The Songbird's Seduction (10 page)

“
That
is facile reasoning,” Lavinia said.

“So it is,” Lucy admitted. “But true, nonetheless.”

“I’m not convinced.”

“I think Lucy is right,” Bernice suddenly announced.

Lucy’s head snapped around, apparently unused to support from this particular corner. “You do?”

“Yes. It only makes sense. If Lord Barton doesn’t want the rubies, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t have them. Better us than . . . who all is left of those who were at Patnimba did you say, Lucy?”

“Bento Oliveria and Luis Silva, the Portuguese lads.”

“Just so. If Lord Barton had wanted his share split up evenly, he needn’t have written otherwise. I’m sure he has his reasons.”

“All right,” Lavinia allowed after a long moment’s consideration, during which both Bernice and Lucy appeared to be holding their breath. They released it in unison. “But at least we won’t accept the offer of his grandson.”

“Lord Barton is offering us his grandson?” Lucy exclaimed, mischief sparking in her eyes. “Well, that
is
too generous. Because however will we afford to feed him? I mean, look at him! He has to be at least six feet tall. Not to mention how much keeping him decently clad is likely to set us back—”

“Lucy.”

“Sorry.”

He was beginning to develop an unexpected, and unwanted,
and
, he was sure, completely unnecessary sympathy for the girl. She only meant to have a spot of fun. Though highly inappropriate at the moment, he was certain she didn’t mean any harm by it.

“What I meant,” Lavinia said in crushing tones, “is that Lord Barton has sent his grandson to escort us to Saint-Girons. While thoughtful, such a gesture is quite unnecessary.”

“It is?” Ptolemy asked in spite of himself.

He’d never considered his grandfather’s offer might be refused. He’d assumed the elderly woman would gratefully accept his escort and had reconciled himself to shepherding his grandfather’s old siegemate, if one could call her that, across France. He had even convinced Cornelia that the closeted environs of a train car would be the perfect place to prepare for his interview with Lord Blidderphenk.

He hadn’t bothered to mention that he also figured that while the authorities cleared up whatever paper was necessary to divide up the rubies he could hie himself off the short distance to Les Eyzies and have a look-in on some recently discovered cave paintings there. Then he’d escort Lavinia Litton back. All of which was to be completed within the course of a week or so. Possibly less.

He’d planned it all very neatly. Except now it appeared all his planning had been unnecessary and he found himself unaccountably disappointed.

“Yes,” Lavinia said. “Our niece has everything well in hand. She has already made the necessary travel arrangements.”

He was still trying to work through why he wasn’t pleased, or at least mildly relieved. Now he’d be able to attend Vice-Chancellor Litchfield’s yearly reception for the incoming professors.

His reaction suddenly made sense.

He’d spent nearly his entire professional career in the field, far preferring it to the classroom and far,
far
preferring it to the drawing room. Once again, the prospect of spending a whole evening amongst insecure academics jockeying for position while Cornelia introduced him to “important men” loomed before him. Small wonder he was disappointed. It had nothing to do with not being able to provide a service for his grandfather or these elderly ladies.

Or the girl.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Lavinia said. “Lucy is quite extraordinarily capable.”

He looked at the admirably capable Lucy. She avoided his eye, remaining mute. Even on such a short acquaintance, he recognized this as an inauspicious sign.

“You’ve traveled extensively, have you, Miss Eastlake?”

“Some. Yes.”

“And doubtless you speak French?”

“Doubtless.”

“Fluently.”

“Hmm.”

“She had French lessons in town twice weekly from the age of eleven until she was fifteen,” Bernice said proudly. “She made the arrangements with the local tailor’s French wife, Madame de Barge, herself. As I said, she’s quite competent. Always has been.”

Something was amiss but he couldn’t quite say what it was. Something about Lucy, er, Miss Eastlake’s expression was shouting at him as loudly as if she’d spoken. He just couldn’t make out what it was saying . . . And then he had it:
she didn’t speak French
. He would have staked his reputation on it.

