A Perfect Gentleman (23 page)

He brought hope that someone tonight could lead them to Miss Isabelle.

What he hadn't brought was a cane to prop his bottom jaw shut when he got his first glimpse of his eccentric employer: Miss Ellianne Kane, the heiress, the Original, the most perfect rose he had ever seen.

Chapter Seventeen

Dropjaw
was a common affliction at Lady Wellstone's gathering that evening. Almost every guest suffered from it when they were made known to the guest of honor, who had arrived earlier.

The young and lovely Lady Wellstone was not affected. Gwen wore a thoroughly smug, cat-in-the-cream-pot smile, especially when she introduced Miss Kane to that widowed in-law of her cousin's who had winkled an invitation out of her.

And Lord Wellstone's jaws were so tightly clenched— once he'd recovered from his own bout with the malady— after seeing the other gentlemen's reactions that he doubted he could unlock them by the time dinner was served.

Ellianne stood between them, her head held high. If she was on exhibit, she'd decided, she would put on a show worthy of her father, a man who owned his own bank. She would also prove herself worthy of her mother, the daughter of a marquess. If the results of such a match did not find favor with these members of the quality, then the devil take them all.

She smiled politely, she curtsied with the correct deference, but she showed no doubts of her own acceptability. In fact, that jealous widow was heard to comment, Miss Kane held herself like a queen, judging whether her subjects were worthy of notice or not. If Ellianne's knees were knocking together so badly she'd have bruises in the morning, no one could tell. The black lace overskirt hid that, too, rustling gently as if in a breeze. And Wellstone was close enough to catch her if her knees gave out altogether, thank goodness. In fact, Ellianne did not know how she could stand there being scrutinized at all if not for his solid, reassuring presence at her side.

“I say….” Lord Charles Hammett sputtered when Stony introduced his old friend to his new one. “I say….” What Charlie eventually said was “Ooph,” when his new fiancée poked her elbow in his ribs.

Lady Valentina Pattendale was the only one to mention Isabelle. “I believe I met your sister, Miss Kane,” was all she had time to say before she dragged poor Charlie as far away as possible, possibly saving him from being throttled by his host and former friend.

Stony shook his head when Ellianne sent him a questioning look. “No, she does not have any other information,” he whispered between introductions, incidentally leaning closer to Ellianne's ear and to her long, graceful neck, her porcelain cheek, her silky tendrils of flame-colored hair, her heady perfume, her snowy bosom. If he leaned any closer, he was liable to scrape his nose on her ruby pendant. Gwen coughed and he straightened up. “I, ah, asked her before.”

The guests kept coming. Gwen's intimate little gathering had turned into a dinner for twenty. They'd had to hire extra staff, but Stony had polished the heirloom silver himself, the stuff that was entailed and so could not be sold. The house hadn't looked as good in decades, he decided, this part of it, anyway. Two whole wings were shut up, but the company did not have to know that. He gazed around in satisfaction as the earlier arrivals chatted happily among themselves, glasses in hand. Charlie could not have been entirely happy, not with Lady Val rapping his knuckles with her closed fan. Stony smiled and Gwen smiled up at him from his other side.

Gwen had never looked better either, he thought, not even as a pretty young bride. In her social element, in a new rose-colored gown, she now had an elegance, a more mature, lasting beauty that could not help but please.

It pleased Lord Strickland, that was for sure. The baron had cleaned up nicely, just like the silver candlesticks under years of tarnish. His linen was spotless, and he must have bought himself a corset to hold in his paunch, for he creaked when he bowed over Gwen's hand. So taken with her smile of greeting was he, so grateful was he for her kind invitation—and so wary of Miss Kane, to whom he gave the briefest salute and “Good evening, ma'am”—that he swept Gwen away with him in search of a predinner sherry.

That left Stony and Ellianne waiting together near the drawing room door to receive the next guests.

