Rules of Engagement (13 page)

Miss Lockhart. She haunted him.

Summoning his charm, he wandered in and bowed to each of the ladies, who watched him with expressions that varied from wariness to disapproval. "Lady Albon. Lady Colbrook. Lady Swearn. Mrs. Tomlin. And Miss Fotherby." He greeted Lady Swearn's daughter, a fresh-faced maiden destined to be one of the diamonds of the next season following her presentation at court. "Let me take the chance to thank each of you mothers for bringing your children to meet Beth. I'm aware that the only reason you came was because of the faith you put in my judgment."

"How so, Lord Kerrich?" Lady Swearn's reputation for bluntness was justified.

"That I would have a good reason for bringing a child into my home." He gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Of course, you know me well enough to realize that a confirmed bachelor like myself would only bring the child into my home if she be of acceptable parentage and especially if she be well-behaved."

Lady Swearn drew herself up. "That scene just passed—"

"I apologize, but I understand little Chiswick did something similar last year… I don't remember the details, in the past I paid so little attention to the children…" Kerrich frowned and acted puzzled. "Perhaps you can remind me?"

Three of the four faces before him lit up. Lady Swearn fixed him with a gimlet eye, and he knew she had the strong suspicion he was speculating.

With much success, it appeared.

Lady Colbrook and Lady Swearn were of an age, but where Lady Swearn was the consummate mother, involved in every facet of her children's lives, Lady Colbrook had already guided her two children into successful marriages. Thin, beautiful, coolly intelligent, Lady Colbrook loved to gossip, relished the humor in most situations, and dressed in the height of fashion, but her distaste for cruelty was evident when she burst out, "Are you talking about that scene where he pushed Althea Sledmore's daughter off the veranda? Althea will no longer allow any of her children to attend a function to which he is invited."

"Probably Lord Kerrich heard about the time we caught the little fiend licking all the cakes at
my
Michaelmas celebration," Mrs. Tomlin said.

Mrs. Tomlin was young, yearning to fit into the society in which she found herself, and so aggrieved by Bully-Boy's prank Kerrich swallowed his laughter. "No, I definitely would have remembered that."

"Then it was the time he chased all the girls into a corner, turned his back and pulled down his breeches to show them… to show them… his nakedness!" Lady Albon said.

Kerrich's mirth hardened into aversion. "Why did he do that?"

Lady Swearn's impressive bosom heaved with indignation. "Because he's a nasty lad and if his father wasn't wealthy he would be an outcast."

"You are too hard on him, Mother," Miss Fotherby said in a soft voice, and her china-blue eyes were wide and guileless. "He's just a little lad."

From the doorway came Lewis's voice. "Perhaps the boy had heard the old tale of the young man dangling outside Kensington Palace
sans
his unmentionables."

Miss Fotherby gasped, and Lady Swearn harrumphed, but the other ladies received Lewis's risqué, laughing reminder with obvious amusement, and they parted to let him into their midst.

Kerrich allowed the footman to pour him some of the ghastly pink punch.

"Mr. Athersmith! That is such an old story, and you are naughty to recall it," Lady Colbrook trilled.

"But I do recall it." Lewis bowed, the artistically arranged hank of his blond hair overhanging his forehead, his cheeks flushed ruddy with drink. "Everyone likes to reminisce about it—especially my dear great-uncle, Lord Reynard. He was there that evening, you know."

"No, was he?" Mrs. Tomlin moved closer. "I always thought it was just a fable."

"You are too young to remember when it happened, my dear, but that was the season I was presented and there was talk of nothing else. The satirists had a grand time with the whole incident, drawing cartoons that showed the duchess and her humiliation and the king and his guffaws." Lady Albon lifted her fan and whispered behind it. "There was even speculation that the king had arranged for the viewing as a gesture of his resentment of the duchess."

