Gayle Buck (24 page)

Lord St. John set her firmly away from him. “I am happy that you are pleased, Mrs. Applegate. The details are already worked out, but I shall leave the explanation of them to Mr. Applegate.”

Mrs. Applegate clapped a hand to her mouth. “La, Mr. Applegate! I must see him at once. I don’t know whether I am on my head or my heels! Dear Mary, I must go. No, don’t trouble to show me out for I quite feel myself to be at home.” Gathering up her reticule and gloves, Mrs. Applegate exited, leaving the door agape.

Chapter 22

Lord St. John closed the door and turned to regard his wife. She met his cool appraisal with obviously hard-held composure, for her hands were clenched at her sides. He sauntered to the wingback opposite her and dropped into it carelessly. “You are silent, my lady. Have you nothing to say?”

“I do not wish you to set my sister up in a shop,” she said tightly.

Lord St. John shrugged, an indifferent look coming over his face. “It is already done, my lady. I could not undo it even if I wished. Your father had the contracts drawn up, signed, and witnessed not an hour past.”

Mary took an agitated turn about the room. “My lord, you can have no notion what you have let yourself in for! Before-before you came in, Lady Pothergill and Mrs. Nessering had the pleasure of my sister’s company. You may imagine with what satisfaction they left. Indeed, they fairly itched to spread far and wide the intelligence that Lord St. John possesses the most vulgar sister-in-law imaginable!”

“I believe that my credit can withstand one such ignoble report,” said Lord St. John.

Mary turned swiftly. “My lord, can you actually believe that it will end there?” She tried to laugh, but it ended on a choked sob. “Tabitha and her husband are determined to make themselves known to the
ton
and in the process they will bring ridicule to your name.”

“They will have difficulty doing so in Rio de Janeiro,” remarked Lord St. John.

“Rio de Janeiro?” repeated Mary, uncomprehending.

“Mr. Pepperidge most fortuitously has connections in that thriving colonial metropolis and he is even acquainted with some members of the exiled Portuguese court. Unfortunately, the Portuguese do not have access to a talented English milliner. Mr. Applegate saw at once the advantages of a fashionable establishment in such a setting,” said Lord St. John.

“South America?” Mary stared at him. “The shop is going to be in South America?”

Lord St. John rose from the chair and closed the distance between himself and his wife. He possessed himself of her hands, turning them palm upward. “I seem to recall an angry imprint on Mrs. Applegate’s cheek.”

Mary flushed, her shame once more rising in her. “I lost my temper, I am afraid. It is not my usual style, I assure you.”

“I did not think that it was,” said Lord St. John. He treated her to the rare sight of his flashing grin. “You are a constant surprise to me, my lady. I discover a hidden vein of passion in you where I thought there was none.”

Mary realized he had not looked at her in just that way for a very long time. The pulse beat in her throat. “Have I seemed such a poor creature to you, my lord?”

His smile faded, taking on a shade of grimness that had not been there before. He dropped her hands and stepped away. In a clipped voice, he said, “On the contrary. You are more than I ever expected.” He turned away to leave her.

His hand was already on the knob when she stopped him. “My lord!”

He waited, his brows raised in inquiry. Under that steady, cool regard, she faltered. “I-I wished to express my thanks to you, my lord. I do not know what I would have done if you had not stepped in just now. My sister is temperamental in the extreme when her will is crossed. She would have left here probably to do something that would have had uncomfortable consequences for us all.”

Lord St. John acknowledged her with the slightest of bows. His eyes held an ironic light. “Without your father’s intervention, I would have known nothing of the matter. Isn’t that what you desired, my lady?”

“I did not wish for you to be subjected to the embarrassment that my sister and her husband would have caused if they had remained in London,” said Mary. She was confused by his manner. It almost seemed that he was disappointed in her, but she could not understand how that could be.

“Yet that embarrassment, as you put it,
would
have been mine if your father had not put me into the picture,” said Lord St. John levelly.

