Texas Viscount (21 page)

      
“One is not always allowed to make choices in life, my lord,” she replied gently.

      
“I am. Always was and always will. I was born in a bordello and raised dirt-poor, but I decided when I was a tadpole that I wouldn't spend the rest of my life drinking rotgut whiskey and cleaning out cuspidors.”

      
“You still drink that awful whiskey.” She could not resist teasing him or answering his slow grin.

      
“Why, ma'am, you just haven't learned to appreciate one of the finer things in life. Who Shot John isn't rotgut. It's pure bourbon.”

      
“Now, there's an oxymoron if ever I heard one,” she replied.

      
“Ever taste it?” he asked, leaning forward as he pulled out a flask concealed inside his jacket.

      
Her eyes grew huge. “You cannot bring that disgusting stuff to the Chiffingtons. They'll expect you to partake of their fine brandy after dinner.”

      
“Who'll know if I switch that perfumey stuff for real whiskey?” he asked with a crafty expression on his face.

      
Sabrina found herself laughing out loud. “In all of your peregrinations across America, my lord, have you ever mastered what I believe carnival people call the shell game?”

      
“I've seen it. Nowhere half as hard as learning to palm aces,” he replied with a grin.

      
Outside their car, the earl overheard their blended laughter and smiled to himself. His rogue of a nephew wasn't the only one who could run a shell game.

Chapter Ten

      
The house perched like a great fat goose on a slight promontory overlooking the ocean. It was wood, painted a blinding white with the intricate scrollwork trim done in deep maroon and bottle green. Long verandas filled with bench swings and potted ferns encircled the sprawling edifice on all four sides. By the look of it, the Chiffingtons' “beach cottage” must have a minimum of a dozen bedrooms.

      
“I shudder to imagine the size of their actual seat if this is but the beachside residence,” the earl said dryly as their carriage pulled up the front drive.

      
Josh looked curiously at him. “I thought you and the marquess were old pals.”

      
Hambleton raised one bushy white eyebrow. “We attended the same schools and vote together on most issues in Lords. Until now, our friendship has been confined to London.”

      
“But you have met Mrs. Marquess—er, the marchioness?” Josh corrected himself when Sabrina gave him a sharp look. “And her daughters?”

      
Noting the exchange, the earl replied, “Most certainly. Both are quite comely young women. You'll not fault the elder daughter's looks.”

      
That oblique remark left both Josh and Sabrina to wonder if they would fault Lady Eunice for something else.

      
They were ushered inside the house by a bevy of servants. The majordomo had footmen working like ants, carrying their baggage to the assigned rooms, as he escorted them down a long hallway toward the back of the house where a veranda faced the ocean. Over the gentle lapping of waves in the distance, they could hear voices carrying down the hallway.

      
“I do not care if he is as rich as the czar! He's an American buffoon from some wild, backward place where they still scalp red Indians,” a petulant young female voice pronounced stubbornly.

      
“Now, Eunice, do not take on so. I'm certain if he's Lord Hambleton's heir, he will be a gentleman,” an older voice pleaded.

      
When Josh could see the two women, the mother was wringing her hands as her daughter paced, running one elegant white glove along the railing.

      
“Begging your pardon, ma'am. It was the Indians who scalped us, but they haven't done much of that for the last few years,” he could not resist saying as he made a courtly bow. The startled and hideously embarrassed Marchioness of Chiffington gasped and turned to face him.

      
“Oh, dear, that is...” Her words trailed away. She placed one hand to her throat, as if she could stop the deep red flush creeping up to her face. She was a thin, pale little woman with frowsy grayish-blond hair but delicate features. “My deepest apologies, Lord Wesley—you are Lord Wesley, are you not?” she asked, looking over his shoulder to the earl for confirmation as Josh took her hand and saluted it.

      
“I'm afraid so, my lady,” Josh said with a wink.

      
The earl nodded with a barely suppressed grin. “This young rascal is my great-nephew, Joshua Abington Charles Cantrell, now Viscount Wesley, late of Texas in America,” he added, taking the marchioness' hand. “Now, don't you take on so. We all remember how it is to be young and impetuous, don't we? Allow me to present Miss Sabrina Edgewater.”

      
“Ah, yes, the deportment instructor you spoke so highly of for my dear Drucilla,” the marchioness said, seizing on anything to divert attention from her elder daughter's frightful gaffe.

      
As the earl soothed her mother, Lady Eunice studied Josh the way a hungry robin might size up an earthworm. Sabrina made her curtsy to Lady Chiffington, hiding her shock at the elder daughter's appalling manners, but unable to keep from glancing at her appearance. She was a beauty, no doubt of it...and spoiled rotten. In her years of teaching, both the aristocracy and wealthy Cits, Sabrina had seen what the combination of money and indulgence could do.

      
Eunice had inherited her mother's delicate features and pale coloring, but while the mother receded into the background, the daughter glowed like a polished gem. Her hair was as bright as spun gold, her eyes a turquoise more brilliant than the sea at sunrise. Each feature, from her tiny turned-up nose to her plump bow lips, was picture-perfect.

      
Lady Eunice appraised Josh's tall, lean body as if expecting some structural flaws to present themselves when he walked over to where she stood by the rail. “So you're the Texas Viscount. I've read about you,” she said in an affected voice as if his wild antics had bored her in the extreme.

      
“Nothing good, I'd bet.” Now it was his turn to measure her.
Uppity as a cat and cold as a blue tick hound's nose.
Her lips smiled but her eyes did not.

      
“I daresay, you are not what I expected.”