But he could hardly make such an accusation. Besides which for some reason this minor deception regarding the quite possibly fictional Madame de Barge was important to her—that, too, was clear to him in the same mysterious but indisputable way. He couldn’t expose her.

Lucy cleared her throat. “Ahem. You know, perhaps we should consider accepting Lord Barton’s offer. I mean, if he felt strongly that Archie here ought to accompany us—”

“Absolutely not,” Lavinia declared proudly, her chin high and her color higher. “We have gotten along very well without Lord Barton’s help until now and we shall continue to do so. I am sure
Mr. Grant has better ways to spend his time than escorting three strangers across France.”

Of course he did. “Not at all. It would be my pleasure.”

“Such nice manners. But no. Thank your grandfather and”—Lavinia glanced away and the pink bloomed even brighter in her sunken cheeks,—“and give him my regards.”

It was a clearly a dismissal. So why did he hesitate? He glanced at Lucy. She was looking away from him.
Forcefully
away.

He couldn’t very well foist himself on them. With a murmured “good day,” he took his leave, exiting the house with the distinct sensation that he was doing someone a monumental disservice—and the very odd notion that that someone was very possibly himself.

“I tried. I swear it. But they were resolved.” Ptolemy raked his hand through his hair and muttered something under his breath as Lord Barton watched in amazement—and no small amount of relief—as his favorite grandson continued to wear a path in his Oriental rug.

Amongst the entire dismal, earnest, and pedantic brood of Grants, of which his daughter was not only the matriarch but chief pedant, Ptolemy—and why in the name of all that was holy would his daughter have clamped such a ridiculous moniker on the poor boy? Why not Jim? Or Tom?—was the only interesting one.

In Ptolemy, Lord Barton saw vestiges of his younger self, someone wary of passion and impulsiveness, having been indoctrinated into the belief that both inevitably led to a man’s ruin. Yet, despite Ptolemy’s dutiful efforts to eradicate these undesirable traits, he kept evincing disturbing symptoms of both. Disturbing to his parents, that is. For example, early on Ptolemy had politely but categorically disregarded their insistence that he pursue a purely academic career and instead followed his passion for obscure cultures out into the world.

Though he didn’t pretend to understand his grandson’s predilection, Lord Barton was happy he had one, and equally pleased that Ptolemy had often disappeared for months on end doing research in far-off corners of the globe, often without informing anyone of his whereabouts. Lord Barton wasn’t sure this was the result of absentmindedness or simply a brilliant strategy. Certainly he’d have liked his well-intentioned, humorless, and obstinately dutiful daughter to lose his own address from time to time.

Yes, he’d had high hopes for Ptolemy.

Had.

But then Cornelia Litchfield had come along.

Ptolemy had introduced them a year ago. Within five minutes Lord Barton had taken Miss Litchfield’s measure: a natural-born manager. Within ten, he’d learned everything else he needed to know to realize the danger she represented to his grandson.

She’d spent her youth burnishing her illustrious widowed father’s reputation and at the same time polishing her own skills as hostess and adviser. Then, upon reaching her midtwenties, perhaps out of some vague reaction to society’s assumption that all women ought to have families but more likely because she realized her current project had reached its zenith, she’d decided to cast her nets into new water. And it was there that she’d landed Ptolemy.

In Lord Barton’s handsome, brilliant, oblivious grandson, she’d detected someone worthy of her gifts, someone whose career she could bolster, whose star she could lift higher.

Lord Barton did not doubt Miss Litchfield was a worthy young woman and that she sincerely wanted the best for Ptolemy. The problem was she had no imagination and therefore could not conceive of anything being best for Ptolemy that wasn’t best for her.

But Lord Barton could. Rather a lot, actually.

