A Perfect Gentleman (5 page)

He stepped closer, took up her hand and squeezed it, then tilted her chin so she had to look up at him. “Tell me truly, Gwen, was there a gentleman you would have accepted if you were free to choose? One whom you regret turning down?” If the fellow wasn't already married, Stony would have him on his knees in Gwen's parlor before the gudgeon knew what happened to him. “One that you could love?”

She patted his cheek, then frowned, for he had not shaved yet. “Silly boy, you must know I would have seen you married by hook or by crook if I had found a gentleman I was that desperate to wed. But no, I never met a man I liked half as well as your father.”

“What, an old reprobate who gambled away your dowry, as well as my mother's and his own inheritance, on horses and the Exchange and every mad scheme that came along? He left you with nothing.”

“He left me with you. And he was so good to me for the years we had together. I did not have to marry him, you know. My parents were not very well off, but they were not pushing me to make a match that Season. No, I chose your father for myself, and I never regretted that decision. I know we were irresponsible with the money that should have come to you, but we had such good times until….”

Stony reached for his handkerchief before he realized he'd already given it to her. He usually carried two, for such emergencies, but was not fully dressed yet.

“You are very much like him, you know,” Gwen said, dabbing at her eyes.

Stony leaped back, stung. “I am?”

“Yes, you have the same ability to make whatever woman you are with feel like the only woman you wish to be with, if that makes sense.”

It did, after a moment. “But he meant it. Father didn't need a young bride. He already had an heir, and he had his wom— That is, he was not bored or lonely. He truly loved you.”

“I know. That's why none of those other gentlemen measured up. And that is what I was always waiting for you to find with your next dance partner, the next pretty passenger in your curricle.”

“The next heiress?”

“Why not?”

* * *

Why not? Because he already disliked the woman, sight unseen. Her manner was brusque and authoritative, as though she were used to having her every command obeyed on the instant. Arrogance, that was what Stony deduced from Miss Kane's short note, and arrogance was his least favorite trait in a female. Why, the very brevity of the message was somehow condescending, as if she were too busy with matters of more serious concern to be bothered with a mere paid companion.

Lord Wellstone
,
it began, without a courtesy salutation. That lack alone spoke more than any words could have.

I wish to engage your services to escort my aunt and myself about London.
Well, that was to the point. Trust a banker's daughter to get to the bottom line in a hurry. The woman obviously did not believe in subtlety, veiling her request in pretenses of prior friendship or mutual acquaintanceship or some such to preserve his pride. Obviously his dignity held no place in her reckoning.

Worse, she had included a handsome fee, as if he'd already accepted. Or would not think of refusing. Or could not. The research she must have done to discover his name and the nature of his services might also have uncovered his financial difficulties. Lud, for all Stony knew, Miss Kane had a complete accounting of his bank statements, as a favor from one banking establishment to another. Then again, the servants' grapevine might have been enough to reveal his so-called profession and his so-real insolvency. Damn.

Please call at Number Ten Sloane Street as soon as possible.
At least she had written
please
,
so the female was not entirely without manners. She had not, however, mentioned his earliest convenience, an invitation to tea, or the possibility of his declining. She was hiring a blasted servant, by God, and saw no reason to be polite.

Unless she spoke to all men that way, Stony speculated. Perhaps the heiress was so accustomed to toadeaters and fortune-hunters that she despised the entire male species. That was it, he decided. Miss Kane had to be one of those starched up females who thought all men were swine, good only to serve as obedient butlers and strong-backed blacksmiths. The only reason she was not content to have a footman shadow her on her sightseeing and shopping excursions was that no footman, no mere servant, no matter how bent on catering to her every wish, could get her access to the exclusive entertainments of the London social Season.

With the aunt dead, the banker's daughter had no one to make her known to the important hostesses, no one to seek vouchers to Almack's exclusive Wednesday assemblies for her. With the stink of trade fumigated by her father's knighthood, masked by the marquessate connection, and perfumed by a fortune, Miss Kane could be accepted by all but the highest sticklers—with the proper introductions. Without them, she could never get to look over the latest crop of highborn bachelors, if she was indeed husband hunting.

The aunt had never married, and this female, if Gwen's information was correct, had even more brass at her fingertips, therefore less need to put herself under some gentleman's thumb. Stony could not picture the author of this note taking her place as the demure bride of some overbearing boor.

Yet why else would the woman come to London? If her reasons were legal or financial, to do with her aunt's estate, say, her man of business would be ample attendant. Fashions? She could have the finest dressmaker in the kingdom come to her. The opera? The theater? Possibly, and both of those venues truly were more comfortable with a gentleman escort. But a countrywoman craving culture? Stony doubted it. No, Miss Coin must be shopping the marriage mart, likely looking for the highest title, connected to the weakest backbone.

He went back to the letter.

Yrs.
,
she signed the note.

His?

Hah!

Chapter Four

All of Stony's theories about Miss Kane, he acknowledged, were no more than idle speculation. And a way to avoid actually calling on the woman.

He even convinced himself that he had to do more research before accepting this prospective employer, that his antipathy toward her was merely a product of his resentment at his own situation. He hated being dependent on the whims of anyone, man or woman. A woman at the reins was worse, he admitted to himself, but he should not hold that against Miss Kane.

He could not convince himself to look forward to meeting her, no matter how he tried. No, what he actually, honestly felt was that the woman was too deuced sure of herself. She could dashed well wait another day before he dutifully presented himself in her drawing room. Unless she expected him to use the trade entrance. He would use the time to gather information, as she seemed to have done about him.