"A full moon on a foggy night." Lady Colbrook touched her aristocratic nose with her lace handkerchief and a whiff of exotic perfume wafted Kerrich's way. "It was quite the talk of the city for months."

"I believe my cousin was there, too."

Lewis claimed the relationship with such emphasis, Kerrich couldn't help but wonder why. Why, when he had previously done all he could to distance himself from Kerrich and his grandfather, was he now parading his noble antecedents with such ostentation?

Or did he suspect the truth?

"Isn't that right, cousin?" Lewis prodded him.

Kerrich had much experience in deflecting such queries. "I was there, but I'm sorry to say I can't add to the tale, since only the royal party observed the actual… incident."

The ladies tittered.

Kerrich bowed, noting that Lady Swearn had captured her daughter's arm and had moved a little apart from the group. Of course. Lord and Lady Swearn had removed Lewis from his position as tutor to young Fotherby, probably because Lewis had been distracted by his descent into crime. Probably Lady Swearn was uncomfortable with the contact. On the other hand, Lewis seemed intent on impressing everyone with his wit and connections.

"Did they ever discover who… er… dangled there?" Mrs. Tomlin asked.

"No, and please remember my child's age and innocence," Lady Swearn admonished.

"I didn't mean… I didn't mean…" Mrs. Tomlin blushed deeply.

"No, of course you didn't." Lady Swearn scowled. "I blame Mr. Athersmith for bringing up the subject in front of a young girl."

The pointed reprimand startled Kerrich, and a glance at his cousin showed Lewis was flushed with mortification. So it was as Kerrich had surmised; Lewis's expulsion had not been congenial.

"Forgive me. Excuse me." Lewis bowed himself out the door.

The ladies exchanged knowing glances.

"Oh, Mother." Miss Fotherby rung her hands. "He only meant to entertain us."

Lady Swearn still held her daughter's arm as if the girl might escape. "No matter. It's time we collect the other children. Your father wants us to journey to our estate in Suffolk tomorrow, and he'll join us when he can. The company in London is thin."

"Well, thank you!" Lady Albon, a countess and the highest-ranking female there, feigned offense.

"You know what I mean. Those of us who are here in the summer are either leaving soon or just arrived, and while we're here we pine to be in the country on our estates where it's not so dreadfully hot." Lady Swearn flipped out her fan and vigorously fanned herself.

Kerrich did not point out that the beads of perspiration on her forehead were probably an indicator of her age rather than the temperature. Instead, he tried to defuse the situation by agreeing, "Yes, I've finished my business in London"—that business being the so far futile observation of Lewis and his acquaintances—"and I do believe I will pack up the household and Grandpapa and return to Norfolk tomorrow week"—in the hopes Lewis would meet with his criminal friends on the estate. "Perhaps our paths will cross."

At that civil remark, Lady Swearn looked more dismayed. "Yes. Perhaps."

Taken aback by her scant courtesy, Kerrich could only stare.

Lady Colbrook seemed oblivious. "Lilly, I'm so glad you're going to the country. I have so longed to visit you there."

"Of course." Lady Swearn blinked. "You're welcome anytime, although I wish I understood your sudden affection for the countryside."

"I enjoy your company," Lady Colbrook said warmly.

"Don't feel sorry for me because I'm lonely," Lady Swearn answered. "I have plenty of company with the children. Now come, Penelope."

Miss Fotherby dragged behind her mother, a mortified beauty.

Lady Swearn halted in the doorway. "By the way, Lord Kerrich—your foundling is charming."

Their departure left a little silence behind.

Then Lady Colbrook broke it with a brisk "You can't blame Lady Swearn. Penelope is her oldest daughter, and they have such hopes for her."

"Yes, she's a beauty," Mrs. Tomlin agreed.

"With her background and fortune, she could easily snag a marquess." Lady Albon cast a meaningful glance at Kerrich.

In his time, Kerrich had had his share of meaningful glances as related to young ladies, but this one seemed different. Deciding to fling himself on their collective mercies, he said, "I confess, there was much about that scene I didn't understand."

