The Diamond Key (8 page)

On further reflection, Torrie had decided not to give up on Viscount Ingall as a marriage prospect. No matter what he thought of her vow to wed, she was still committed to finding a husband, if not just any husband, before much longer. She had promised herself, and promised her father, too. Both of them wanted to be done with this courtship business before much longer, so they could be reunited with Lady Duchamp. The viscount was still Torrie’s favorite contender for her hand, despite the fact that Lord Ingall did not consider himself in the running.

Her father liked him, which was an excellent indicator of his mettle—or Papa’s desperation to return to Yorkshire.

Aunt Ann did not dislike him, which was an even bigger factor in the viscount’s favor.

And Torrie thought she could come to like him very well indeed.

Lord Ingall was different from all the other men she knew, and not just because he was well traveled. He was a successful businessman, for one thing. He actually did something with himself besides gambling and drinking, the apparent occupations of most
tonnish
gentlemen. Further, the viscount was not interested in making a name for himself in the upper echelons of society, he was not interested in Torrie’s money, and he was barely interested in Torrie herself. No, she thought, he was not like any other man of her acquaintance.

She hoped she was not shallow enough to be piqued by his lack of attraction to her, nor challenged to chase the unattainable. Those would be hen-witted reasons for settling on any gentleman, and bound for disappointment. No, she really believed her rescuer might make a good husband, if he could be convinced that he wanted a wife.

Foolish fancy or what he called superstition aside, Torrie supposed she was naturally predisposed toward the man who had saved her. Ingall
had
been the one, not Boyce or the other preening pea-geese who wrote paeans to her lips. What was a poem in her honor compared to being hauled from a burning building? Torrie was not going to be taking a quatrain to bed, was she? She wanted a strong, brave ... virile husband.

Torrie felt herself blushing to be having such warm thoughts about Lord Ingall, a man she hardly knew. She was a properly brought-up female, after all, who should not keep recalling how her fingers had quivered for hours after he had kissed them.

She was also the girl who had stayed up at nights at Lady Castangle’s Academy, giggling with the other students over the Italian art books. How many females could look at Lord Ingall’s broad shoulders and narrow waist, his ruffled curls and his firm jaw, and not feel warm thoughts?

Aunt Ann, for one.

“I am not saying he is not handsome, nor a decent man.” Torrie’s aunt paused to rethread her needle—before she figuratively burst Torrie’s bubble with it. “I am saying he will not make you a comfortable husband, if you can bring him up to scratch, as your father so vulgarly puts it. You will not wrap one like that around your finger.”

“But why would I want a weak-willed husband, Aunt Ann, one I could keep under the cat’s paw? I would not wish to wed an overbearing tyrant, of course, nor a man who believes women have nothing between their ears but feathers and fluff. But why not wed a man who would treat me as an equal, as his friend and lover?”

“Hmph. You have been borrowing those novels from the lending library again, haven’t you? Borrowing trouble, that’s what.”

Torrie thought that inviting the viscount to her father’s dinner party was an excellent idea. While furthering their friendship, she could learn more about his character, and he could take his rightful place in society.

No matter what else, both Torrie and her father were determined to reward the viscount by restoring his standing among his peers.

Once he saw that he was welcome in London, perhaps he would stay in England. If he stayed, he might grow fonder of his heritage, and thus change his mind about the succession. He might simply tire of his bachelor state. Who could tell? He might even discover that there were actually a few successful marriages in the world.

Everything had to be perfect for the dinner Thursday, so Torrie spent hours with the seating charts, then made sure via the servants that the guests learned of his heroism. She had to teach Lord Ingall that not everyone was close-minded and judgmental, or holding the past against him. She also had to show what a good hostess she could be, so she spent hours with the cook and the butler, wasting the time of both of those proficient souls. Of course she wanted to be in her best looks, so hours more were needed to dissect her wardrobe, inspect her complexion, and select the proper hairstyle. Her maid, Ruthie Cobb, who was still feeling poorly, was ready to hand in her notice.

Torrie had time for one additional chore. She added Lord Cooperstone to her list, and the old curmudgeon’s beautiful, young, and—according to the latest gossip —discontented wife.

