Was Lady Sybil lonely? Is that why she ran away? Jane wondered. She wouldn't have thought so. Not with all the comings and goings, the callers and their cards and—
“Oh!” Jane said aloud. She had just realized she might be called upon to play hostess if any members of the upper crust dropped by that afternoon.
“Is aught amiss, milady?” the footman behind her asked, his tone restrained, but his accent unmistakably Scottish.
“Ian!” she exclaimed, then sank to a furious whisper. “What are you doing here?”
“I'm thinking I might ask ye the same, my Lady Jane,” he said, leaning down to pull out her chair. Instead of gently sliding the chair backward so she could stand, he whipped it around to face him and rested his hands on its gilt arms, pinning her in place. “Appears to me there's more than one person out of place in this fine dining room.”
Chapter Five
“Ian, stop it. You're going to ruin everything.”
“Which part is it you're most particular about me not ruining?”
He leaned down far enough that a little of the powder from his wig fell like snow on the tip of her nose. Jane stifled a sneeze.
“What is it you fancy most? Attending a snooty ball in a borrowed gown or accepting a proposal of marriage from some other blighter?”
“I notice you've not troubled yourself to offer for me,” she said stonily.
“That's another matter altogether.”
Jane arched a brow at him. If Ian wasn't prepared to marry her, why should he care if she accepted a suit on Lady Sybil's behalf?
“I'm not doing this for myself.” She was doing it for him, blast the man! Mr. Roskin had threatened to sack Ian without character if she didn't cooperate. But she wouldn't tell him that. Knowing how much she'd dare for him might make him even more full of himself than he already was. She pressed herself against the padded back of the chair to put some distance between herself and the powder that still drifted from his wig. “I'm doing this for Lady Sybil and for Lord Somerville and for the good of the estate.”
Ian narrowed his gaze. “And when has Lord Somerville ever done good for you?”
Jane knotted her fingers in her lap. Trust a stupid, big Scot to cut to the heart of the matter. As soon as she had agreed to the plan, she had realized this might be a chance to win approval from the man who had given her his chestnut hair and hazel eyes, but not his name. Was it so horrible to want Lord Somerville, at least once in her life, to look upon her as a father should look upon his daughter?
Even if he didn't know it was her.
The rice powder tickled her nose again and this time, she wasn't able to keep from sneezing. She caught the blow in one of Lady Sybil's fine lace handkerchiefs. Ian straightened to his full height and glared down at her.
“So ye still intend to go through with this farce, to let this Lord Eddleton paw ye and compromise your virtue—”
“Nothing of the sort. I'll simply attend the ball and accept his proposal in Lady Sybil's stead. Gentlemen don't try to ruin women they intend to marry,”' she said through clenched teeth.
“Ye know little enough of men. Ye've no idea what gentlemen are capable of.”
“If anyone's trying to compromise me, it's you.” There'd be no more fancies dancing in her head about his string bed. Not after this.
He shook his head. “Ye canna go, Jane. I'll not have it.”
“You'll not have it? And just what makes you think you have any say in the matter?”
That settled it! The man was demanding a husband's due when he wasn't willing to submit to the yoke. If only he'd admit that he loved her... she shoved away that hope with force. Jane stood and struck a pose that was pure Lady Sybil at her haughty best.
“If you try to expose me, I'll denounce you,” she promised. “Who will people believe, you think? A stable hand in a borrowed wig or the daughter of the house? Mr. Bottlesby and Mr. Roskin will back me up, if needs be.”
“Janie, love—”
“Don't think to sweet-talk me out of this.”'
Ian's lips drew together in a grim line, but he stepped back a pace. Then he made a less-than-elegant leg to her. Hostling did not lend itself to mastering the finer points of etiquette, after all.
“Verra well. Will there be anything else, milady?” His demeanor was deferential in case another servant entered the room, but when he lowered his voice, his whispered tone bristled with fury. “You've had me heart for luncheon, Janie. Mayhap ye'd like me manhood for dessert.”
Jane's eyes flared in surprise. A true gentleman was never vulgar to a lady. She flashed a deceptively sweet smile at him. “Only if you let Cook roast it on a spit first.”
Jane turned on her heel and flounced out of the dining room before he could speak another word.
The brass knocker on Lord Eddleton's town house banged against the English oak as if an invading army were trying to batter down the portal. Wigram, the last of Eddleton's remaining servants, started for the door.
“Hold a moment.” Eddleton slid a finger between the thick damask curtains and chanced a glance down on his front stoop. “No point in answering if it's only a bill collector.”
“Milord, I don't think any of them would be so bold as to accost you at your home,” Wigram said. “Not by day, at any rate. And chances are very good the word hasn't gotten 'round to all of them yet.”
“Thank heaven for small blessings, Wigram. Who knew the randy old goat still had it in him?”
