Reforming a Rake (14 page)

It wasn’t a question, but Alexandra shook her head anyway. “I wrote him. I didn’t even have enough money to finish out the school year. He wrote me back, and the letter wasn’t even franked. I had to pay for it when it arrived. His Grace said he had warned my mother against her folly before she married, and he had no intention of paying for her mistakes after her death. I inferred that I was counted as one of her mistakes.”

“It’s always nice to know there’s someone in the world who’s more of a bastard than I am,” Lucien mused. His fingers stroked hers again, and she wanted to curl her hand into his. “It’s comforting, in a way. Tell me the rest of your tale.”

“There isn’t much else. Miss Grenville arranged for me to tutor students until I finished school, and then I hired myself out as a finishing governess or companion. And here I am, chatting with the Earl of Kilcairn Abbey in his very enjoyable rose garden.”

“What of Lord and Lady Welkins?”

With a shove she freed herself from his coat and stood. “That is another tale entirely, and one which has nothing to do with my feelings toward my relations.” That wasn’t quite true, but she’d given him enough ammunition to use against her tonight. And no one would hear that tale—ever.

He held her gaze. “So you won’t tell me anything about it?”

“No, I won’t.”

He stood, tall and solid as a statue, but much more alive. “Yes, you will. Eventually. When you trust me.”

“I will never trust you. You said yourself that if not for your father’s will, you would never have taken Rose and Fiona under your care—which, as far as I’m concerned, makes you very like my uncle.”

His eyes narrowed in the darkness. “You have a nasty streak yourself, Miss Gallant. And don’t put your private hatreds on my shoulders. Some of the facts are admittedly similar, but the circumstances are entirely different.” With a swirl of his greatcoat, he turned for the front door. “Good night.”

She stood looking after him. “Good night.”

V
irgil Retting yawned over a strong cup of tea and tried to keep his eyes focused. He hated rising this early in London. None of his cronies would be up and about for another five hours, and he still felt half fogged from last night’s attempts to drown out his encounter with the odious Earl of Kilcairn Abbey.

“If you were so anxious for my company that you had to barge in during my breakfast, you might at least say something. You look like a bloody intoxicated pigeon.”

“You told me not to speak to you.” Virgil eyed the imposing figure seated several yards away at the head of the huge oak table. “You make it very difficult, Father.”

The Duke of Monmouth finished off a honey-slathered biscuit. “I told you not to ask me for money,” he corrected, jabbing a table knife in his son’s direction. “If you have nothing else to speak about, then remain silent.”

Coal-black eyes viewed Virgil for a moment, making him feel like he was five years old and wetting his bed
again. Finally the cold gaze returned to the morning’s newspaper. The duke had no doubt been awake since before dawn, calling in his London staff of solicitors, agents, and accountants, and settling into Retting House for the Season. The man never seemed to sleep, and had the blasted habit of knowing everything that transpired even during the rare occasions he did close his eyes.

That phenomenon had made Virgil’s early arrival at Retting House imperative—if someone else brought Monmouth the news, someone else would get credit for it. “I’m not here about money, Father. Must you always say such shabby things about me?”

“You continue to present me with nothing pleasant to discuss.”

“Well then, you should thank—”

The butler appeared in the doorway. “Your Grace, Lord Liverpool and Lord Haster are here for your morning meeting.”

“Splendid. Two minutes, Jenkins.”

The butler nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”

“But, Father—”

“Virgil, spit it out or wait until tomorrow morning. I’ll be free between ten and eleven.”

“I saw cousin Alexandra last night.”

The duke paused, his tea halfway to his thin, unsmiling mouth. “That is the news that got you out of bed before noon? Of course she’s in London. The Fontaines arrived here four days ago.”

Virgil shook his head, a rush of pure glee warming his veins. Surprising His Grace was rare enough to warrant marking the occasion with a national holiday. Especially when the surprise meant someone else would be the focus of Monmouth’s ire for a change. “She wasn’t with the Fontaines.”

“She’s found employment, then.” Monmouth pushed away from the table. “That should keep her out of trouble. Excuse me. It’s bad form to keep Haster and the prime minister waiting.”

If Virgil knew anything, it was not to let such a moment slip through his fingers, even if he did have to rush it a bit. “She’s living at Balfour House,” he said to his father’s retreating back.

The duke swung around again. “She’s living where?”

“At Balfour House. I saw her in a box at Vauxhall Gardens, sitting right beside Kilcairn. He nearly bit my head off when I approached to inquire after her.”

“Kilcairn has his cousin in town, I heard. She’s of age or something.”

“Yes, I saw her, too. She’s a pretty little dab. Nearly as pretty as cousin Alexandra.”

Monmouth strode to the dining room door, shut it, and resumed his seat. “You’re certain it was she, and that she was with Kilcairn? You weren’t intoxicated, were you, boy?”