      
“Oh, and what did you expect?” he drawled lazily, leaning one broad shoulder against a support post so that he towered over the haughty young woman. He used his other hand to open his jacket. “See, no hidden scalps. But I hate to disappoint. I do pack a six-shooter.”

      
Eunice stepped away from him as if he were a madman. Josh couldn't help casting a quick glance at Sabrina to see if she was watching them. She was. He smiled inwardly.

      
“It is not acceptable for a gentleman to unfasten his jacket in the presence of a lady, nor is it at all acceptable to carry firearms,” Eunice said in a horrified tone. Gone was the pose of bored sophistication.

      
“Well, it's real comforting that you know what's expected of a gentleman.” He leaned closer. “Now how about what's expected of a lady?” he whispered. “I'm sure your sister and you could share Miss Edgewater's services.”

      
“Oooh.” Eunice's mouth dropped open as she appeared to debate the wisdom of slapping the grinning rogue. Then her outraged temper suddenly dissolved into an adoring smile. Giving Josh a wide berth, she sailed toward a tall, distinguished-looking man with windblown gray hair who was climbing the steps from the sandy beach below. “Papa! How was it?” she asked the gentleman attired nattily in sailing whites.

      
“Delightful as always, kitten. Wanted to make certain everything was shipshape for tomorrow's outing.” He turned from his daughter to the earl. “How are you, Hambleton? So good that you could come and bring your nephew. Oh, and the governess, too,” he added as an afterthought, dismissing Sabrina with a glance.

      
I can see where the little harpy gets it from,
Josh thought as his uncle made introductions while Eunice clung like a limpet to her beloved papa's arm. Gazing out to the ocean, Josh could see a large sailing craft bobbing on the tide.
Please, God, no.

      
As if in answer to his prayer, although the wrong answer, the marquess said, “I've made all the arrangements for us to have a smashing time of it. We'll take
The Lady Eunice Victoria
out for the day, sail over to Brighton and back, with a feast aboard fit for His Majesty himself.”

      
Josh blanched.

      
Sabrina looked at him curiously, recalling some passing remarks he'd made about being indisposed while crossing from America. She could not resist a tiny smile as her gaze met his.

      
Witch.
He mouthed the word silently to her while the others chatted excitedly about their day on the waves.

      
Catching some subtle exchange between the “hired woman” and the viscount, Lady Eunice suddenly became jealous. She was used to being the center of attention—even with men she spurned, and there had been plenty of them even before her debut. “You do sail, do you not, Lord Wesley?” she inquired with saccharine sweetness. “Or is there no ocean in America?” she added as a puzzled afterthought, looking to her father for an explanation.

      
“Oh, there are hundreds of miles of coastline in Texas alone,” Josh replied, wondering how anyone could be so stupid. “It's on the Gulf of Mexico.”

      
“No one who's anyone goes to Mexico,’’ Eunice replied as if that settled the matter for all time.

      
So much for the geography lesson,
Sabrina thought with amusement as she again caught Josh's eye.

      
Then a timid young woman with her father's imposing height and rather plain features came from the house, practically hiding in the shadow of her mother, shoulders scrunched as if to make herself shorter. As she was introduced, Sabrina decided that if she had the opportunity to tutor Lady Drucilla Palmer, the first thing she'd work on was the poor girl's self-confidence. It was quite obvious that, being the ugly duckling, she was used to existing in the twilight while her breathtaking elder sister held court in the sun.

      
As they filed into the house for tea, Sabrina whispered to Josh in passing, “Smooth sailing.”

* * * *

      
Josh would have prayed for a hurricane but he figured he wasn't exactly in the Deity's good graces at present, and probably never would be. The day dawned bright and clear with a very brisk wind. He stood staring bleakly out the large window of his bedroom, watching the whitecaps boom against the sandy shore. Just looking at the swells made him start to sweat. No help for it. He would have to convince Uncle Ab to make up whatever excuse the old man thought would pacify the Chiffingtons.

      
The humiliating decision made, he headed toward the earl's room just as Hambleton stepped into the corridor. “Morning, Uncle Ab,” he said casually. “Could I palaver with you in private?”

      
One white eyebrow arched. “If by that you mean hold a conversation, certainly. I do wish you would master the English tongue, Joshua. It would make your life as a peer ever so much easier. Not to mention that of Miss Edgewater,” he muttered to himself as he started to turn back into his room.

      
But before the earl could reopen the door, the sounds of an argument carried from around the corner of the long hallway. “Please, Papa, you know how sick I get. Please don't make me,” Drucilla begged in a plaintive voice breaking with desperation.

      
“I'll not hear another word about your imaginary illnesses. The Palmers have been seafarers for generations. Why, your great-grandfather fought alongside Lord Nelson himself!” The marquess' voice was crisp and authoritative but bored, as if this family-history lesson had been delivered many times before.

      
“Oh, Gerald, she does tend to...well, you know,” his wife interjected softly.

      
“You mean vomit like a puling infant. Say it,” he replied irritably. “Small wonder the girl's such a weakling. Little doubt she inherited her
mal de mer
from you. Thank heavens Eunice is a splendid sailor, in spite of her delicate femininity.”

      
“ ‘Delicate femininity’ isn't quite what I'd call it,” Josh muttered to himself as the argument was settled—in the marquess' favor, naturally.

      
Everyone would go sailing and that was simply that.

      
With a look of distaste on his face for the way the marquess had treated his wife and younger daughter, the earl motioned for Josh to follow him back into his room. “I believe I know what you wanted to discuss,” he said. When his nephew did not respond immediately, the old man chuckled. “A bit of a pickle, isn't it?”