To say that Gwen had never looked better was one thing. To say that Miss Kane had never looked better was such an understatement as to be ludicrous. She did not even look like Miss Kane! Lud, he wished he had an artist at hand to paint her portrait right now, in candlelight, in that scrap of silk and lace that was pretending to be a gown, with her hair rivaling the ruby for brilliance. He wished he could throw his coat over her, as he'd done at the morgue, so none of the other men could catch a glimpse of this exotic, entrancing Ellianne. Hell, he wished he could throw her over his shoulder and carry her up the stairs to his bedroom—no, to the closed wing, where no one would think to look for them for days. Five days might be enough so he could think straight again, without throbbing. Six days if her hair was as long and silky as he remembered. Better make that seven. He'd need a full twenty-four hours to smooth out all those tiny braids so her glorious hair lay across his pillow, across his chest, across her chest, playing hide and seek with her lovely, billowy breasts. They could be his pillow, his… They could be his.

Gwen would murder him.

Ellianne would do worse, judging from how gun-shy Strickland was.

And he would despise himself, instead of merely being ashamed of his brain's wicked imaginings and his body's wayward reactions. Damnation, when had Ellianne—he could not call her Miss Kane when he was calling on every ounce of his willpower not to kiss the inside of her arm, where her glove ended and the tiny sleeve of her gown began—when had Ellianne Kane gone from she-witch to siren? By George, it was deuced unfair. And dashed uncomfortable.

She was smiling now at the Duchess of Williston, who, it turned out, had known her mother. She'd also known his mother. Her Grace knew almost everyone and everything, in fact. Judging by her narrowed eyes, that included his dishonorable thoughts. How could he be censured for wanting to answer the most stunning invitation he'd ever seen? His body was ready to send a reply posthaste. In fact, he feared, more haste than post.

Her Grace did not say anything but give him a silent warning. She patted Ellianne's cheek and said, “Brava, my girl. Brava.”

How come a duchess could touch her skin and a viscount couldn't? Hell and damnation, no one could blame him for wanting to. A man would have to be dead not to desire this woman.

Speaking of the dead, Sir John Thomasford was the next guest to be announced.

The coroner's adviser was impeccably dressed in dark formal wear, gleaming from his pomaded hair to the diamond stickpin in his neckcloth to the silver buckles on his shoes. His hair was slicked back from his high forehead again, as if all the scientific knowledge he spouted had swelled his brainbox. Then again, his forehead seemed a shade higher to Stony, as if the maggot from the morgue was losing his hair. Now wasn't that too bad?

Sir John oozed over Ellianne's fingers, and nearly left grease on Gwen's glove when she hurried over to meet the man Miss Kane liked enough to invite. Gwen gave the knight her brightest smile, and Stony almost gave his dear stepmama a shove back to Lord Strickland's side. As for Miss Kane, Stony was not letting her out of his sight or away from his side, not when he knew every man in the room had to be as bewitched as he was. Who knew what a man in lust might do? Stony knew what he wanted to do, and knew he would not do it, but who could predict the behavior of a man whose avocation was atrocities? He mistrusted that glint in Sir John's eyes and his curling lip that wasn't quite a smile.

According to Gwen, the man was single and respectable, with an adequate income to support a wife, not that anyone wedding the Kane heiress would have to worry about his income. He was of an age where a man had to think seriously of starting his nursery…and he sent Ellianne books about slayings. No, Sir John was not getting near Ellianne, not while Stony was acting as her escort.

As for Ellianne, she seemed pleased at the new arrival, as if counting him another friend among so many strangers. Stony could actually see her shoulders relax. The peagoose who considered herself so downy was too innocent to tell a vulture from a dove. Luckily she had Stony to play watch hawk. He all but sprouted beak and talons when Sir John held out his hand and asked, “Recovered now, are you?”

Even the man's voice sounded oily at such close quarters, deep but too smooth. Stony did not want to be in the same room with a man who dabbled in death, much less shake his hand. He could not refuse without causing a scene at Gwen's party, though. Ellianne was already looking at him quizzically. He straightened his thick blond curls before offering his hand in return. “Quite recovered,” he said, giving his hair one last gloating pat. “That was a momentary weakness, don't you know. I had not yet broken my fast that day when Miss Kane's message arrived.”

