The Dangerous Viscount (3 page)

“I haven’t used my records to pursue any particular line of enquiry,” he said in answer to Mr. Iverley’s question.

“Might I suggest you record the heights of your subjects as well as their weights? Then there would be more of a basis for comparison.”

“God bless my soul. That’s a fine idea. I might have expected a relation of Iverley to have such a fine grasp of the sciences. What are you? Six feet, at least, I think. I shall set up a device immediately. Next to the bootjack would be best. For of course
people must remove their shoes before their height is measured.”

And off he went, into his own world. Since the measurement of height presented little challenge, he would no doubt come up with a needlessly complicated and ultimately impractical invention, perhaps a water-powered bootjack. Diana loved her father dearly but he made her want to scream. Often.

“Run along, Diana,” he said. “I daresay you’ll find your mother in the drawing room.”

As she led Iverley from the hall she heard her father thinking aloud. “Boot removal, hmm. I wonder if people should disrobe before they are weighed.”

Before he could act on that particular notion, she closed the drawing room door behind them and found herself in a small outer circle of hell. With every window open the room was yet stifling. On an unusually warm July day a fire burned in the stone hearth, a massive affair doubtless designed for the roasting of whole oxen in days of yore. Diana’s mother knelt on the floor talking to the reason for this madness: her favorite foxhound bitch stretched out on a blanket with a litter of tiny blobs, attached and noisily suckling.

Mrs. Montrose looked up. “There you are, darling. Locket pupped yesterday. We had the devil of a time getting her pregnant. I’m breeding for longer noses so I sent her to Squire Mostyn’s Bobbity over at Charlton. Bobbity did his business but it didn’t take until the third time. Locket just didn’t fancy him. But the clever girl had ten in the litter and not a runt among them.”

This was a good deal more information than Diana wished to hear.

“Congratulations, Mama. I’ve brought Mr. Iverley for a visit. He’s interested in antiquities.”

Her mother rose from the floor, looked dubiously at her doggy hands, shrugged, and wiped them on the skirt of her shabby riding habit. “How do you do, Mr. Iverley,” she said.

Iverley accepted the proffered hand without apparent reluctance. “How do you do, ma’am.”

“Do you hunt?”

“Not with any regularity, though I have done so occasionally,” he replied.

That was enough for her mother. In short order Mr. Iverley was cornered on a sofa and Mrs. Montrose proceeded to interrogate her guest on his acquaintance with different packs of hounds. In the old-fashioned drawing room Mr. Iverley no longer looked so odd. His appearance fit in with the solid oak furniture, dark paintings in crooked frames, piles of books and journals, and dog hair everywhere. He didn’t even seem to mind the heat. He and her mother made quite a pair. Like Iverley she was tall and thin and dressed only to please herself. Her idea of suitable attire for a London ballroom still gave Diana nightmares.

To be fair to Mama, her aged riding habit fit her well, for she never stinted on those garments. Her fair hair contained hardly a hint of gray. Were it not for the ravages to her complexion wrought by days in the hunting field, she might have passed for a woman much younger than her forty-eight years.
Margo Montrose was a very handsome woman and her younger daughter resembled her. Diana took after her father, dark with a tendency to plumpness.

Avoiding dog hair on her forest green habit and thus the displeasure of her French maid, Diana took a plain wooden chair with the advantage of proximity to a window. With a jerk of her head she summoned Minerva, who had managed to creep into the house without attracting her father’s notice, and was sitting in a corner with her book. Waving her hand in a vain attempt to encourage cooler air, she whispered the dreadful news. “I put on five pounds.”

Minerva examined her critically. “You don’t look it.”

“Too much good food during the season, too many dinners with a dozen dishes for each course. You wouldn’t believe how delicious the meals are at Mandeville. I have to stop trying everything.” She looked enviously at her sister’s slender figure. Of course poor Minerva didn’t have much of a bosom, but there was still time for it to develop. And if it didn’t, the right modiste would take care of the problem. Min would not suffer the humiliation of making her bow to society inadequately dressed. She had a sister with the knowledge and the purse to ensure she found the husband she wanted, first time out.

Meanwhile, Diana had her own problems. Some of her gowns had grown a little tight and her maid was complaining. “I thought,” she said softly, “I might stop eating the dishes I particularly like, then I won’t be tempted to eat so much.”

