A Perfect Gentleman (17 page)

Damnation, he had never hurt a female's feelings on purpose, and he was not starting with Miss Kane. And she ought to know that. He'd agreed to her terms, hadn't he? Discretion, loyalty, no flirting, he'd agreed to it all, by George. He'd told her he was a man of honor, by heaven, and she should have believed him, not some harridan with a horse-faced daughter.

But what could he expect from a woman who carried a pistol in her purse, a potato in her pocket, and poppycock in her upper stories?

*

Stony turned and marched himself back to Sloane Street. He adjusted his neckcloth along the way and combed his hair into a semblance of order with his fingers. He stopped to buy a nosegay of violets from a flower seller on the corner, then decided he ought to bring one for Miss Kane too, not just her dog. He purchased a third for Mrs. Goudge, in case the silent aunt was feeling left out of the pleasures London offered.

He walked past Timms, who was sleeping beside the door, and past the dog, who was exercising his gums on the butler's fallen Bible. He briefly stopped by the parlor where the parrot was kept, hearing it screech out “Limp-rod lordlings, I say. Limp-rod lordlings.”

Polly was obviously from the lower orders. If Stony had his way, the wretched bird would be lowered into the cookpot. The creature did not belong in a genteel household, and so he would tell Miss Kane, if she ever spoke to him again.

He kept going down the long hall until he reached the book room. After a brief, unanswered knock, he opened the door.

“I said I did not want to be dis— Oh.”

There was Miss Kane behind her desk, almost where he had left her, but her head was bare. Her red locks were in a braided twist at the back of her neck, neat and proper, as decorous as flame-colored hair could be. Her green eyes were suspiciously red, but Stony convinced himself that was just a trick of the light, and he was seeing red everywhere. Why, the violets in his hand might turn crimson if he kept staring at her hair, willing some stray curl to loosen itself from the braid.

“Lord Wellstone,” she said, straightening her thin shoulders. “I thought we had concluded our discussion.”

Stony dragged his eyes from her hair to her ungloved fingers, which were long and narrow and clutching a handkerchief. He walked closer, to the side of the desk, not standing before it like a petitioner. “It seems we have unfinished business.”

She did not say anything, just looked up at him, a crease between her eyes. He lowered himself until he was half sitting on the desk. He nodded when she did not rebuke him for the familiarity.

Then he said, “I do not want your fortune.” That was a lie, of course.

“Nor do I want your body.” He had never seen her body, only hints of soft curves among the angular bones, so that was not quite a lie. If she proved half as alluring as the image in his dreams, though…

“Or anything else from you.” Now that was definitely a lie. He wanted to see her hair loose on his pillow; he wanted to erase the sadness from her eyes; he wanted enough of her brass that he never had to work for another woman again.

“Except to find your sister.” That was not an untruth, and he was relieved. For a man who took great pride in the honor of his word, he felt he was perjuring his very soul. For a good cause, of course.

“Is that clear?”

“Very.”

“Good, because I could not have continued in your employ otherwise.” He held out the bouquet of violets.

Ellianne took the nosegay and brought it to her face, to breathe in the sweet fresh scent. It reminded her of home, where the air was clean and trees grew where their seeds fell, not just in parks. The people she knew there said what they meant, and did not say what was hurtful. They might talk among themselves—who did not?—but how could they be openly cruel to each other, when they had to deal together on a daily basis? Here no one seemed to care. They were all transient, all strangers, waiting for the Season to end so they could go somewhere else, with other people. They did not care about a missing girl who was not one of their own, or a well-to-do outsider, only what scandal they could find, what malicious gossip they could spread.

Yet here was Lord Wellstone, bringing violets. Asking her to trust him, to ignore the mean-spirited mouthings of a disgruntled mother, hateful words that would be, she knew, just the first of many once knowledge of her presence in London was more widespread. Her name would be in every
on dits
column, estimates of her annual income on every tongue. Her whole life would be on view.

Yet here was Lord Wellstone, leaning on her desk in such a comfortable, casual manner, swearing that he meant her no dishonor, that he had no base intentions, that he wished to find Isabelle. Fair value for her money. It was always about the money. Sometimes Ellianne wished she were poor—for a day or two, only; she was no fool—so she might know who were her true friends. Gwen, Lady Wellstone, had seemed genuinely kind, but she was Wellstone's stepmama, with ulterior motives of her own.

Yet here was Lord Wellstone, with angel-blue eyes and the devil's own smile. She inhaled another breath of the violets. “I am not after your title.” That was no lie. Her deceased mother and her dead aunt might have desired she marry “up,” but such considerations meant nothing to Ellianne.

“I am not after any man's ring on my finger, including yours.” That was no lie, either. Wellstone would make a wretched husband, with every female from fourteen to fifty throwing him lures. Why, even Aunt Lally had been won over, temporarily. Who knew when the viscount would accept a pretty invitation, or let flirtation lead to infidelity? He'd never make a faithful, steady husband, if she were looking to wed, which she was not. Gentlemen of his class and upbringing seldom saw the need for constancy, despite their wedding vows. Ellianne already had enough disrespect from strangers; she did not need it from a husband.

“Or anything else from you.” Here the line between truth and lie was not so clearly drawn. Ellianne had images of his lordship smiling at her, telling her she was pretty, letting her lean against his strength and borrow from his confidence. Those were only dreams, of course, although she had not been asleep.

“Except to find my sister. Is that clear?”

“Very.”

“Good, because I could not continue to employ you otherwise.”

Stony held his hand out to seal their understanding. She placed the violets in it. He supposed that was better than the wadded handkerchief, but shook his head. The woman was hopeless. He put the nosegay on the desk and took up her hand. He deliberated between shaking it and kissing it, but somehow kept holding it.