“Thank heaven,” the man said as he stepped away, making room for the next arrival. Stony could swear he heard his companion giggle. Perhaps he ought to let the silly gudgeon swim with the sharks, after all. Or was that fly with the falcons?

By order of precedence, Stony was supposed to escort the duchess into dinner, once everyone had assembled. Miss Kane, as daughter of a knight, was far back, according to etiquette. She was to go in on Sir John's arm.

Like hell she would.

Stony managed to spill a drop of sherry on his shirt cuff, necessitating a delay while he dabbed at the spot with a dampened cloth. He begged Comte Villanoire, one of Gwen's steadfast but threadbare admirers, to escort Her Grace in his stead. Gwen was frantically reassigning dinner partners, trying to match fathers' titles and husbands' standings to the appropriate escort. This was precisely what she had slaved for hours over to get correct, so none of the matrons, dear Ellianne's would-be hostesses, could feel slighted. Now it was all higgledy-piggledy, a poor reflection on her hospitality.

Stony felt guilty when he saw her bottom lip start to quiver. Lud, was he reduced to upsetting Gwen over a thirty-foot walk to the dining room? Yes.

He finished his repairs in time to step in front of Sir John. “I seem to have made a mull of the entry order. Would you be a good fellow and escort Lady Valentina? I fear she'll be left with plain Mr. Camberly otherwise. Her father would be upset. Very high in the instep, Earl Patten is.”

With Lady Valentina standing by the door, Sir John could not refuse. He bowed, said “My lady,” and offered his arm. Which left Stony to escort Ellianne, which made Gwen's agitation almost forgivable, in his mind, at least. He got to listen to the swish of Ellianne's silk and lace skirts against his legs. He'd listen to Gwen's complaints later.

He could not do anything about the seating arrangements. The Duchess of Williston was on his right; Ellianne was on his left, with Sir John beyond her. Lud, Stony hoped the man was not going to discuss slaughters during the soup course.

Because the table was so long and so cluttered with candelabra and the monstrous silver epergne Stony had spent a day polishing, conversation could not be general. No one could see down the length of the linen cloth, much less converse across the middle of it, except at the head, deuce take it, and the foot, where Gwen sat between Strickland and Lord Aldershott, whose wife happened to be hosting a ball next week.

The duchess could be trusted to lead the talk at their end of the table, thank goodness, so Sir John could not chat about hangings over the halibut in oyster sauce. A kind woman, Her Grace was known for her ease at polite discourse with everyone, from the prince himself to the palest, most bashful young miss making her come-out. That was one of the reasons Stony and Gwen had invited her to meet Miss Kane. The dowager always knew what to say.

Not tonight. Tonight Her Grace uttered the worst possible comment: She praised the meal. “I cannot remember having a finer dinner, Wellstone. Your chef is to be complimented, and you for having the perspicacity to hire such an artist.”

Stony hated to say it. The duchess had to know how matters stood with him, that he could never afford a high-priced French chef. Gads, he'd squired two of her grandnieces last year, and had a load of coal delivered, with her regards. The comte, on Her Grace's other side, was without a feather to fly with, so his opinion did not matter. The way he was eating was no credit to the cook; this might have been his only decent meal for the week. Miss Kane, of course, knew the truth. But Sir John Thomasford?

The eel in aspic turned to ashes in Stony's mouth. He swallowed anyway and admitted, “I wish I could accept your gracious flattery, Duchess, but, alas, the maestro is courtesy of Miss Kane. She was good enough to lend us her chef's services for the evening.” The man had been in the kitchens here for days, cooking foods also provided, Stony supposed, by Miss Kane, with helpers from Miss Kane's household. Gwen had made the arrangements and the viscount had not wanted to inquire too closely, polishing the silver and his pride in the butler's pantry. Pride? His was as flattened now as the lobster patty on his plate. At least the dishes were his.

Ellianne quickly leaped into the quagmire of the awkward silence. “Oh, no. It was Lady Wellstone who did me the favor. The chef was threatening to leave my employ if I did not give him a chance to display his skills. We barely entertain at Sloane Street, since we are in mourning and know so few people, being new to town, so there was little enough for the man to do.”