Lady Eve's Indiscretion (13 page)

“Ah, yes. Here we are.” Hooker bent over the folder, setting papers in various piles on his desk. “We are making quite good progress on the pleadings, your lordship. Bitters here is taking the lead.”

“I'd like to see the draft documents.”

Hooker straightened, his expression all benevolent concern. “My lord, you must understand, such an undertaking requires a command of arcane legal language, law Norman, knowledge of appropriate precedents, and a great deal of preparation.”

“Nigh two weeks have gone by since I indicated these papers were to be drawn up, sir. Show me the draft.”

Hooker's look of long-suffering should have been studied on Drury Lane. He passed over a single sheet of foolscap, which Deene took in at a glance.

“This is a list of cases.” And no date. The list might have been hastily tucked into the file in the past five minutes.

“One starts with the relevant precedents, my lord, and a good deal of research into how those cases bear on the present circumstances. As I said, this is an arcane and complicated legal undertaking. Allow me to say to you we are honored to ensure it will be handled in the most thorough and competent fashion possible.”

Deene unclenched his jaw and set the single piece of paper on the desk.

“Allow me to say, Hooker, that you will not be paid for all this painstaking research—which I do appreciate, of course—until such time as I have pleadings in my hand, suitable for submission to a court of appropriate jurisdiction. I bid you good day.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing Hooker's brows crash down.

“And, Hooker? One more thing. I dipped my toe in the law at university, at least to the extent a man likely some day to serve as magistrate ought to. Those cases listed on your precious paper relate to trade agreements and civil contracts. While not a lawyer, I'm hard put to understand how custody of a girl child involves those aspects of the law.”

For Deene to close the door softly on the way out was a small triumph and short lived. The truth of it was Hooker and his imps had been sitting on their backsides, swilling tea—or coffee—eating cakes, and doing exactly nothing to pry Georgie loose from the clutches of the climbing cit who called himself her father.

As Deene made his way to his horse, he found his mind turning to the nonlegal means of extricating Georgie from Dolan's custody. A concocted duel, a rigged card game, a flat-out kidnapping… each dishonorable, dangerous alternative was becoming increasingly tempting.

“If this isn't a providential blight on an otherwise fair spring day.” Dolan offered his brother-in-law a cheeky smile calculated to irritate his Royal Importance-ship no end. “Deene, good day to you.”

The marquis's rapid progress down the sidewalk halted. “Dolan, good day. I want to see my niece.”

Some burr had gotten under the saddle of Love's Young Dream—one of Marie's terms for her younger brother. His blue eyes were spitting fire, and his lean form was bristling with indignation.

“We don't always get what we want, your lordship.”

Deene was hanging onto his composure by a gratifyingly obvious thread, and yet a rousing set-to on the street—though mightily entertaining—would serve no one, least of all Georgina.

“Perhaps your lordship might explain to me why you want to see your niece?” Dolan turned and ambled along in the direction of Deene's travel. “Grown men don't typically associate voluntarily with small girls.”

Deene at least comprehended the need to avoid a scene—the English were predictable in this regard—for he fell in step beside Dolan.

“I do not have to explain my motives for seeking the occasional company of my sister's only offspring.”

It was an effective hit, but the wrong answer.

“Perhaps you need not explain your motives to God Almighty, your lordship, but I am the girl's father.” Oh, the pleasure of being able to say that so gently and implacably. Dolan considered brightening his future perambulations about Town with more frequent collisions with his benighted Lord Brother-In-Law.

Marie's wit was not the least of the attributes Dolan missed about his late wife.

“Let me put it this way, Dolan. Either I see her with your permission, or I will take any means necessary to see her without.”

“I'm quaking in my muddy bogtrottin' boots, your lordship.” Dolan let his brogue broaden perceptibly, then noticed no less a person than the Duchess of Moreland making a brisk progress down the street. “Heard your colt finally put that braying ass Islington in his place. One would hate to miss the rare opportunity to offer you a sincere compliment, Deene, particularly when the compliment can be rendered in public.”

“And my thanks for your kind observation is rendered just as publicly. At least tell me how Georgie goes on.”

Marie had always sworn her brother wasn't cut from the same cloth as the previous marquis and marchioness, but Marie was—had been—blind when it came to the people she loved. Dolan silently apologized to his wife's sainted memory, but allowed himself to doubt the sincerity of Deene's query.

“Georgina, as always, thrives in my care, Deene, and you'd better hope your colt never comes up against my Goblin.”

Deene's expression had become that bland, handsome mask of impassivity Dolan could only envy. The English were arrogant, ungrateful, and not to be trusted, and they could not be relied upon to turn up stupid at times that suited any but themselves.

