The Harlow Hoyden (9 page)

“And you, my dear, are too soft in your judgment. But not to worry, I’m on the case and will soon have this whole problem fixed.”

“What are you planning?” Sarah asked suspiciously. For the first time that day she recalled the Duke of Trent’s odd behavior the night before. He’d seemed on the verge of a confession.

“Nothing to furl your pretty brow over. Just concentrate on Roger’s getting
well and returning home to us soon. I’ll worry about everything else.”

“That’s exactly what worries me.”

Emma merely laughed.

With the piquet game occupying her hands, Lady Harlow found her mind wandering. “The thing I don’t understand is why Roger had to go to France in the first place. It’s so dangerous.”

“The war is over, Mama, and Napoléon has been safely ensconced on St. Helena for
these many months,” Lavinia said reasonably. “France is as safe as England.”

“Ha!” said the lady. “Roger never tumbled off his horse on English soil. Traveling is foolhardy and dangerous. I myself have never done it and look at the long life I’ve had.”

“Then perhaps you should not send him to France to do your bidding, “ said Emma, reminding her mother just why Roger had been on foreign soil.

“I, send him to France? What an absurd notion.”

“But what about your investments?”

“The only investments I have are English. I’d never send my money to France, where any old foreigner could steal it. Why, look at what happened to Roger. I’m not altogether convinced that this accident wasn’t intentional. Surely some thieves set upon him in the night, causing him to take a fall.”

Emma thought
this disavowal of French investments odd but didn’t refine too much on it. Her mother was a careless, absentminded woman and forgetting that she’d sent her firstborn on a financial errand was exactly the sort of thing she’d do.

“That is neither here nor there,” said Sarah, fearing that Emma wouldn’t let the matter rest. “What’s important is Roger’s health. We must all keep that in mind. And
when he returns to our hearth, we must be sure to treat him as we always have. We mustn’t let him think we’re treating him differently because of his missing arm. His state of mind is as important as his physical health.”

Everyone agreed that this was the best course of action, and the room fell silent once more.

CHAPTER FOUR

Much to his disgust,
the Duke of Trent found himself looking for the Harlow chit everywhere he went. He expected to see her at the Sizemore musicale, which was the only reason he let his mama drag him there. Two hours of listening to what sounded like a hen caterwauling and not a glimpse of golden curls. He left the event in a huff and went to his club, where he passed the evening
losing fifty pounds to the Earl of Tumbridge.

The exercise was repeated the next evening, at Lady Weston’s route. His delighted mama watched him make conversation with Miss Portia Hedgley under the very pleased eye of that lady’s father. The talk was desultory and bored the duke to flinders. If he had to hear another word about ostrich-plumed hats, he was going to scream. At the first possible
moment, he offered to fetch the lady wine and disappeared into the crowd. He cornered Philip and made him deliver the refreshment to Miss Hedgley.

“What should I tell her?” asked Philip when charged with this task. “She’s going to ask what happened to you, and I’m going to look like a queer fellow if I don’t know.”

Trent was too bored to think of a creative excuse. “Tell her whatever you want.”

Philip tried to think of something. “Nope, my head’s empty. You better give me an excuse to pass along.”

“All right, tell her I’ve got the headache,” he said, thinking it wasn’t very far from the truth.

“Can’t do that,” protested Philip. “Only girls get headaches. Don’t worry. I’ll think of something. Not very good at lying but clearly I am better than you. A headache! Might as well tell
her you had a fainting spell.” Philip left in disgust.

As he watched his cousin walk away, Trent decided it was time he got going. The hour was still early, early enough to salvage something from this evening. He got into his carriage and told the coachman to take him to a gambling hell along St. James. There was a young widow he was flirting with, one he hoped to set up a liaison with, and
he knew she was a fan of the baize. Perhaps tonight he would press his suit. He could think of nothing else of interest to do.

Upon entering the hell, he found the widow Enderling at the faro table, just as he’d expected. His entrance did not pass unnoticed, and he saw the lady in question casting lures at him out of the corner of her eye.
Yes
, he thought,
she’s ripe for the plucking.
Somehow
the prospect didn’t please him as it ought. Perhaps it was because the challenge had gone out of the game.

He was making his way over to the widow when he caught sight of Everett Carson at the poker table. Without thinking, Trent changed directions and laid out his counters next to the peer. “Deal me in,” he said, taking out his snuffbox.

“Trent, this is a surprise,” said Carson. “From the
look of it, you seemed determined in your pursuit of the lovely Mrs. Enderling. I did not expect you to be playing poker when there were other…games to be played. What does this mean?”

Although Carson had said nothing less than the truth, the duke’s lip curled in disgust. “That things are seldom what they seem.”

“Wise words,” answered Carson before looking at his cards. “Very wise words indeed.
Why, just take the Harlow Hoyden, for example.”

In the process of taking a pinch of snuff, the duke halted his movement for a split second. “Yes?” he asked with deceptive indifference.

“When you meet her, she
seems
like a gently bred, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth young lady, the sort you want your sister to be, but we all know the truth.”

“The truth?” asked Trent.

“The truth. That
she’s wild and fast.”

He was almost positive that the man was merely speculating, but it wouldn’t do to lose his temper before confirming it. “I take it you’ve sampled the lady’s charms?” he asked, dampening down the bile that rose in his throat. How dare this bounder call Emma fast!

Carson smirked. “No, not yet. We’ve only had one dance, but I expect it is only a matter of time. She has a
passionate nature, and I, like you, enjoy other…games.”

At this intelligence, Trent couldn’t find an acceptable course of action. As much as he wanted to, he could not very well plant a facer on the scoundrel. To do so would be to bring scandal down on them all, for surely such behavior would only lead to a duel. Trent could think of nothing more pleasant than running Sir Everett Carson through,
but he would resist the impulse. The last thing the Harlow Hoyden needed was a duel fought over her honor.

With no satisfying recourse available to him, the duke finished out the hand in dark, brooding silence and left the hell.

First thing the next morning, Alexander Keswick, Duke of Trent, presented himself at 21 Grosvenor Square. Momentarily disconcerted by the hour of the call and the consequence
of the visitor, Ludlow belatedly showed him to the drawing room. A few minutes later, Emma walked in.

“Your grace,” she said, “this is an unexpected surprise.”

The duke bowed stiffly in welcome. “Miss Harlow, there’s some matter of considerable importance that I would like to discuss with you.”

Emma waved her hand in response. “Don’t say it. I know what’s going on. You’ve had a change of
heart and want your flower back. I’m sorry to report that it’s too late. It has been successfully cross-bred with one of my sister’s
Altensteinia nubigena
. But I’m sure she’ll let you have one of the blossoms when they’re ready.”

The duke, distracted, looked behind her toward the door. “Are you here alone?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Will no one else be joining us?”

“You did ask to speak
with me, did you not?”

“Yes, but I assumed you’d have the sense to bring along Sarah or at least an abigail. You should not be meeting alone with men. It’s not proper.”

“Pooh,” she dismissed, “we’re perfectly safe from wagging tongues here. No one else is home.”

“It’s not your reputation that you should be concerned with when you meet a man alone but your virtue.”

Emma laughed. “My virtue
is safe from you, is it not, your grace. