Elizabeth Powell (10 page)

“You mean, how many have a title,” Pen sulked, wrapping her arms around her body. “The sole measure of a man’s worth. Never mind kindness or intelligence or character.”

“Well, how many?” Jane persisted.

Pen sighed. “About half, I should say.”

“Excellent. And how many of those gentlemen made a favorable impression on you?”

Her sister sat up. “What are you getting at, dearest?”

“Answer the question.”

Penelope appeared to make a quick mental tally. “Six or seven.”

“How many of those gentlemen would you like to see again?”

“All of them, I suppose. Jane, what—”

Jane thrust the List into her sister’s hands. “Well, then, there is hope, is there not? If you do not wish to see yourself wed to a seventy-year-old roué with false teeth and a creaking corset, then it is up to you to do something about it. You cannot mope about all day; if you lie about and do nothing, Mama is sure to take matters into her own hands, and neither of us wants that.”

“No—you are right.” Pen straightened and opened the book.

“Now … who comes to mind first?” Jane prompted.

Penelope removed the pencil from its loop. “What about Viscount Langley?”

Jane tried to ignore the way her heart turned over at the mention of his name. “All right—what about him?”

“I hope you are not cross with me for asking him to dance with you.”

“No—as long as it does not happen too often. I know what you were up to, Pen, and it won’t fadge. I am not interested in these London fribbles.” Jane crossed her fingers and hid them in the folds of her skirt. “You must think about yourself for a change.”

“Dearest, I—”

Jane shook her head. “What did you think of him?”

“Oh … yes.” Pen scribbled a few lines in the book. “I admit I was hesitant at first, remembering how Mama had sung his praises without having the slightest knowledge of his character. She had done the same with the Earl of Haydon, and we both know how
he
turned out. But upon closer examination, I must say I thought the viscount
very handsome and cordial. Still, he danced with you only once.”

“Penelope.” Jane forced her voice to remain level. “If you are going to judge the worth of your admirers, do so on how many times they wish to dance with
you
, not with me.”

Her sister flushed. “Yes, but I will not give any thought to a man who slights you because you are not as—as—well …”

Jane rolled her eyes. “Oh, for pity’s sake, stop this roundaboutation and say it. Because I am not as beautiful as you are. I do not begrudge you your looks, Pen. I never have. Not everyone can be a diamond of the first water—it would lessen their value. But I comprehend your meaning. Anyone who sees only beauty is not worth having.”

Pen nodded. “Quite right. So far he appears rather promising. What about you? What is your opinion of him?”

Jane shifted a bit on her chair. “I found him—I found him not at all what I expected.”

“How so?”

“Well, given the gossip we have heard, I thought he would be an unrepentant rakehell—”

“Jane!”

“Well, I did.”

Her eyes widened. “And is he?”

“No. Not at all. He is merely—incorrigible.”

Pen frowned. “You are speaking in riddles, dearest.”

Jane nearly bit her tongue at the slip. “What I mean to say is that his wit may be wicked, and he may try a bit too hard to be charming, but he has a kind heart. He might bear closer consideration.”

“Does the ‘wicked wit’ fall under Merits or Drawbacks?” Pen glanced up from her writing.

“Both.”

Penelope finished with a flourish. “Done.” Then she hesitated, pencil poised. “As long as we are on the subject of Lord Langley, what do you think of his friends?”

“Why do you ask? We cannot add them to the List, for neither has a title.”

Pen lowered her eyes. “True, but some say you can judge a man by the company he keeps.”

“If that is the case, what does that say about the viscount? His friends are—well—singular individuals. Take Lord Nigel, for example.”

“You do not like him?”

Jane wrinkled her nose. “He is a vain, toplofty peacock. And no, I do not like him. The other one, though, the dark-haired gentleman—what was his name?”

“Mr. Havelock.”

“He seemed quite kind. And he is very amiable. I noticed you spoke with him at length last night.”

“He owns a fleet of ships and has recently been to the West Indies. He was telling me tales of all the exotic places to which he has traveled.”

“He is in trade?” Jane frowned. A duke’s younger brother and a shipowner—how did Lord Langley come to make such dissimilar acquaintances? “Careful, Pen. Mama will box your ears if she learns you’ve been hobnobbing with a Cit.”