Mary realized that she had insulted his pride by going to her father instead of confiding in him. This, coming on top of her misadventure the day before, had obviously served to snap his tolerance. She drew a breath, unhappily aware that she deserved his censure. She said quietly, “I am sorry, my lord. I should have sought you out regarding both this coil and Sir Nigel’s behavior. I shall know better another time that I can come to you.”

He gave a short, harsh laugh. “My dear, it is my devout hope that there will not be another time. Are you engaged for the theater tonight?”

The color had flooded her cheeks at his sharp reply and Mary felt ready to sink. “Yes, my lord. Lady Heatherton was kind enough to include me in her party.”

“You have cause to be grateful to Lady Heatherton. It seems that she has publicly expressed censure against Sir Nigel for his unsavory habit of fleecing green youths, and to such effectiveness that it is anticipated that the baron will be barred in future from polite society,” said Lord St. John.

Mary slowly whitened as the significance of what he had said penetrated to her. “It is because of what happened yesterday?”

“Do you care so much what the gentlemen has reaped, ma’am?”

Mary jumped at the fury in his tone. She grasped the back of the settee. “I regret very much that I had anything at all to do with it.”

Lord St. John nodded. He hesitated, as though he had in mind something more to say concerning the matter. But he did not.

Instead, he said curtly, “I will not be joining you for dinner this evening. I am engaged at my club tonight.”

He turned on his heel, not daring to trust himself to keep his hands off her, and exited the drawing room.

The gaming was hot and deep that night at the club and lasted well into the early morning hours. The card rooms were thick with smoke. Vast quantities of brandy and port had been consumed and lent a flush to otherwise pale countenances. Heavy-lidded eyes glittered feverishly at each throw of the dice or turn of a card. Harsh oaths were uttered whenever the gamester’s mistress, Lady Luck, hid her face.

More than one fortune had changed hands under that august roof when Lord St. John and Mr. Underwood rose from their own game and amiably parted from their cronies. They were making their leisurely way through the card rooms toward the front of the house when a disastrously clear voice cut through the acrid air and the low murmur of conversation.

“I hear that the new viscountess is good for any number of tumbles.”

Lord St. John stopped short, his head turning toward the source of the subsequent laughter that met with this sally. Mr. Underwood caught his arm, expressing himself pithily and urgently but he paid no heed. Lord St. John quietly made his way toward a certain table. At his passing, gentlemen raised their heads from their cards, at once scenting something of impending interest.

“‘Tis the truth, I swear,” the gentleman insisted as the amused expressions of his tablemates faded. “She’s said to have invited Smythe into the hackney.”

Opposite the speaker, a gentleman coughed. “Mistake, Lawton. Lady Caroline Eddington was seen with the viscountess, you know.”

Lord St. John came up to the gentlemen. “You interest me profoundly—Lawton, is it not? Pray continue, sir.”

The gentleman started, staring up at the viscount with something akin to horror. “My lord!”

Lord St. John smiled, ever so slightly. “Yes, it is I. But pray continue, Mr. Lawton. I am certain I shall find your further remarks most... enlightening.”

The viscount’s expression was such that those around about ceased their desultory conversation. At table after table the fashionable abandoned interest in their pursuit of fortune or folly to witness the spontaneous entertainment.

Mr. Lawton was sweating. He wondered how he had not noticed before the closeness of the air. Meeting the viscount’s compelling gaze, he cursed the idle impulse that had brought him to White’s and, even more, his wretched lack of timing. Of course he would never have said what he had if he had known that Lord St. John was within hearing.

However, the combined effects of self-pity and several glasses of brandy worked upon him and through his embarrassment and discomfort a spurt of tipsy anger surfaced. Aye, and what was Weemswood even doing in the club when everyone knew that the Earl of Cowltern had set about to blackball him.

The viscount had his share of temerity, but that could be overlooked compared with this other disgrace. It was beyond anything, so it was, when a gentleman had to watch his words over some trumpery merchant’s daughter.

The angered thought was followed fast by a rush of blustering words. “Really, my lord, I hardly understand what this heat is all about. I have but expressed the opinion of a great many personages. The viscountess is but the product of her low breeding.”

A vein throbbed in Lord St. John’s forehead. He was white about the mouth, which was held in a thin, hard slash. “Have you indeed, sir?”