“No, Father.” Thank goodness he hadn’t begun drinking—heavily, anyway—until after he’d left the Gardens. “It was definitely her, and him. I told you, he was so irritated at my approach, I had to give him a setdown to shut him up. Very hostile, and with a crowd standing about, too.”

“Damnation!” the duke exploded. “She should know better, even with her father’s poor lineage. After that idiocy we had to suffer through with that nobody Welkins, I’ve bloody well had enough. If something foul happens again with her after a peer like Kilcairn, the Retting name and reputation would never escape unscathed.”

“I could scarcely believe it myself,” Virgil said sol
emnly, nodding. “Right under our noses, as though she didn’t care a hang about the standing of her relations. She knows we spend the Season in town.”

“She might have gone to Yorkshire if she intended to continue carrying on like a strumpet.” Monmouth slammed his fist on the table, rattling the china. “I have a tariff bill to present in Parliament, for God’s sake.” With another growl he stood again. “I shall make some discreet inquiries about the
ton
’s opinion in this,” he announced. “I may have to denounce her publicly if this display continues.”

The duke yanked open the door and stomped down the hall toward his private office. Virgil helped himself to the substantial remains of breakfast. Now Kilcairn and Alexandra would see which of them was the stupid buffoon. Their happy little rut-fest was about to come to a very unclimactic conclusion.

“This was a stupid idea.” Alexandra said, nibbling on a biscuit and scanning the narrow, quiet street.

“It was your stupid idea,” Vixen returned. “Just remember that. And quit looking about like that. I feel like we’re about to be ambushed by Bonaparte or something.”

“I can’t help it.” Alexandra nodded her thanks as a waiter brought them another plate of sandwiches. Taking luncheon at the quaint outdoor café had seemed a grand idea for her Monday off, but that had been before Vauxhall Gardens, and before she’d realized her cousin knew she was in London.

“I’m sure Lord Virgil won’t even be awake yet. And the clubs are blocks from here, even if he is.”

“You’re right, of course. It’s silly of me. Please, have a cucumber sandwich.” It wasn’t just Virgil who con
cerned her, though. It was everyone who might have heard what he said, and everyone those everyones might have talked to about it. She forced a smile. “So. Tell me about your latest conquest.”

“No one seems to believe me when I say I’m simply not interested in marriage,” Lady Victoria bemoaned, then flashed a quick grin. “If I actually married someone, I wouldn’t be able to have those very interesting little conversations like the one I had with your Lord Kilcairn the other night.”

Alexandra choked on her tea. “I know you two chatted,” she croaked, “but what was so interesting?”

Her friend rose and circled the table to smack Alexandra between the shoulder blades. “For goodness’ sake, you’re jealous, aren’t you?”

She cleared her throat, wishing she’d had a moment’s warning before Victoria sprang such a thing on her. “I am not jealous! I don’t even like him all that much. And he’s not
my
Lord Kilcairn.”

“Well,” Victoria said, as she took her seat again, “neither are you my companion, governess, or tutor any longer, I don’t
have
to tell you anything Kilcairn and I might have discussed.”

Alexandra was ready to throttle Vixen if she didn’t confess what she and Kilcairn had chatted about. She was not jealous, though; at least she’d made that clear. “I don’t care if you tell me anything or not,” she said haughtily. “From my experience, Kilcairn rarely says a repeatable word, anyway.”

The younger woman chuckled. “You have become positively transparent.”

Alexandra frowned. “I have not.”

“Oh, all right. I’ll take pity on you. He asked me all sorts of questions about you—were you always so an
noying, had you ever actually admitted to losing an argument—things like that.”

“He did not!”

At that Vixen succumbed to an attack of out-and-out laughter. “He did! I swear it, Lex.”

Her frown deepening, Alexandra stood and collected her purse and her parasol. “Well, Kilcairn and I are going to have a little chat, then.”

“Before you do that, perhaps you should try to remember just how sweet he was last night.”

Alexandra blushed. He’d been sweet indeed, but she hadn’t told Vixen about that—only about Vauxhall. Belatedly she realized that that must have been what her young friend was referring to. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

Lady Victoria looked at her quizzically for a moment, then began chuckling again. “I suppose I am. And I suppose there are some tales you don’t tell me.”

Finally Alexandra gave in to a reluctant grin, then laughed. “You suppose correctly, my dear. Now, let’s go somewhere else before my very short streak of luck runs out.”

“You really had no clue that your governess was Monmouth’s niece?” Robert asked over half a roasted chicken and a tankard of ale.

“None at all. I’m too damned busy creating my own scandals to keep up with everyone else’s.” Lucien sat back, letting cigar smoke curl up past his teeth.

A third luncheon companion leaned forward to refill his own tankard. “Don’t see what it signifies, anyway. A mistress is a mistress.”