Even then, had Lord Barton divined any real attachment between Ptolemy and Cornelia he could have been satisfied. He was not so
narrow-minded as to believe that everyone loved with the same depth of passion and faithfulness as he had. But he could not glean any bit of tenderness or pleasure or delight in their feelings for one another.

Indeed, Lord Barton had the distinct impression that Ptolemy had not so much fallen in love with Cornelia Eastlake as fallen into the habit of her. And now, unless he missed his guess, his grandson wasn’t exactly sure how, or even if, he should extract himself from the situation. Ptolemy could be excruciatingly and wrongheadedly honorable.

Much like he’d been at that age.

And there was nothing Lord Barton could do except despair.

Yet now, watching Ptolemy dishevel his hair with another careless, exasperated gesture, he felt the distinct stirring of hope. Lord Barton wasn’t sure how, but his simple request that Ptolemy escort Lavinia Litton through France had stirred a fire in the lad that had been lying dormant far too long.

“And she doesn’t speak French. I’d stake my reputation on it,” Ptolemy suddenly said.

“Miss Litton? I should think she has some gentrified schoolroom French. True, she might be a bit rusty but—”

“Not Miss Litton,” Ptolemy said in a tone that suggested Lord Barton hadn’t been listening. “
Her
. The niece. Miss Eastlake.”

Lord Barton folded his hands in his lap. “Pray, excuse my dull-wittedness. Age, I suspect, has robbed me of my ability to read minds.”

This comment brokered nary a glance, confounding Lord Barton even more. Generally speaking Ptolemy was quick to pick up on his grandfather’s sarcasm. Instead, he stood scowling out the window.

Lord Barton tried again. “Let me see if I have this right. The Litton sisters have a niece, a Miss Eastlake, who does not speak French.”

“Not
a
girl.
The
girl. Didn’t I tell you this?”

“
The
girl?”

“Yes, yes.” Ptolemy crossed the room and sank down on his haunches in front of Lord Barton’s chair. “
The girl
, Grandfather. The girl from the Savoy. The one who stole my pen. She’s Lavinia Litton’s great-niece.”

All the pieces slipped into place as neatly as tumblers turning in a well-oiled lock. Somehow Lord Barton managed not to grin. “Oh.
That
girl.”

“Yes.” Ptolemy leapt to his feet and began pacing again. “Exactly. That girl. And she does not speak French and yet her two elderly relatives are trusting this girl, this inexperienced, impetuous, green
girl
, to see them safely across France.”

“Preposterous.”

Ptolemy swung around, snapping his fingers and pointing at Lord Barton as if he were a student in his classroom who’d just given the right answer to a difficult question. “That’s it! It’s preposterous. Absurd.”

Of course, it wasn’t really. France was hardly the wilds of Borneo. And as Miss Eastlake had enough savvy to turn his brilliant grandson’s world upside down in the course of one short evening, she might not be as inexperienced or green as Ptolemy believed. Indeed, the fact that she’d been singing from a perch atop the Savoy’s bar strongly suggested otherwise. But far be it from Lord Barton to point this out.

“I should never have left without persuading them to let me escort them. I can’t think where my head was.”

“Neither can I.”

“It is my guess that she has never even been out of the country. She’ll be taken advantage of at every turn.” He clucked his tongue like a disapproving old uncle before his gaze lit on Lord Barton. “Not to mention putting
your
ladies in heaven knows what sort of
predicaments. I shan’t wonder that they all end up marooned in some disreputable little hovel having to wire back for funds.”

“Good God.” Lord Barton allowed himself the indignity of a small gasp. “Do you really think so?”

“I
assume
so. Why, there’s every chance that left to their own devices and owing entirely to Lucy’s lack of experience, they might not make it to the rendezvous point
at all.
”

“Lucy?”

“Miss Eastlake.” He tossed this off as if he were already well accustomed to calling her “Lucy.”

How very, very interesting.

“Well,” Lord Barton said mildly, “what can you do about it?”