The dinner would be educational for all of them.

Somehow Wynn never found time to call on his erstwhile Erinyes, the three female Furies who had helped ruin his life six years ago. Thanks to them, he had given up his carefree wastrel boyhood to become ... a man of fortune and power and values. Perhaps he did owe them something, at that, some courtesy beyond paying their pressing bills. He’d see about it. After the dinner. For certain.

He was too busy now, getting Rufus on a ship and ordering new formal wear, and paying six times the price to have it ready in time. He did not wish to shame Lady Victoria more than his presence had to. Nor, he admitted to himself, did he want her to look on him as a barbarian.

He met with some of the newly wealthy merchant class who were all too eager to have him to
their
houses. No matter the condition of his wardrobe or his reputation, they always happened to have a daughter or a niece. He refused their invitations to dine or take tea, deciding he really ought to have an office of his own for these meetings.

And he met with Mr. Day, the elder. The younger fled by the back door when he heard Wynn’s angry voice in the front office. Wynn was assured that the agency would not fail him again, most definitely not, for they were honored by his patronage, to say nothing of Lord Duchamp’s. They had just the man for him, a Spaniard who had served a highly placed
grandee,
before his support of the French troops ended his life, not so grandly. He would be at Wynn’s front door on Thursday, the day of the dinner.

When he arrived for an interview, Viera swore, in Spanish, that he would be the finest valet the
se
ñor
ever employed. Then he repeated it in English.
Sí,
he liked
los perros.
No, he did not mind living in El Kensington.

“What about neckcloths?” Wynn asked, wanting to make doubly sure this fellow would serve his needs.

Viera assured him, in Spanish and in English, that he tied the
corbata
most
magnifica.
He curled his lip at those
idiotas
who needed nine lengths of cloth to attain one creditable knot. Why, he, Viera swore on his sainted mother’s grave, could tie the complicated Waterfall in less than four attempts.

“No, no, I do not want anything so intricate.”

In that case, Viera would only need three linens. Any more and he would consider himself a failure,
un malogro.
In fact, he swore, if he could not please
Señor
Ingall in
tres
tries, he would resign.
Sin dinero.
Without pay.

Wynn hired him, and Viera moved in the next day, the day of the Duchamp dinner. Wynn’s bath was the right temperature, his hair was trimmed to the right length. His new clothes were brushed and ironed to an inch of their nap, from his chapeau, which he would carry, not wear, to his midnight-blue coat, to his white satin knee breeches, to his clocked white stockings. His new leather evening pumps only pinched a little, but
Dios,
how they shone.

Wynn held his breath as Viera took the top white cloth from the pile of three. Barrogi held his breath. Homer held his breath. Viera smiled briefly, then became intent on his task. He stood in front of the viscount. He moved to the back. To the front. To the back, winding as he went, almost faster than the eye could follow.

Then he stood back and clapped his hands.
“Perfecto,
no?”

Well, no.

Barrogi was snickering behind his hand. Wynn looked at himself in the mirror, at the huge bow that flowed halfway down his chest. He looked like a blasted birthday present. He cursed, but in Hindi, to save the eager Spaniard’s feelings.

Viera understood enough to know Wynn did not like his creation. “Too low,
sí
? No matter. I fix.”

He pulled the offending bow off and reached for the second cloth. This one he worked on for twice as long, deliberating over every crease and fold. Finally he told Wynn to lower his chin. Wynn could not. He tried to turn to look in the mirror, but he could not see downward and so tripped over Homer, who yelped. So did Wynn when he got a glimpse of himself with his nose facing nearly skyward and his chin jutting out of a snowy mountain.

“Too high,
se
ñor?”

Definitely too high. Wynn was supposed to be eating dinner at the Duchamps’, not inspecting the chandelier. He took a sip of the wine Barrogi held out to him, to settle his nerves.

No one spoke as Viera reached for the third and last length of fabric. Viera studied the cloth, studied Wynn, shook his head a few times, then nodded.
“S
í.
The
Elegante.”
And he got to work.

It was superb. Not too showy, not too dull.
“Perfecto, amigo,”
Wynn told the grinning valet. “Pour yourself a glass of wine. You deserve it.”