The silence came back, stronger and more uncomfortable, as the ladies exchanged glances.

Then, by some mysterious manner, they elected Lady Colbrook as their spokesman—as they always did, for the lady's strength of will made her a natural leader. "Didn't you know? Mr. Athersmith lost his position with the Swearns because he fell madly and unsuitably in love with Miss Fotherby."

Beside him, Grandpapa leaned on his cane. "Not too bad, considering what a good time the children had."

Kerrich thought his grandfather must be seeing a different house than he was. A few of the children hadn't the breeding or the supervision to keep to their designated areas, and toward the end they had ranged through the house like a swarm of locusts, dropping food, losing hats and handkerchiefs, breaking vases. The library was the only chamber left untouched by the festivities, and that because of a sturdy lock. With any luck, this was the last party Kerrich would have to give for children.

"I'll tell you, Grandpapa, when I have children they're going to mind their manners."

Grandpapa cackled. "I said the same thing about your father, and your father said the same thing about you, and look at how that turned out."

Swiftly indignant, Kerrich said, "I would say I am quite well behaved."

"Now."

Kerrich wanted to sputter indignantly, but he knew better. He had been a hellion.

"I'm not used to all this excitement. I'm going to seek my bedchamber." Grandpapa started toward the stairs. "When I'm gone, Moulton can stop skulking in the shadows and come to speak to you."

Surprised, Kerrich looked around.

"Good evening, my lords." Moulton stepped out from the corridor that led to the kitchens.

"You have a talent for skulking," Grandpapa said. "You ought to start a firm for sleuths. I think you'd do very well at it."

Kerrich and Moulton exchanged alarmed glances, for of course that was exactly what Moulton had done years ago, and so successfully the government contracted with him when they needed someone to pose as butler in a noble household. As he was doing now.

His hand on the banister, Grandpapa turned and said, "Don't look so alarmed, gentlemen. I'm old, but I'm not given to blathering. Your secret is safe with me." Then he made his slow way up the stairs.

Kerrich briefly put his hand to his head, then he led the way into the library.

"He's a sly one." Moulton's voice rang with admiration.

"Easy for you to say. He's not your grandfather." But Kerrich couldn't deny his pride. Trust Grandpapa to see the truth of the situation. "Moulton, where is my cousin?"

Moulton straightened. "That would be what I came to discuss with you, sir. He left in the middle of the party. My man followed, of course, and perhaps an hour ago they saw him meet with someone."

Kerrich leaned forward eagerly. "So we're getting somewhere."

"No, my lord. He met with a woman."

"A woman?" Kerrich's mind leaped to Miss Fotherby. "A very young woman?"

"No, an older woman." Moulton lowered his voice. "A lady of consequence, one of your guests. It would seem that rather than pursue his criminal activities, Mr. Athersmith has been pursuing an affair."

"But… what about Miss Fotherby?"

"I don't know, sir."

Of course he didn't, and just because Lewis had been thwarted in love didn't mean the noddy-pate wasn't tracking a little wild tail. "We have had a man following Lewis to illicit assignations?"

"Indeed, and I believe that's the reason why we've had no luck discovering his contact. We pay no attention to the arrival and departure of women."

One of his guests. Kerrich's lips curled in disdain. Just like his mother. Proof there were no ladies in society who remained true to their marriage. "Who?" he demanded.

"My man didn't know, sir. Handsome, he said, and considerably older than Mr. Athersmith, but her hair was covered and… well, really, sir. In our business, the fairer sex is of no consequence."

The night candle was lit, the nursemaid now slept at the other side of the bedchamber and, satisfied that everything was as it should be, Pamela smoothed the covers over the peaceful child. "Sleep well, little one," she whispered.

"Is she asleep?" a voice asked behind her.

With a gasp, she spun around, her hand to her heart.

