The Diamond Key (9 page)

With his hostess gone, Wynn could pay closer attention to the gentlemen. He would have, anyway, if they did anything but belch and brag of their latest gaming wins, their latest conquests. He supposed the talk of government and finances came later, when they were even more in their cups.

Thunderation, he thought, this life was not for him, even though he was welcomed back into it. One of the men invited Wynn to attend the next race meeting with him, one asked him to stop by for a night of cards, and a handful wished to put his name up for their clubs. He was no more interested in those activities than he was in joining Lord Cooperstone and his bride at a house party at their cottage in Richmond. He did not gamble for high stakes. He had worked too hard, for too long, to make his fortune to toss it away on the turn of a card or the speed of a horse. He’d rather give more of it to an orphanage than to an ivory-turner any day.

He did not drink to excess. A man who lived by his wits could not afford to dull them with spirits.

He did not consort with married women. Bette, Lady Lynbrook, had been lesson enough.

As for joining the clubs, male companionship might be pleasant if they did anything but gossip, as these port-drinking patriarchs were currently doing. Wynn had too long been the subject of the
on dits
to enjoy hearing them now. At least no mention was made of the duel.

After the gentlemen rejoined the ladies, a few of the former disappeared to Lord Duchamp’s library. Perhaps, Wynn thought, they were finally discussing affairs of state, instead of
affaires.
Or the older gents might be taking naps. The others were getting up tables for cards, and Wynn could see that Lady Cooperstone had him in her sights, so he quickly offered to partner Lady Ann. With his head for figures, he was a skillful player, which pleased Lady Ann. They were winning easily, until Lady Torrie came to lean over her aunt’s shoulder to watch the play.

Lady Ann threw her cards down in disgust when they lost the next three hands, and the others at the table began to speak of taking their leaves. Wynn almost started to relax. A few more minutes and he could go home, without having made a fool of himself. Then disaster struck.

A tiny old lady in a puce turban rapped his fingers with her lorgnette. Her name was Mrs. Reese, he recalled, and she was old enough to have known his
mother’s
mother. He supposed she wanted to put forth her pet endowment, so he was ready to add another charity to the list he would give his man of affairs in the morning. But no. The old bat was throwing a ball next week. He was invited. His mind went numb, balking at every lying excuse he could think of, for refusing.

“Well?” she squawked, and he barely had time to move his hand before she could strike him again.

“I cannot. That is, I will be busy with ...”

Then Lady Torrie walked to his side and stopped him short with a smile. Actually, it was more a gloating grin, Wynn thought, because she had been right. He was indeed being accepted back into the fold—where he had no desire to be.

“Oh, I thought you would wish to attend,” Lady Torrie said now, “especially since Mrs. Reese’s party is a subscription ball. All of the monies go to establish a school for London’s poorer children. I have been hearing how you wish to better their lives.”

The only thing Wynn was wishing was that he’d left the interfering female in the burning building.

“And Papa is busy that night, my friend,” she went on, driving her point home, “so I was hoping you would escort my aunt and me.”

Friend? She called herself his friend?

What a fine gentleman he was! What an excellent husband he would be! Torrie was delighted, and not just with the outcome of her dinner party. She dismissed her maid Ruthie as soon as her gown and stays were loosened, so she could ruminate on the glorious success of her evening without the abigail’s worrisome, weary sighs to ruin her happiness. She had told the ailing Ruthie not to wait up, that one of the maids could help her undress, but Ruthie had insisted. Torrie insisted that her dresser see a physician soon, if she was not feeling more the thing. Now she was glad to be alone to go over the evening’s high points as she brushed out her hair, without a maid’s chatter.

She had done him proud, her father had said, and Aunt Ann had declared the dinner party a tolerable entertainment.

Tolerable? It was thrilling!

Lord Ingall was no drunkard, thank goodness. Torrie had taken care to note how few times his wineglass needed refilling, and how he was not red-faced, loose-tongued, nor fumble-footed when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room. Torrie hated a man who stank of spirits, or one who turned into a buffoon or turned belligerent.