Her sister lifted one shoulder in a negligent shrug. “He is Lord Langley’s friend, so I did not believe she would object too much. Besides, I found his conversation most diverting, which is more than I can say for some of the other gentlemen present. Speaking of whom … about the Earl of Wychford …”

Another hour passed before they finished updating the List to Penelope’s satisfaction. With that accomplished,
Jane rose, stretched, and smoothed a few errant locks of hair away from her eyes.

“Well, Pen?” she asked. “Was I right? Is the situation not nearly as bleak as you imagined?”

Penelope closed the journal. “Yes, you were right, dearest, but you need not look so smug about it.”

Jane made no effort to conceal her grin. “Then tell me—who is your most likely prospect?”

“Though it may astound you, I have to say Viscount Langley. Can you believe it? After Mama went to such lengths to recommend him to me, and I went to such lengths to avoid him because of it! When I meet him next, for I am certain I will, I might even encourage him.” Amusement glinted in her green eyes.

“Mama will be ecstatic,” Jane drawled.

“Ecstatic? She will want to dash out and buy my wedding clothes this very minute!”

The two of them giggled and chattered away like schoolgirls until McBride rapped at the chamber door. At the sound of the dresser’s voice, Pen jumped up from her chair and tucked the List beneath her mattress.

“In a moment,” she called.

Jane gathered herself to leave, and Penelope whispered, “Thank you, dearest. I do not know what I should do without you.”

Jane smiled. “Well, I could not stand by and watch you fret and moan and wring your hands like one of the featherheaded heroines in those Minerva Press novels of yours. You would drive us both mad.”

Pen’s eyes sparkled. “Do you suppose we will see Lord Langley tonight?”

“I should be very surprised if we did not. I would not put it past Mama to have sent him a schedule of our social activities.”

Penelope stifled a laugh. “Then I shall have to remember to act surprised.”

Heartened by the cheerfulness in her sister’s voice, Jane excused herself and crossed the hall to her own room. McBride would attend to Lady Portia first, then to Penelope, then to her last of all, which left her a brief period of welcome solitude before they resumed their social whirlwind.

She went to the window that overlooked the garden and gazed down at the neatly laid out patterns of blooms and greenery. She should not be so surprised that Pen favored Viscount Langley over the other bachelors on the List; he was everything Penelope desired in a husband. And with her beauty and sweetness, Pen was certainly everything the viscount could desire in a wife.

At last her sister had found a gentleman who seemed to appreciate her for who she was, rather than for her twenty-five thousand pounds. A gentleman who could very well steal her heart. A gentleman who would adore and protect her for the rest of her life.

She was thrilled for Pen, truly she was. But why, beneath the happiness, did she feel so empty?

Sebastian sauntered through the front door of his town house, whistling, and handed his hat and gloves to a startled footman. Who would have thought a few days would make such a difference? He was making progress with the beauteous Penelope at last; her green eyes had sparkled with pleasure when he’d presented her with a wrapped box of Valencia oranges and another of hothouse strawberries. She had agreed to go driving with him in Hyde Park. She had even danced with him.

In fact, he had made so much progress that he decided the time had come to make a more daring move: just a
few hours ago, at the Peterboroughs’ ball, he had waltzed Miss Rutledge out onto an empty, shadowed balcony and kissed her.

As kisses went, it was not the most stellar of his career, but it had been a start. Miss Rutledge had held perfectly still, her lips soft and pliant beneath his. Other than a slight catch in her breath, however, she did not react at all. He may as well have bussed a marble statue. But she had not pulled away from him or balked in any way. When he pulled his head back, she had looked up at him, a surprised expression on her beautiful face, and said, “That was—nice.”

Nice? He had been as tender and gentle as he could so as not to frighten her, but—nice? He would rather face down a French firing squad than have his kisses described in such a tepid manner. Passionate, dizzying, intoxicating, yes—
nice
was not in his repertoire. Usually. She appeared to enjoy it, though, so he would settle for that. For now, at least.

One person, however, had not thought him nice at all.

Once he had returned Miss Rutledge to her mother, Jace had dragged him aside, his expression stormy.

“What did you do to her?” Havelock demanded.

“I beg your pardon?” Sebastian asked, puzzled. Rarely was his even tempered friend so snappish. “Do to whom?”

“You known damn well to whom. To Miss Rutledge! You disappeared out onto the balcony with her, then brought her back with her face flushed and her gown rumpled.”

“I had no idea you had been observing us so closely,” the viscount drawled.

His friend reddened. “I was watching your back, Sebastian. Someone had to, obviously.”

“Cut line, Jace. All I did was kiss her.”

“You kissed her?” Havelock repeated in outraged tones.

“Yes. Is that so extraordinary?”

“Do you care nothing for the lady’s reputation? What if someone saw you? You could have ruined her.”

“Devil take it, man, lower your voice,” Sebastian said with a low growl.

Havelock seemed to collect himself, but the line of his jaw remained taut. “Or was that your strategy from the start?”

The viscount’s eyes narrowed. “What are you implying?”

“Did you intend to compromise the lady so that she will have to marry you?”

Sebastian folded his arms over his chest. “I am not so desperate that I would resort to such villainy, and you know it.”

“Oh, really?” Havelock did not look convinced in the least.

“What is this all about, Jace?”

“She’s a sweet young lady, Sebastian. I do not wish to see her hurt.”

“Hurt?” The viscount peered at his friend as though the man had sprouted feathers. “I am not going to hurt her, Jace. I need her. Or, rather, I need her blunt.”

“Just don’t do anything you might regret,” Havelock muttered, then stalked off through the crowd.

Hours later, this scene still preyed on Sebastian’s mind. He walked down the hall to Alex’s study—
his
study—and poured himself a glass of port. It was unlike Jace to behave so strangely. What had gotten into him? He had sounded almost—jealous. Had he formed a
tendre
for the lady? The viscount shook his head. Lady Portia
had mandated that Miss Rutledge marry a peer, which left Jace out of the running.

Sebastian sipped at his drink. Once the lovely Penelope had been removed from the Marriage Mart, perhaps his friend would consider paying court to Jane, instead. He frowned. Havelock and Jane were level headed, admirable people, but somehow the thought of his solemn little imp with Jace made him uneasy. In fact, the thought of her with anyone made him uneasy. Why?

He shook himself. He would not think about it now; he must concentrate on his courtship of Miss Rutledge. All he had to do was survive a few more evenings’ worth of tedious Society functions, for on Thursday next he was engaged to escort the Rutledge ladies to Vauxhall, where, if everything went as planned, he would sweep Miss Rutledge off her feet and ask her to marry him in a way she could not possibly refuse. His smile melded with the rim of his glass. She did not know it yet, but she was in for the surprise of her life.

Despite Penelope’s breezy assurances to the contrary, Jane could not rid herself of the notion that something was troubling her sister.

To begin with, over the past few days Pen had begun to act in a very un-Penelope-like manner. Although in public nothing seemed amiss, at home her sister’s attention wandered; she seemed preoccupied even in the midst of conversation. She tended to gaze off into space, her gaze dull and clouded. She left her needlework in the oddest places; more than once Jane discovered Pen’s embroidery hoop resting on the music stand of the pianoforte or on one of the bookshelves in the library. She had not mentioned adding any new entries to the List—in fact, she had stopped talking about it altogether. Yet, whenever Jane tried to speak with her about the cause of her distraction, Pen merely brightened, smiled, and insisted that nothing was wrong.

What had brought about these odd starts? It was not like Pen to brood or succumb to fits of melancholy. Something had happened—but what?

Pen had been fine up until the night of the Peterboroughs’ ball. Whatever had upset her sister, it had occurred
that evening. Jane pressed her fingertips to her temples and tried to remember everything that had transpired during the course of that night.

Heartened by their discussion of the List, Penelope had gone to great lengths to overcome her shyness around Lord Langley; she had even agreed to waltz with him. Jane had watched her sister float past in the arms of the handsome viscount, her face aglow with such pleasure that Jane’s own heart gave a suspicious twinge. Then the couple had whirled around to the far side of the ballroom floor, out of sight, and the dance ended soon thereafter.