Kerrich stood behind her, hands on hips, looking down at Beth. "My lord, what are you doing here?" she whispered.

"I thought I would check on the child." His coat and waistcoat and collar were gone, leaving his shirt open at the neck, and his expression of piratical satisfaction was vaguely disturbing. "It was an exciting day for her. Will she sleep undisturbed?"

"If she doesn't, I sleep in the next room."

He glanced toward the door. "If she wakes tonight, the nursemaid will be here for her. Today's party went well. Tonight we'll compare our experiences." Placing his hand on her shoulder, he turned her toward the door. "We must plan our future strategy."

So although she was tired and wanted nothing more than to cast off Lady Temperly's second-best black party silk, she went with him down the shadowy hall, down the stairs, and into his library. He was right, they did need to talk.

Surprisingly, she looked forward to it. She didn't know why, except that with him, she could say whatever she wanted. With him, she was a middle-aged, unattractive woman who, when she spoke her mind, was nothing more than irritating and capricious. She experienced a wonderful kind of freedom in talking with Kerrich, and when this position was finished, she would miss that.

Standing in the middle of the library, she looked around. "This is your favorite chamber."

He glanced around as if startled. "Yes, I suppose. It's comfortable."

It was more than comfortable. It exuded that homey, lived-in, cherished atmosphere a room gathers after years of care and affection. One should have been able to shout down its length and get an echo back, but alcoves and window seats broke up the span. The bookshelves contained fine ceramics and fanciful blown glass and old-fashioned marble busts, but mostly they sported rows and rows of leather-bound books that invited the reader to plumb their depths. Two fireplaces shed their warmth and illumination. The furniture was sturdy, of cherry wood and dark mahogany, made for a man's comfort with deep upholstery of forest green and russet. Kerrich's desk dominated the chamber with its massive breadth and heavy lines. He spent both his work time and his free time here, and much like a wary mouse, Pamela felt dubiously honored to be invited into the lord's lair.

"Have a seat," he invited. "May I pour you a sherry?"

She hated sherry. She always had, but ladies drank sherry and she was a maiden who tried to avoid calling attention to herself.

Not now. Between her disguise and Kerrich's forbearance, she was freed of such unnatural restraints. Sinking into a well-padded and brocade-upholstered chair close to the open window, she inquired, "What are you having, my lord?"

"Ale sounds good."

"Ale it is."

He looked startled, but it was an indication of how thoroughly she had fallen into the role of eccentric that he went to the door and called, "A pitcher of ale and two mugs." Coming to the window, he sank into a chair opposite hers. "So you like ale, do you?"

"I don't know, I've never had it."

He smiled, a blossom of amusement that opened his countenance. Pamela would have sworn this was not his usual, calculated-to-enchant smile, but genuine and pleasant, although she hated to use either word in conjunction with Kerrich.

"My grandfather says one should always try something new occasionally," he said. "It keeps the mind sharp. Although I would say yours is sharp enough."

Stupid to be flattered by his praise; the man sowed charm like a farmer sowed seed—liberally and in the hope some would grow into a likely crop. But somehow his smile convinced her he thought her special. Frightening to think she was as susceptible as any other woman.

Timothy carried in a silver salver, placed it on the table between them, and asked, "Shall I pour, my lord?"

Still watching Pamela, Kerrich waved a hand, the young footman poured and bowed, then delivered the beverages and bowed again.

Pamela cradled the mug, a ceramic monstrosity of dubious Chinese origin. "Thank you, Timothy."

"What?" Kerrich craned around as the footman paced from the chamber. "Timothy, is it? Yes, thank you, Timothy."

When he was gone, she asked, "How long has he worked for you?"

"All his life, I would think." Kerrich sighed dolefully, understanding her drift by her tone. "Which is worse, that I didn't know his name or that I didn't thank him?"

"I tell Beth that courtesy should be automatic."

