needed a sweet, docile wife, and Miss Jane was anything but docile. He needed to concentrate less on teasing her and more on winning her sister’s hand.

Sebastian thoughts returned to the mysterious book. He had every intention of keeping the imp’s secret, but that did not mean he couldn’t use the information to his own advantage. He had not been impressed with the fellows whose names were written in it; neither, apparently, had Miss Rutledge. She seemed a sensible sort of girl, one who was impressed more with good conversation than immense quantities of flowers or fatuous odes to her eyebrows. Thank God he had never been one for poetry; he would be in dire straits if he needed to start spouting it now!

From what she had written, he surmised that Miss Rutledge
desired a specific sort of gentleman as a husband, a man who was intelligent, sensitive, charming, witty, and not after her fortune. He could be all that and never let on that he needed her twenty-five thousand pounds; after they were married, she wouldn’t need to know what became of her dowry—nor would he have to tell her, if he was discreet enough.

All he had to do was pierce the armor of her shyness. And, thanks to Jane, he knew just where to begin. He spurred his mare into a trot; he had arrangements to make.

“Pen?” Jane rapped on her sister’s chamber door. “Are you all right? You did not come down for nuncheon, and I’m worried about you.”

No answer.

She knocked again. “I know you are in there, Pen. Please open the door.”

After the span of several heartbeats, the door opened a crack. Penelope’s drawn face appeared in the opening. “Come in, dearest,” she murmured.

Jane slipped into the room and hugged her sister. “Are you well?” she inquired anxiously, surveying Pen’s pale cheeks and reddened eyes.

Her sister nodded, then closed her chamber door. She meandered over to the set of Chippendale chairs by the window and perched upon one of them. With a listless hand she picked up her embroidery hoop from the nearby table, then set it aside again. “As well as can be expected,” she replied dully. “Did Mama send you?”

Jane lowered herself into the chair opposite her. “Oh, come now, you know better than that. I
was
worried. You are never melancholy for this long.”

“I suppose there is a first time for everything.”

Jane reached out and took one of Pen’s hands in her own. “Do not allow Mama to vex you. You must do what you think is best.”

Pen pulled away. “I do not know what that is anymore.” She drew a wrinkled handkerchief from her cuff and pressed it to her tear-filled eyes. “Why do I even bother? I will only end up as the wife of a man old enough to be my grandfather.”

Jane steeled herself, then took a deep breath. “Stop this at once, Penelope Catherine Rutledge. A good cry is one thing, but now you are feeling sorry for yourself, and it serves no purpose at all.”

“What would you have me do?” Pen demanded, her lower lip quivering. She slumped back in her chair. “Mama finds fault with everything. I can do nothing right.”

“Rubbish. Now stop being such a blancmange and listen. How many gentlemen did you meet last night at the ball?”

A slight frown creased Penelope’s forehead. “I am not certain. Twenty, perhaps. Or thirty. There were so many.”

“Very well, let us say thirty, then. And of those thirty, how many meet Mama’s requirements?”