Taking another puff of his cigar, Lucien glanced across the table at Francis Henning, wondering just who
had invited that mutton head to luncheon. Half a dozen wags and gossips had appeared throughout the morning, evidently having forgotten how much he disliked wags and gossips.

“‘Governess,’ Henning,” he corrected. “Not ‘mistress.’ One extra syllable.”

“What’s one syllable among friends?” Robert asked with a faint grin.

“I’ll let you know if I run across any to ask.”

“Now, Kilcairn,” Lord Daubner said thickly, his mouth full of chicken, “if you hadn’t looked so damned surprised when Lord Virgil approached, no one would have latched on to it. It’s the first time most of us have ever seen you nonplussed, what?”

Robert lifted an eyebrow at him, and Lucien cursed under his breath. William was correct, and so was Henning. He had no regrets over his handling of Virgil Retting, but if he’d had forewarning, he might have waited for a more private arena before reacting.

The gossip didn’t bother him much, but it would bother Alexandra—and that concerned him. Her candor last night—and her genuinely dismayed look when her cousin appeared—had made it very clear that she literally had nowhere else to go. He wasn’t used to being anyone’s last bastion of security, and he certainly hadn’t helped anything by displaying his slack-jawed amazement at her lineage.

He really hadn’t considered her position at all until the gossips had pounced on him this morning. He’d been more concerned with Alexandra classifying him as another bastard of the same color as her uncle. She’d obviously been upset and angry, but the comparison rang more true than he cared to acknowledge.

Blinking, Lucien brought himself back to the present.
He’d missed a large portion of the luncheon conversation, but from Robert’s tense expression, that was probably a good thing. Putting out his cigar, he stood. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”

Robert rose at the same time, and Lucien heard his friend’s sigh of relief as they exited the club. “I was beginning to worry about bloodshed in there. My compliments to you on your unprecedented restraint.”

“I think my ears began bleeding when Henning arrived.” Lucien returned. “I didn’t hear much after that.”

The viscount strolled beside him in silence for half a block. Lucien recognized the preoccupied expression on his friend’s face, since he’d worn the same one himself for most of the night. He waited. Finally Robert cleared his throat.

“Not to pry,” he began, “but what are you going to do?”

“About what?”

“Well, about your cousin finding a respectable husband, and you finding…whatever sort of wife it is you’re looking for, with a prime subject of scandal residing in your house. Not the most discreet affair you’ve ever embarked on.”

Lucien ignored that. “She’s been residing in my house for more than three weeks now.”

“Yes, but now she’s a mistress who’s concealed her identity from you.”

“She is not my mis—”

“And despite your wealth and rank, some of your more promising matrimonial candidates won’t want you calling when you have a highborn mistress—governess—under your roof. Especially one who’s rumored to have murdered her last lover. That might be exciting for you,
but it’s dangerous territory for a proper young lady to step into.”

“You should be pleased. That would leave more matrimonial candidates for you and your mother to sift through.”

“Lucien, don’t change—”

Lucien stopped, his breath catching as he abruptly realized what he’d been missing all morning. “What was that you said?”

“I said it was dangerous terri—”

“No. Before that.”

Robert looked puzzled. “I said a lot. My pearls of wisdom are for you to commit to memory, not me. What—”

“You said ‘highborn mistress.’”

“I said ‘highborn governess,’” the viscount amended uneasily. “It was just a general point of information. I didn’t mean—”

“Robert, I forgot. I have an errand,” Lucien interrupted, stepping out into the street to hail a hack. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yes…well, all right.” Lord Belton said from behind him as Lucien ordered the driver to Grosvenor Street.

Alexandra
was
highborn. Terribly scandalized—ruined, actually—but highborn. And he needed to think, which was not his strongest suit where Miss Gallant was concerned.

“I’m not going.” Alexandra unfastened her necklace and set it back on the dressing table.

Shakespeare looked up at her and wagged his tail.

“Thank you, Shakes. I’m glad you agree.”

The door connecting her bedchamber to Rose’s rattled. “Lex?”

“Come in,” she called, frowning at herself in the mirror.
She wasn’t going
.

“Is it too pink?” Miss Delacroix glided into the room, trying to see Alexandra’s reaction and the dressing mirror at the same time as she spun about the floor. “I think it’s too pink.”

“It’s perfection. You look lovely.”

The girl leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “Oh, I know. Isn’t it wonderful?” She twirled again, all curls and pink silk and lace. “Cousin Lucien can’t possibly say I look like a flamingo tonight.”

“I’m certain he’ll say no such thing.” If none of her other lessons had sunk in, at least he knew better than to give Rose even the remotest cause to cry.

“Why aren’t you ready to go?” Rose stopped long enough to notice that Alexandra hadn’t put on her shoes or her necklace, and that her hair still hung loose down her back. “Cousin Lucien will be angry if we keep him waiting.”