The viscount was not a gambler, either, despite what rumor said about his earlier days. All the way to bed, Aunt Ann had complained bitterly about his poor card sense. With his lack of concentration, Ingall would have lost his fortune ages ago if he indulged in deep play. Instead he was wealthy enough to pay Aunt Ann’s losses as well as his own, thank goodness. Otherwise, Torrie would be hearing about his buffle-headed bids over her breakfast chocolate.

Best of all, Lord Ingall was not a rake. Torrie smiled happily as she braided her hair for the night. He had never looked twice at Lady Cooperstone and her abundant, available charms. Well, he may have looked, for no red-blooded man could ignore the blatant display, but his eyes had not lingered, she was certain.

Altogether, Wynn Ingram was a perfect guest, eating everything put in front of him, conversing pleasantly with his dinner partners, not getting into political arguments with some of the more dogmatic diplomats of her father’s circle. One of the guests mentioned to her father on the way out that the new Viscount Ingall could go far in the Foreign Office.

And he was generous to a fault. His man of business was certain to know that at least one of the charities he had promised to support was no more than a fund to pay the lady’s expensive nephew’s expenses. Mallen, the butler, reported that he was generous to the servants, too, handing gold coins to whichever footman took his hat or had a hackney waiting. No one else could see this largesse, so the viscount’s openhandedness was not just to impress the polite world.

Torrie doubted Lord Ingall did much simply to impress. Judging from his garb, he was not one to care for putting on a show. Not that he needed to puff himself off, she mentally approved, with intense colors and immense cravats. No, he outdid every other gentleman in the room in his understated style, to say nothing of the width of his shoulders or the muscularity of his thighs in the form-fitting knee breeches.

Oh, my, yes. He would make a fine husband! Her father doubted the man would step into parson’s mousetrap so easily, for hadn’t he been cautious about joining the party, and hadn’t he referred all the requests for charitable donations to his man of business? No, the viscount was not going to be led where he did not wish to follow, Lord Duchamp had warned.

Her aunt warned that the gudgeon was so absent-minded, he might have forgotten he had a wife in India. Besides, Aunt Ann grumbled, the viscount might have been on his best behavior this evening, hiding his beastly side under a cloak of good manners.

Torrie did not think so. Of course, she acknowledged, she had only scant information for making her judgment: one death-defying rescue, one dinner party. She firmly believed he was a genuinely good man, though. She was almost ready to wager her fortune and her life on it, which was how she viewed marriage these days. The viscount, she was well aware, viewed the institution of holy matrimony somewhat differently.

Torrie might be closer to learning the gentleman’s character, but she was no closer to winning his affections. Beyond one brief, heartwarming smile of welcome, he had done little beyond scowl at her all night. At her
décolletage,
to be more exact. She hoped he had not grown puritanical in his travels, for that would be a shame. As her father said, a dram of devilry kept a man from dullness. Perhaps he simply disapproved of an unwed woman wearing diamonds, although the key she wore was not ostentatious.

His scowl had turned to a furious glare later in the night, when Torrie pushed him to accept Mrs. Reese’s invitation. Perhaps she had been too forward, Torrie worried, but it was all for his own good. Once he was seen to be acknowledged by such a high stickler, she told herself, Lord Ingall would be accepted everywhere. Besides, he might even enjoy himself. With the music and the dancing and the superlative food the wealthy Mrs. Reese always provided, he might see what fun the Season could be.

Torrie twirled around on her way to her lace-hung bed. A girl ought to dance once with the man she was thinking of marrying, shouldn’t she? What if he did nothing but step on her feet and complain, like Papa? Torrie did not think she could be content with a man who did not dance, or who was so clumsy at it that she would be forced to sit out half her own betrothal ball. For a man above average height, Lord Ingall moved gracefully, befitting his athletic build. He would be a superb dancer, unless his years abroad kept him from knowing the latest steps. Perhaps she could suggest a practice session—but no, that would be too forward even for her.