Mr. Lawton spread his hands in a deprecating manner.

Lord St. John’s eyes were very cold as his glance swept round the expectant, hushed circle. A curious smile touched his lips, lending the wildness in his expression a diabolical cast. His voice heavy with irony, he said, “Then certainly I am indebted to you, sir, for making everything plain to me.”

Mr. Underwood clamped a heavy hand on the viscount’s shoulder, saying warningly, “Sinjin—”

Lord St. John bit off a savage laugh. “I am not such a fool as to kill him here, Carey!”

Mr. Lawton suddenly turned two shades paler.

Lord St. John addressed the gentlemen who had so foolishly insulted his wife. “You shall be my example, sir. Send your seconds round to Underwood here. He shall act for me.”

He turned on his heel, his cold glance once more sweeping about him. Those who stood in front of him parted a way like magic before him.

Through the haze of disbelief and horror that threatened to engulf him, Mr. Lawton bleated, “The choice of weapons is naturally mine, my lord!”

Lord St. John glanced back, flicking the gentleman with indifference. “Choose what you will! It will be all the same in the end.”

With that devastating pronouncement, he was gone.

Mr. Underwood remained only long enough to give his card, engraved with his direction, to the benumbed Mr. Lawton before he, too, departed from the card room. With his exit, the heavy silence was broken by a hubbub of talk.

A few gentlemen commiserated with Mr. Lawton over his ill luck, but he heard them with a curiously blank look in his eyes. Others of the company were not so compassionate. They shook their heads somberly or else regarded Mr. Lawton with mingled contempt and amusement.

Opinions ran thick and fast, breaking over Mr. Lawton’s head like a cold deluge.

“Too bad, Lawton. Weemswood is such a devilish good shot.”

“Heard that he nearly killed the last fellow he met.”

“No, no, that was the one before. This last was with that fellow, Hargrove. Pinked him, of course, as it was only for a wager.”

“Aye, nothing of this sort. He’s mad for it this time around.”

“The man’s wife, you know.”

“Shan’t take above a minute or two, with swords, I should think.”

“Lawton’ll choose pistols, I’ll warrant.”

“No such thing! He’d be a fool to do so! They’ll cross swords.”

“A monkey against it!”

“Done! Where’s the book?”

Having been rendered quite sober from the appalling encounter, which had lasted but seconds, Mr. Lawton got up from his chair and carefully made his way through the company. No one stopped him with word or glance, a sort of unspoken pact in effect which allowed him to crawl away while the question of swords or pistols was still hotly debated and cries rang out for the betting book to be brought forward.

Mr. Lawton tottered from the club, in his mind a man already dead.

Chapter 23

News of the anticipated duel flashed through the
ton.
It was thought a bad business, but titillating in the extreme. What a delicious turn-up, that the care-for-nothing viscount should go to such lengths to scotch any ill-conceived words about his ill-born shopkeeper wife.

Naturally the challenge he had flung out had been quite plain to every gentleman present. Mr. Lawton was to be held up as the sacrificial lamb as a warning to any others who dared to malign his lordship’s chosen lady.

The whole matter was of such interest that some gentlemen so far forgot themselves that they let drop hints of the impending scandal to their ladies. The ladies instantly embellished the story with every nonsense that occurred to their fertile imaginations. It quickly became the
on dit
of the season.

Lord St. John was so freakish of temper and quite deadly when roused, one had always heard, ever ready for any mad piece of work. His lordship’s pride was a byword, too; how it must gall the viscount to be obliged to shield the honor of his name on behalf of a wife whose background was so beneath his own.

There was certainly nothing in the rumored tryst between Lady St. John and Sir Nigel Smythe, more’s the pity; but Lady Caroline Eddington had obviously not known a thing about the hackney tale when she had unwittingly vouched for the viscountess.

However reluctant Lady Pothergill was to let go of a good morsel of gossip, she had had no choice in the matter and so she had hedged her disappointment with an expression of relief. “Naturally I was glad to discover there was no truth in it. One cannot be too careful in taking these little rumors at face value, for one never knows when one has been misinformed,” she remarked starchily.