“Your Grace.” Deene made a lovely little bow to the duchess, who bestowed a dazzling smile on the idiot.

“Deene, good day.” She turned, that smile still on her lips, and waited for Deene to handle the introductions.

A sweet moment, to be introduced to a duchess, and by no less than his own seething brother-in-law in view of all and sundry.

“Your Grace, may I make known to you my brother-in-law, Mr. Jonathan Dolan? Dolan, Esther, Duchess of Moreland.”

And abruptly, the sweet moment turned… tainted. For one instant, Dolan forgot how a man—a gentleman—behaved upon introduction to a duchess.

Deene had bowed. Dolan bowed to the same depth and came up with his best charming smile in place—Her Grace was an easy woman to smile at, pretty even at fifteen years Dolan's senior, with a palpable graciousness about her not typical of her kind.

Not that Dolan had been introduced to so very many duchesses.

“Mr. Dolan, a pleasure. My daughter was complimenting your Georgina just the other day. If raising my five girls is any indication, your daughter will soon be turning your hair gray and breaking hearts. Deene, I'll be expecting you for supper Tuesday next. The numbers won't balance if you decline.”

She murmured her good days in such dulcet, cultured tones Dolan could almost forgive her for being a damned duchess.

“I'd heard you were driving out with the woman's daughter. I wouldn't mind having the daughter of a duke for Georgina's aunt.”

Deene had recovered himself thoroughly. He aimed a stare at Dolan that felt uncomfortably pitying. “Dolan, there is more to choosing a wife than the benefit she brings you and your
bogtrotting
relations.”

“And do you number your sister's only child among those bogtrotting relations, Deene?”

They'd descended to insults that hit dangerously close to tender places, and lowered their voices accordingly. As Dolan watched his brother-in-law's handsome face, he reflected that learning to trade insults like a true English gentleman was not an accomplishment to be proud of.

“You had best hope your Goblin never finds himself running against King William. I would not want to have to explain to my niece why English bloodlines are superior to all others, even as they relate to lower species.”

Dolan smiled, so English was that insult.

“Perhaps you're right, my lord, at least when it comes to running fast. Shall we part on this cordial note between enthusiastic horsemen, or go another three rounds?”

For one disturbing moment, something bleak flickered through Deene's eyes.

“Good day, Dolan. Please give my compliments to Georgie and tell her I asked after her. You have my thanks as well for the flowers you keep on Marie's grave.”

“Good day, Deene.”

On that civil—and puzzling—note, they did part, though Dolan felt the need for a quiet place to sit and reflect on the entire conversation before administering the week's verbal beating to his solicitors.

Marie had loved her brother. It was probably accurate to say that upon being forced to marry Dolan, her brother was the
only
person she'd loved. Dolan could acknowledge that he and Deene had both loved Marie in return, though of course in quite different ways.

And yet, for the one moment when bleakness had flickered through Deene's eyes, Dolan would have sworn that they also shared another emotion where Marie was concerned, an emotion more burdensome than love.

Dolan had to wonder on what grounds the marquis might be entitled to feel guilt where his sister was concerned—if indeed that had been guilt Dolan had seen flickering in Deene's handsome blue eyes.

***

“Eve Windham, what on earth can you be poring over in here when any sane creature is outside on such a glorious day?”

Louisa sat herself—uninvited and unwelcome—right beside Eve on the small sofa.

“I'm making a list, if you must know.” Eve set the list aside, though she'd hardly kept her aims secret from her sisters.

“Of?” Louisa, having the advantage of greater reach, helped herself to Eve's scribblings. “These are names of men.”

“My sister is a genius.”

This provoked a grin as Louisa perused the admittedly short list. “These are single men, but what a group you've gathered on your paper, Eve. Trit-Trot; Sir Cleaveridge Oldman, better known as Old Sir Cleavage; Harold Enderbend, known to his familiars as Harold Elbowbend.” Louisa continued to study the list, her grin fading. “These are your white marriage knights, as it were?”

“They are a start.” Though it had taken Eve all morning to come up with even a half-dozen names.

“Scratch Trit-Trot off your list. Joseph says he gambles excessively.”

Eve took up the paper and did as Louisa suggested, but it was no great loss. Trit-Trot would bow and blather her witless in a week.

Cleaveridge would not keep his hands to himself.

Enderbend was a sot whose drunken wagering would bankrupt them in a year.

Eve nibbled her pencil. “Can you think of anybody else? Mind you, this is strictly in the way of contingency planning.”

“We should ask Jenny. She notices things. This discussion will require sustenance.”

That Louisa wasn't laughing at Eve's project was both reassuring and unnerving. While Lou rang for trays—plural—another footman was sent off to retrieve Jenny from the gardens.