“That’s a stupid idea,” Min said. “Why don’t you
only
eat the dishes you particularly like and leave the others. Then you’d eat less and enjoy it.”

“I like your plan better. I could try that.”

“Now, while you have the chance, tell me how you come to be staying at Mandeville.”

“It was a miracle!” Diana said. “My leader cast a shoe near Wolverhampton. While I was waiting for the coachman to return from the smith’s, Blakeney and his party drove up and offered assistance. He insisted on taking me up so that I could wait at an inn in comfort.”

“Did he recognize you?”

“Of course he did. He’s known me forever.”

Min looked skeptical. “But did he
recognize
you?”

“I can safely say I have gained his attention this time.” Excitement made it hard to keep her voice low, but a quick glance told her Mrs. Montrose was happily occupied. “He invited me to join his guests for a few days before I return home to Wallop.” Reliving the moment made her almost giddy.

“I don’t understand why you care for the opinion of a man who has ignored you for most of your life. What is he like? He has certainly never paid any attention to me.”

“You’ve seen him, Min. He’s as handsome as ever.”

“And?”

“His clothes are superb. In all of London only Tarquin Compton is better dressed. And I believe Blakeney has the better figure, though he isn’t as tall.”

“Is he intelligent?”

“He excels at every kind of sport.”

“You hate sports.”

“It doesn’t matter. When I look at those blue eyes and golden hair I forget what he’s saying. Besides, everything sounds good in his voice.”

“That’s idiotic, Di.”

“You’ll understand one day.”

“I hope not. And don’t smirk at me in that odious way as though you know something I don’t.”

Poor Min, only sixteen and buried in dull, rustic Mandeville Wallop, had no notion of what delicious things could happen between a man and a woman. Diana’s smile broadened. She spent a good deal of time thinking about what she’d like to do with Lord Blakeney in a large bed.

“Who is Mr. Iverley?” Minerva asked.

“Blakeney introduced him as his cousin. I’m not sure of the connection. He doesn’t speak much, though he grunts quite a lot.”

“He’s talking now,” Min observed.

On the other side of the room Mrs. Montrose, having exhausted the enumeration of Iverley’s hunting experiences, had moved on to her other favorite topic, the breeding of hounds. Her guest displayed a level of interest that could only lead to trouble.

“Do explain, ma’am,” he was saying, “exactly how you go about enhancing the various desirable characteristics in your animals.”

Diana hastened to the rescue before her mother could get into embarrassing detail about the mating habits of dogs. “Mama! Pray recall that Mr. Iverley is interested in antiquity.”

Mrs. Montrose gave her a suspicious look, then turned back to their visitor. “If you want the history
of the house you’d better see Mr. Montrose. I know it dates back to Henry IV or Henry VI or some other Henry, but I have no time for such stuff.”

“Papa’s had
an idea,”
Diana said.

“Oh dear. Minerva, be a good girl and run to the kitchen. Tell Cook dinner will be an hour late. No! Better make it two. There’s no saying when your father will be ready if he’s inventing something.”

Minerva winked at Diana and tossed Mr. Iverley a grin on her way out. Mrs. Montrose put her head out of the window and yelled. “Stephen! Come in please.” A few minutes later the youngest Montrose joined them.

“Hello, Step,” Diana said.

“Hello, Di.” Being fourteen, he didn’t kiss her.

“Stephen,” said their mother. “Would you take Mr. Iverley into the garden and show him something ancient? I need to speak to Diana.”

That sounded ominous. Though she was twenty-three years old, three years married and almost two widowed, Diana, like everyone else, found it hard to resist her mother’s will when she chose to exert it. Luckily that wasn’t often.

“Minerva tells me,” Mama began once they were alone, “that you are staying at the House. Is the duchess in residence?”

“No. I came with Lord Blakeney’s party. It’s perfectly correct, Mama. Lady Georgina Harville is there with her sister. And may I remind you that I am a married woman and do not need a chaperone.”

Really it was the outside of enough for her mother to be bothered about propriety at this stage. She’d been completely inadequate as the mother of a
debutante, making no secret of the fact she found the whole business a dead bore. Diana’s clothes had been all wrong and she hadn’t met the right people. Small thanks to her mother that Diana had made a good match.