Viera did, and clicked his glass to Wynn’s in celebration. The Spaniard was a bit too relieved, though, a bit too exuberant. A drop of Madeira leaped out of his glass ... onto the neckcloth, which was now not so elegant at all.

Viera sobbed as he walked out the door. Wynn would have cried, too, but not in front of Barrogi, who was trying to be helpful.

“Tell them you thought it was a masquerade,” he said. “You can wear one of those banyan things,
padrone.
Call it a toga or a mongoose or something.”

“A burnoose?”

Barrogi nodded, then said, “A man who cannot wipe his own chin ought to grow a beard, no?” which was equally as helpful.

Wynn sighed. It would have to be the beaver-pelt knot again.

* * * *

Most of the guests were already assembled when Wynn arrived at Duchamp House for dinner. His reception was mixed. Lady Victoria seemed relieved that he had shown up at all, which bothered him, that she could doubt his word—or his bravery.

Of the other women, one’s welcome was a trifle icy. Most were tepid. One was torrid. Wynn had seen the look on Lord Cooperstone’s young baroness’s beautiful face before, on the lieutenant governor’s daughter, on one of the officers’ wives, on an Indian brave’s squaw, and on an Indian potentate’s concubine. In any country, in any language, that look meant one thing: trouble. He vowed to steer clear of the old peer’s young bride, easy to do since he was busy peering at Lady Victoria.

Lady Torrie, as everyone seemed to call her, was even more elegant in evening dress, more magnificent, more perfect—they all sounded better in Spanish—than when he had seen her last. Perhaps this was because there was less of her pink silk gown, and more of the earl’s daughter to be seen and admired. Now he could barely take his eyes off what he had been too much of a gentleman—and too busy saving her—to notice on the day of the fire. Soft, creamy mounds rose above the lace trim, like twin pillows a man could dream on, like snowy mountains he could climb, like ... like white-capped waves that an unwary sailor could drown in.

No wonder half the unwed gentlemen in London wanted to marry her. The other half must be blind, already betrothed, or, like Wynn, confirmed bachelors.

How the deuce was he supposed to make conversation about the current breast-seller, Lord Duchamp’s ivory chest set, or the bustery weather?

He forced his gaze back to Lady Cooperstone, but his attention would not stay fixed there, even though the lady’s neckline plunged lower, her russet silk gown was sheerer, and her sultry smile was more inviting. She could have been naked for all he cared. In half an instant Wynn was glancing back at Lady Torrie and the diamond key she wore, where his eyes should not go.

He was rescued from an almost worse social gaffe than killing Lord Lynbrook by the earl himself, who pulled Wynn away. He wanted to introduce Torrie’s hero to some of his political cronies. Since Lady Torrie was such a favorite with the older gentlemen who had known her since birth, her savior was warmly welcomed in their midst. The notion that he, and his overflowing coffers, might join their political party was a further inducement to their hearty handshakes. After adding enough tributes to his supposed bravery to bring a blush to Wynn’s suntanned cheeks, one of the silver-haired lords raised his quizzing glass to the viscount’s neckcloth.

“Setting a new fashion already, I see, eh, Ingall? I vow all the young jackanapes in town will be trying to ape your style within the sennight. What do you call that knot anyway?”

What did he call it? The Desperation? The Last Hope? “I, ah, call it the Bundler,” Wynn said.

“Named after that quaint Colonial custom, I suppose. Clever, lad, clever, how you have the ends close, but separated from each other by a pearl for virtue.”

Sometimes Wynn was so clever he amazed himself, like at dinner. He managed to get through the dinner without staring at his hostess’s
décolletage.
So what if she was at the far end of the long table and he was in the middle, with a large epergne in the way? He conducted himself commendably, he considered, chatting first with Lady Bernard, who had known his mother, on his left, then with Sir Spencer’s wife, whose brother was serving in India, on his right. He could not have recalled what he ate, but he did remember the various charities he had promised to support with his contributions. Both ladies were well pleased with him, and followed Lady Torrie and her aunt from the room praising him to the skies, telling all of the other women what a generous man he was. They could never guess how much more he would have donated if they’d offered to move the blasted epergne.