“We're trying to find Eve a white knight husband, but it's rather difficult going,” Louisa explained to their sister. “We need a fellow who will leave her in peace but be attentive and civil. He must be goodlooking enough to be credible and have all his teeth.”

Jenny took a seat in the rocker and frowned at the list. “He must be able to keep Eve in the style to which she has become accustomed.”

Before the tea trays had arrived, Eve's sisters had concocted a list not of eligible husbands, but of the characteristics such a man must possess.

He must like to travel—preferably to foreign parts for extended periods.

He must be mild mannered, but a man of his word.

He must be affectionate
enough
, but not
too
affectionate.

It wouldn't hurt if he already had an heir.

Nor if he were devoid of relatives who would be curious about the nature of the marriage.

Such an effort her sisters put forth to secure Eve a list of appropriate possibilities, and yet nowhere on their list were the things that might have made a white marriage bearable:

He must be kind.

He must be that rare man who could befriend an adult woman.

He must be loyal—faithful was a ridiculous notion under the circumstances.

And it really, truly would not hurt matters if he loved horses, either.

“Eve has left us.” Jenny made this observation when Louisa had laid siege to the sandwiches and cakes an hour later.

“I'm thinking,” Eve said, which was not a lie. She was thinking of never seeing Franny's foal grow up, never bestowing a name on the little fellow, or petting Willy's velvety nose ever again. Never again kissing the only man to make her insides rise up and sing the glories of being a healthy young female…

“Jenny has come up with a capital notion. You must marry this portrait painter everybody is raving about. I forget his name, though he and Joseph are cordial.”

Eve forced herself to attend the topic, more because her sisters left unsupervised would have her betrothed to the fellow without her even being introduced to him.

“Elijah Harrison. He has a title,” Jenny said, “but he doesn't use it. He's mannerly and quiet, also very talented and an associate member of the Royal Academy, one of the youngest so far.”

Louisa got up to brace her back against the mantel and cross her arms. “He's also mostly to be found dozing among the ferns at the fashionable entertainments.”

Jenny set the list aside, her chin coming up. “He must work during daylight hours and has not the luxury of sleeping until noon every day; moreover, he's a marvelous dancer.”

Oh-ho.
Louisa's lips quirked up, as did Eve's. “Jenny is smitten,” Lou pronounced. “S-m-i-t-t-e-n. We must strike his name from your list, Evie. Alas for you and My Lord Artist.”

Eve resisted the urge to join in the teasing. Jenny showed her hand so rarely that Louisa was probably right in her surmise.

Louisa was right a maddening proportion of the time.

But drunks and painters?

Eve looked at the list again. “Perhaps we should ring for a fresh pot.”

Jenny looked relieved, Louisa determined, and though the list of requirements grew longer, the list of names did not.

***

“Are you suffering a bilious stomach, Deene, or have you taken to glowering the matchmakers into submission?”

Kesmore's question caused Deene a start, for the man had given no warning of his presence.

“And when did you take to lurking among the ferns, Kesmore?”

“Perhaps I'm lurking among the shy, retiring bachelors. It isn't like you to be demonstrably out of sorts, Deene, particularly not in company with the fair flowers of Polite Society.”

No, it was not, which sorry state of affairs Deene laid directly at Lady Eve Windham's dainty feet. “Cleaveridge is all but drooling on his partner's bosom.”

“What a lovely bosom it is, too. Moreland's women are a pretty bunch.”

This casual observation from a man who appeared to have no interest whatsoever in bosoms pretty or otherwise—save for that of his countess—made Deene want to stomp across the dance floor and pluck Eve from Cleaveridge's arms.

“She's up to something.”

“The ladies usually are. We adore them for it, and in polite company refer to it as a mysterious feminine quality.”

Deene turned to study Kesmore amid the shadows under the ballroom's minstrel's gallery. “With the exception of your recently acquired countess, I've yet to see you adoring a human female since you mustered out, Kesmore. One hears rumors about you and your livestock, however.”

“My livestock are lining the Kesmore coffers sufficiently to launch my daughters in style when the time comes. You insult the beasts at your peril.”

Though Kesmore's voice was mild, Deene had the sense the man was genuinely protective of his pigs. This ought to be a point of departure for much raillery between former officers who'd served together under Wellington, but it was instead an odd comfort.

A man could apparently do worse than be protective of the woman who'd rejected his very first marital proposal… though Deene doubted Kesmore was actually jealous of the boar hogs courting his breeding sows.

“Cleaveridge does have an unfortunate tendency to stare at the wrong parts of a lady's person, doesn't he?” Kesmore kept his voice down, though as Deene watched Eve's progress through the concluding bars of the dance, he wanted to shout at Cleaveridge to turn loose of Lady Eve.