“One thing more. I am not an hourly wage earner. I help you find your sister, guiding you through the social maze if that is what is required, in exchange for financial consideration. Is that understood?”

As well as Sanskrit. “I do not see much difference, except in the words you use.”

“To me there is. I am not a servant, a lackey, a hired man to do his mistress's bidding.”

Ellianne understood it had to do with manly pride. She was willing to make concessions, especially when his manly hand felt so very nice holding hers, warm and a bit tingly, strong but gentle. What were a few words? “Very well. We are associates. Does that satisfy you?”

It did, but he did not want to let go of her hand. “Equals? My expertise, your expenditures?”

“I did not think you would consider any woman your equal.”

He didn't. “Partners, then.”

They were speaking of her sister, her money, and her reputation at stake. What kind of partnership was that? Ellianne took her hand back, so she could think better. “Why can we not be friends?”

Stony felt the loss, as if a rare butterfly had flown out of his palm. He looked at his empty hand. “Friends trust each other.”

She placed her hand back in his and this time he did bring it to his lips.

“Friends,” they both said.

And that was the biggest lie of all.

Chapter Thirteen

“So you
will attend Gwen's dinner at the end of the week?” Stony asked before he left. When Ellianne hesitated he reminded her of her own earlier plan. “If even one person comments on your similarity to your sister, that is a start to finding her friends, or anyone who might know her plans.”

“You are right. I will come.” She did not look happy about the necessity, merely resigned.

“That's a wise choice,” he teased, trying to cheer her up. “Otherwise I would have to charge you the price of Gwen's handkerchiefs.”

“Lady Wellstone does seem a bit…lachrymose.”

“Especially when her wishes are thwarted. She goes through three or four handkerchiefs on a good day, half of which are mine. I cannot imagine the stack required if her dinner plans are destroyed. We do not entertain as much as she would like.”

“So she mentioned. I offered the services of my chef, if yours is not used to preparing for such increased numbers.”

They had no chef at Wellstone House, just an everyday cook whose skills encompassed beef and breakfast. He nodded his head in thanks. “You will be happy you did, as will the other guests, although Cook does bake a delicious strawberry tart.”

They discussed the guest list for a moment, Stony assuring Ellianne that these were neither the leading lights of high society nor the doyens who guarded the doors against intruders. No one at his table would find fault with her birth or her breeding. And no one, he swore to himself, would make her uncomfortable. The ladies were of kindly disposition, and the gentlemen were all respectably and reliably wed or betrothed, like Charlie. Not one raffish bachelor, roving husband, or randy widower was invited. He'd seen to that. Now he had to hope that Miss Kane did not dress in a sack, quote the cost of the china, or wrap green beans in her napkin to take home for the dog.

Gwen had promised him Miss Kane would not embarrass them, so he had to pray for the best, and help it along, like telling her she really did not need to carry her pistol to his home. “A weapon will absolutely destroy the well-mannered image we are striving for. We need these matrons to invite you to their own dinners and dances, not run away screaming. A pistol at your side will not do much for the new gown Gwen says you will wear, either. A fan or a vinaigrette is a much more fashionable accessory, I believe.”

She finally smiled. “Ah, and here I thought I would set a new style. But speaking of gowns, I have ordered two new ones for Gwen, for her help. I hope you will not take umbrage, but she has been so kind to me, I felt that was the least I could do.”

Stony hated that he could not buy Gwen all the fripperies she longed for, the luxuries that his father had cheated her out of by gambling away her dowry and her annuities. He hated that this heiress could buy Gwen a whole shopful of gowns if she wished, and was being so openhanded after knowing his stepmama for two days. Gwen was his responsibility, her needs his expense. He ought to refuse the gift, to tell Miss Kane that Wellstones did not accept charity. Yet he
could not deny her generosity, and he could not spite poor Gwen to save his pride. He tipped his head. “That is extremely gracious of you. My stepmama already adores you. This will seal her approval.”

Ellianne immediately bristled. “I am not purchasing her friendship.”

“Of course not. I never implied you had any but the best of intentions. You must learn not to be so touchy, you know.”

“Must I? What of yourself?”

His jaw clenched. He was not the least bit touchy. “What of myself?”

“That business account, for instance. I wished to enumerate the costs, but you were the one who said gentlemen did not discuss financial arrangements. Then you were offended that your expenses were not met, and went to Timms, not me.”

“I was not offended. Merely concerned that you had, ah, miscalculated.”

“I seldom make a mathematical error. And you were offended. Timmy told me so. Touchy.”

“That is touché, madam. And now I had better be off to find Strickland for you, or else you will accuse me of being negligent of my duties. And that is being conscientious, not churlish.”

Stony kissed her hand one last time before leaving. Touchy? By heaven, who was she to find fault with him? He'd never met a female so quick to raise her hackles. Why, she was like a kitten you'd be stroking, purring along, then she'd turn into a spitting, hissing hellcat. Touchy, hell. He'd like to touch… Well, he would.

He wondered, on his way home, if her skin could be as soft as it looked, if her prim little lips would soften in passion. He wondered if her hair would feel like spun satin, and if her legs were as long as he imagined. Lord, speak of prickly, she would scratch his eyes out if she knew what he was thinking!

Stony doubted she had an inkling. Between her merchant's morality and her determination to stay unwed, he doubted Miss Kane had the least understanding of lust. If she caught a glimmer of what went on between a man and a woman, she'd only decide such base emotions did not apply to her, not with her bank-ledger brain.

He recalled their conversation. He'd sworn disinterest in her fortune and her body. She hadn't even blushed. Then she'd claimed she did not want his title or his ring. There was no mention of his body, as if she did not acknowledge his maleness or her possible response to it. Bah. Women like that were why married men kept mistresses. The sooner he found Strickland, and the sister, the better.