The lending library might have stacks of reference books, but the best, most reliable knowledge, he knew, was to be found at pubs patronized by servants, smoking rooms frequented by gentlemen, and anywhere three or more females congregated. Stony sent his valet off to the taverns, and accompanied Gwen to the latest ball honoring Sir Charles and his newly affianced bride, Lady Valentina Pattendale.

Before getting down to the serious business of playing at detective, Stony had to dance with the guest of honor. Gwen insisted he had to partner Lady Valentina, and look like he was enjoying himself, to boot, to put an end to any gossip about her betrothal. His own reputation could be polished up a bit too, she claimed, by showing no hard feelings or ill will.

Stony did not have to feign his pleasure as Charlie's rosy-cheeked intended giggled and gurgled her way through the contra dance they shared. The chit was a lively, bouncy, cheery sort, one who would make Charlie a merry partner as they danced through life together.

Lady Val, as she asked Stony to call her, danced quickly, talked quickly, and was quick to hasten her marriage.

“I would not wish to move the date so far earlier that anyone will question the hurry, you understand, but as soon as can decently be.”

Stony understood perfectly. Odd, but he had never thought of weak-chinned Lord Charles as one to inspire burning, yearning need in a young girl's breast. Charlie did not, or at least Lady Valentina did not confide such intimate itches to Stony, thank goodness. No, the conniving wench was trying to persuade her parents to an earlier wedding date for another reason altogether.

“Then I can put off these insipid whites and pastels considered de rigueur for maidens. Charlie is going to help pick out my trousseau.” She grinned over at Lord Charles, who was beaming at them from the sidelines.

Charlie was wearing yellow pantaloons with red heeled slippers. He had on a green waistcoat embroidered with at least a flock of hummingbirds, and a wasp-waisted green coat the color of spinach. Ah, a match made in haberdasher's heaven!

Stony left the ballroom with the famous Wellstone smile on his handsome face. One young miss swooned to think the smile was for her. One older woman almost ripped her gown, tugging the bodice lower in case it might be. The viscount did not notice either of them. He was smiling simply out of happiness. He was happy that he had not consigned his friend to a lifetime of misery with a designing minx. He was happier even that he was not the one wedding the artful bit of…aristocracy. What made him really smile, though, was that he could now take himself off to pursue his own pleasures. With no obligation of employment, no commitments to partner the unpopular, and his duty dance finished, he was free to leave the ballroom.

When—if—he accepted Miss Kane's offer, he would be at her beck and call. Tonight he was off duty. Free. No more suffering the stifling heat, the overpowering perfumes, the jostling, or the jigs and reels. He could spend the rest of the evening, until Gwen was ready to leave, propping up a pillar, watching the other capering fellows make fools of themselves. Or he could stand by the refreshments table eating all the lobster patties and drinking himself insensible. He could blow a cloud or bet on the sex of Charlie's first child, or lose his pocket money at cards. He could even wait for a waltz and a willing widow.

By George, he could leave the carriage for Gwen and go visit that new house of accommodation, or the Green Room, or a gaming hell with dainty, available dealers. Instead of having a woman, he could go to his club and listen to gentlemen talk of politics, the military, and having a woman.

Somehow, none of those pastimes appealed to Stony. A good book and his own fireside sounded far more inviting. Perhaps he was getting old, as Gwen had hinted. Maybe he
should
settle down, before he settled into his dotage, too ancient to dance at his own wedding. He'd think about it, Stony resolved, as soon as he was through thinking about the Kane affair.

He wandered to the room set aside for gaming, but did not take a seat at any of the card tables. Once he had given up wagering for a living, games of chance did not interest him at all. Instead he walked around, a drink in his hand, chatting with various friends and acquaintances, laughing over Charlie's plunge into parson's mousetrap, the way bachelors were wont to do, as if their own time would never come.

Every once in a while, he asked one or another gentleman if he knew anything about the Chansford residence on Sloane Street. With Lady Augusta gone, he said, he was wondering if the place was for sale or to let, for those cousins of Gwen's.

He found out about three other houses recently come on the market, the names of two reputable land agents, one shabster to avoid, and the address of Lady Augusta's man of affairs. Other than that, not much information was to be had.

One of the cardplayers, Godfrey Blanchard, did guess that the niece must have inherited the place.

Stony sipped at his drink. “Oh? I never met any of Lady Augusta's nieces. I thought I knew most of the young females in Town.”

Blanchard laughed as he waited for the next hand to be dealt. “I don't know about any others, but you sure as Hades wouldn't have known this one. Lady Augusta kept the chit as close as bark on a tree. Afraid of the likes of you and me, I suppose.”

Blanchard's pockets were emptier than Stony's. The only reason he managed to remain in Town was that his family would rather pay to keep him there than have him at home. He tossed some chips across the table and said, “I think the chit's hand was already promised to someone, anyway. At least that's what the old cheeseparer's housekeeper told my landlady, explaining why she wasn't giving the girl a proper presentation. Too cheap, more likely, to foot the expense.”

“Any idea who the lucky chap might be?”

Blanchard shrugged. “Never heard. At any rate, the old lady grew too sickly to take the gal around much. Then she stuck her spoon in the wall.”

“I heard there was some question about that, too.” One of the other men at the table answered as he shuffled the deck. “The magistrate looked into it, as I recall. But he decided that since Lady Augusta was ailing, it did not matter if she hit her head and her heart stopped, or if she hit her head because her heart gave out. No one cared much either way, I suppose.”

“The niece must have cared.”