"Humph." Lifting his mug, he swallowed half in one gulp.

When he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, she smiled; it was so very manlike and almost endearing in its instinct.

He saw the smile and perhaps didn't care for it, but he said only, "What do you think of the ale?"

She sniffed the brew, then took a cautious sip. "It's very… rich." It coated her tongue with a taste of something bitter that had been roasted—and made her grimace.

He laughed at her expression. "There's nothing more English than ale. How come you've never had it before?"

"I lived quite a sheltered life as a girl."

"And since."

That's right. He thought her an older woman. "Yes, and since. How is it that you do drink ale?"

"For all that my grandfather comes from noble stock, he was a poor lad and that's all his family had." Lifting the mug, Kerrich said, "Drink up. The next cup will taste better."

One of the signs of Kerrich's great wealth was the plethora of candles throughout the house, and here, tonight, it was no different. But they faced the window, the candles flickered behind them and this alcove was shadowy and almost intimate.

She took a gulp of ale. If only she had brought her knitting. The handwork placed a barrier between them, although why she thought she needed it, she couldn't conceive. One unaffected smile, no matter how delightful, was not cause for alarm. "So, my lord. What did you wish to discuss?"

This next smile was not nearly so appealing, although she couldn't put her finger on the difference. "I thought today was a rousing success," he said.

"So it was."

"What?" He cupped his ear.

A little louder, she reiterated, "I thought today was a success."

"I didn't quite hear you. Could you repeat that?"

At last she comprehended his odious scheme. She didn't need her knitting to place a barrier between them. Not as long as he insisted on hearing
I
told you so.
With all the dignity of her station, she said, "My lord, I admit your stratagem to find acceptance for Beth was efficacious—"

"Effi… what?" he teased.

She ignored him. "But at the same time daring—and foolhardy. If Beth had done something unacceptable—"

He hooted. "If? That stunt she pulled on young Chiswick was not what I understand to be socially acceptable. But damn, it was funny."

"My lord, your profanity is unnecessary!"

"You are correct. Forgive me." But he was still grinning as he took the pitcher and poured both mugs full again. His shoulders rippled beneath the fine white lawn, his thighs strained against the cloth of his black trousers, and his perpetual cynicism seemed softened by the candlelight.

Apparently, she admired his form even when he was laughing at her. Distressing, and so common. Again she had been tested and again she had found herself so like those weak-willed women who fell before temptation that she scarcely knew where to look. Out the window seemed the safest, and she fixed her gaze on the street where the gas lamps flickered and carriages occasionally drove by, their wheels clangorous on the stones.

Reseating himself, he said, "So we are agreed that I was right to insist on a party and you were wrong."

That jerked her attention right back to him. Hotly, she denied, "I was not wrong, I was—"

"Wrong. The opposite of right is wrong. So you were wrong." He smiled at her, an absolutely smug grin that made her itch to scratch his eyes out, then before she could argue he said, "I have to return to Norfolk next week."

As a distraction it worked well. "You're returning to the country?" She took a drink to moisten her suddenly dry mouth. "You're abandoning your plan?"

"Abandoning… no, of course not! Perhaps I would be better to state that the household is returning to Norfolk next week. You and the child will go with me to Brookford House."

"Really?" Her mouth curved with pleasure. "I don't believe Beth has ever been to the country. I look forward to introducing her to its pleasures."

"Yes, I have several suitable mounts there, and the hostler is an excellent riding teacher. In fact, he taught me to ride."

She smiled politely. It wasn't the riding that excited her; it was the chance to show Beth off in the more informal atmosphere of the countryside. "This will work very well with your plan, my lord."

"I don't know about that. Beth would be exposed to more society in London, but I must spend time at my bank. I have asked Grandpapa, who assures me he will accompany us, and, of course, Lewis will go also." On repeating his cousin's name, Kerrich's voice developed a note of disdain.

A note she did not care for. "Your cousin is a respectable man."