Viscount Eddleton had been heir apparent to Lord Pemworthy for years. Then, less than a fortnight ago, his ailing uncle had felt well enough to wed his pregnant nurse. If the child she carried turned out to be a boy, Eddleton would be cut off without a shilling. The impending disaster—he couldn't view the imminent birth as anything less—wasn't public knowledge yet, but his creditors seemed to have caught wind of it through the back channels of his uncle's staff. Eddleton's credit had been pinched off like an overripe pimple.
Wigram loosed a long-suffering sigh. “Lord Pemworthy has led a retired life for some years—”
“Evidently not retired enough.” Eddleton closed one eye and peeped through the small slit in the curtain again, trying to see who was pounding on his door.
“What I mean to say, milord, is His Grace, your uncle, did not often show himself in public. It will surely be some time before the change in your disposition with regard to the inheritance becomes common knowledge among the beau monde.”
Eddleton nodded grimly. Not all the upper crust had as open a relationship with their servants as he had with Wigram. Their loss. Servants in the great houses knew everything.
“Let us hope, Wigram,” he said. “Gambling debts are deucedly inconvenient to a gentleman. Last time I ventured into White's, the blighters I owed there were almost impossible to shake off.”
“If I may suggest, milord, perhaps you might offer your shares in the Pearl to settle—”
“I tried, but unfortunately they knew as well as I that the Pearl was reported lost in a typhoon off Sumatra.” Eddleton smiled sardonically. "Besides, I've already pledged the Pearl shares to my soon-to-be-betrothed's father.”
Fortunately, Lord Somerville was not as well informed as Lord Eddleton's creditors. The earl's solicitor had agreed to give Eddleton exclusive rights to his unentailed property in Kent in exchange for shares in the whaler as part of the betrothal arrangement between Eddleton and his lordship's harridan of a daughter.
“Sally? Cecily? Hang it all, what is that chit's name?”
“That would be the Lady Sybil,” Wigram supplied in a monotone.
“No matter,” Eddleton said, with a wave of his hand. “Our salvation lies between her thighs. The girl is Lord Somerville's sole heir and that old graybeard must be pushing seventy. All I need do is get a son on her—a chore I will happily devote all my energies to!—and the succession will continue.”
With Eddleton in control of the considerable land-rich Somerville estate until the snot-nosed brat came of age. That left plenty of time for him to enjoy the fruits of his future father-in-law's rank.
He parted the curtains another finger-width and caught sight of a frill of yellow lace.
“Ah! A parasol. Very well, Wigram.” Eddleton let the curtain fall back into place. Women were always more taken with his blond curls than his finances in any case. “Show the lady in.”
The rest of the town house was entirely bare of furnishings, but Eddleton had been careful to keep his parlor appointed in the first state of fashion for just such an eventuality. His sorry financial state was still a secret to the ton, and he intended to keep it that way.
He settled into a red leather wing chair flanking the fireplace and opened a dog-eared copy of Keats. He rarely read poetry, but appearing to read poetry was every bit as effective when it came to impressing members of the fair sex. Women found Keats's work sensitive and endearing, qualities Eddleton could not claim in his own right but was happy to borrow for short periods of time. He might be intending to plight his troth at Lord Hartwell's ball later that evening amid much pomp and general well-wishing, but a prudent man always kept a few tender morsels on the string.
He didn't look up immediately when the delicate patter of feminine steps came to a stop at his threshold. Whoever his caller was, she'd no doubt think him enthralled by the poet's fine words. He forced himself not to turn his head when he heard the faint rustle of silk.
“Ahem!” the woman finally said.
Eddleton looked up with what he hoped was a dreamily distracted expression. Then he recognized his caller. He snapped the book shut.
“Lady Darvish.” He rose to greet the last woman in all London he'd wish to find in his parlor.
“Good afternoon, Lord Eddleton,” she said with a wry smile. “Your man said you were at home and receiving callers. The way you've kept me standing, I must say, it doesn't seem as if you've much talent for hospitality.”
“Forgive me.” He rose to his feet, trying desperately to think of some way to be rid of her quickly. “I wasn't expecting company today.”
“Of course you weren't. That's why you were trying to read Keats upside down. Thinking of your coming betrothal to the lovely Lady Sybil Somerville, no doubt. No, don't bother to deny it. The ton talks of nothing but who intends to do what to whom.”
He choked out a startled laugh. “Still, I apologize for making you wait.”
“Think nothing of it, my dear boy. I will forget it in a trice if you ring for tea and do your best to entertain me forthwith.” She floated across the room with grace and settled into the chair Eddleton had just vacated.
"Of course," he said, jangling the bell that called Wigram to the doorway. He sent his butler a look of alarm over Lady Darvish's ornately decorated bonnet.
Good Lord! Is that a stuffed pigeon wedged amid the lace and other folderol?
“Wigram will be right back with our refreshments, Madam.” And, he hoped, a manufactured emergency that required Eddleton's immediate presence elsewhere.
“Oh, that will never do! 'Madam' sounds so old.” Lady Darvish laughed gaily as she removed her hat, signaling that the visit would be an extended one. “You must call me Leticia for I predict we will be great friends. May I call you Bertram?”