“You are there as Lord Blakeney’s guest?”

“Yes. With several others. I daresay we’ll all stay a week or two and then I shall come home.”

“Blakeney has a ramshackle reputation. I worry for you, Diana.”

“Oh really, Mama,” Diana scoffed. “He’s no different from any other gentleman of the
ton.
He won’t offer insult to a lady.”

“Don’t be naïve. You are a widow now and gentlemen do not see widows in the same light as they do unmarried ladies.”

Diana rolled her eyes. Did her mother think she was stupid? “I have no intention of succumbing to Blakeney’s seduction. Quite the contrary.”

“I doubt he’ll be allowed to marry you. The duke wouldn’t have it.”

Diana said nothing. What was the point arguing?

“Take that mulish look off your face.” Mrs. Montrose’s voice softened. “I don’t want you to be hurt. Fanshawe wasn’t a man to make a young girl’s heart race, but he was a decent man. Your father and I wouldn’t have let him have you otherwise. I understand you want to find a younger husband, but don’t lose sight of what is important. Mr. Iverley seems a nice young man.”

Iverley?
Her mother had finally lost her mind if she thought Diana would prefer that scarecrow to his cousin anytime in the next millennium.

* * *

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about history,” Stephen Montrose said apologetically. “You need my father or Diana for that. Or Rufus, but he’s abroad.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sebastian replied. “I’ll just look around your garden.” At first glance there wasn’t much to see: an unkempt lawn and some shrubs. Not that he was any expert.

“Are you an antiquarian?”

“I collect old books, otherwise I wouldn’t say so. I’m no scholar.”

“Just like my mother to get it wrong.”

“It’s not her fault,” Sebastian said. “Your sister invited me to accompany her because I expressed an interest in old things.”

“Are you a friend of Diana’s?”

“We only met yesterday. I am staying at Mandeville.”

“I didn’t think you looked the sort. You seem to be quite a sensible fellow. Girls!” Stephen invested the last word with a wealth of meaning that Sebastian completely understood. They walked for a minute or two in companionable silence, broken by the younger man. “Do you have an estate?”

“Not at the moment,” Sebastian replied. “I live in London.”

“Poor you. London is awful. I much prefer to be at home, but they make me go to school. Papa already listens to me about the management of the farm. That’s what
I
am interested in.”

“Perhaps you could find a situation as a land steward,” Sebastian suggested.

“Perhaps. Eventually I shall have Wallop.”

“Forgive me, I was under the impression you had an older brother. Rufus, did you call him?”

“Actually I have three. Rufus is the second. But Papa doesn’t believe in primogeniture. He thinks everyone should do what interests them.”

“My guardian had something of the same notion. He encouraged my interest in books from an early age. Being a viscount, of course, he cannot get around the laws of inheritance. Your father’s attitude is unusual, and quite enlightened.”

“He’d probably even leave Wallop to one of the girls.”

“As if Diana or I would want it!” Minerva joined them. “Diana has simply pots of money and I have no intention of moldering in the country for the rest of my life. It’s so dull here. I’m going to ask Di if I can stay with her in London this autumn.”

“Good,” Stephen said. “Maybe the parents will be lonely by themselves and let me leave Harrow.”

“They won’t even notice. Until one day it will occur to Papa he hasn’t weighed anyone in months and he’ll wonder where we all are.”

“And Mama will say,” Stephen added, “that explains why the butcher’s bill is down. She thought it was because the dogs were off their feed.”

“How tragic it is to have a mother who prefers a pack of hounds to her own children! Diana
must
let me come and live with her.”

“I also prefer London, Miss Montrose,” Sebastian said.

“Good. I look forward to seeing you there. You will call on me, won’t you?”

Sebastian promised he would. It was odd to find a young lady neither foolish nor alarming. In fact Minerva amused him. There was something very appealing about the entire family. So different from his cousins. He imagined for a moment what it would have been like if when he first came to Mandeville, he’d found Minerva and Stephen instead of Blakeney and his sisters. He suspected the Montrose children wouldn’t have mocked a shy, gauche boy. They wouldn’t have called him Owl. They might have laughed at him but he probably wouldn’t have minded.