The image of her skirts swirling around his legs in the waltz was an appealing one, so appealing that Torrie drew the rest of the portrait in her mind’s eye as she climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. They would dance and sway, and he would hold her a bit closer than usually permitted, claiming he did not know the current social strictures. She would not complain. Then he would waltz her toward the windows for a breath of cooler air. The dream was so vivid, Torrie had to toss one of her blankets onto the floor.

He’d ask if she wished to step out onto the balcony. No, not even Torrie’s imagination could picture Viscount Ingall inviting a young, unmarried female out among the shadows. She would have to ask him, then, claiming she felt overheated.

Another blanket got thrown off the bed.

He would have to go outside with her, gentleman that he was. And somehow Torrie would be in his arms. Usually she was adept at avoiding unwanted embraces, but this time she would instigate one if she had to. Just as a girl needed to know if she and her prospective husband fit well together in the dance, she had to know if she liked her would-be husband’s kisses, too.

The third blanket got flung.

Torrie thought she might like Wynn’s kisses very much, if she did not take a chill before then.

* * * *

One week. That’s what it would take to settle his business, attend the blasted ball, and leave town. Wynn did not know where he was going to go or what he was going to do when he got there, but he was leaving. He would go to Mrs. Reese’s affair because it was for a good cause and because he had given his word, but that was all. London was no place for him.

Next thing he knew, he would be waltzing, by George! He could see the signs already, a stack of invitations from people he did not know, or people who did not want to know him six years ago. Now they thought he was some kind of hero, a celebrity to make much of. They wanted to show him off at their parties like a trained circus horse, a pig that could count, a rake turned rich man. That same brush that had tarred him as a blackguard acted as a whitewash when dipped in gold. The
beau monde
chose to forget they’d labeled him a murderer without giving him a hearing.

Wynn chose to remember.

He knew precisely whom to thank for his sudden notoriety: Lady Victoria Ann Keyes, the same siren whose smile kept him awake all night. He knew what she intended, too, his avowed friend.

She intended to repay him for the paltry favor he had done.

She intended to make him acceptable in her circles.

She intended to make him marriageable, may the devil take her and her laughing blue eyes.

Wynn had no desire to be an eligible
parti,
by Jupiter, because he had no desire to get hitched. Lud, he did have desire, but it was not for the
ton
to take him to
its
bosom! If his new colleague wished to be kind to him, she would wear one of those scarf things in her neckline. That way he would not have to toss and turn in his bed all night, thinking thoroughly un-friend-like thoughts, of her, in his bed, all night. Bah.

“What has you in such a pelter,
padrone?
You aren’t still cooking over that valet business, are you?”

“Cooking?”

Barrogi shook his head and set his tray down. “No, I went to the bakery.” He helped himself to a sweet roll.

“Stewing. You mean stewing. And no, I am not annoyed about the fact that I cannot find a man to maintain my wardrobe, shine my shoes, and see that I am properly turned out. Why should I be irritated, when I have offered a king’s ransom in pay for what should be a simple job of work?”

“I am glad you are not upset, because those Day brothers closed up shop for a holiday the sign read. But me, I think they were hiding in the back room in case I came there.”

Wynn shrugged and bit into a roll, after tossing a piece to Homer. “There must be other placement agencies. Hell, there are unemployed soldiers begging on the streets. Surely one of them knows how to polish a pair of boots.”

Barrogi was horrified. “You would take a beggar off the streets?”

“I took you in, didn’t I? And Homer. Besides, I have nearly a week to find a suitable man. I do not need to be dressed to the nines for the calls I have to make.”

“What, you will visit the earl’s daughter in eights?”

“It’s a figure of— Never mind. I am not going to visit Lady Torrie. It’s the other three women I have to see before I can leave town.”

Barrogi reached for the stacks of letters on the mantel.

One batch was written on inexpensive paper in an awkward hand, splotched with ink and sealed with blobs of cheap red wax. Wynn could smell the scented notes from across the room. Those had come from Rosie Peters, the bird-of-paradise who was breeding.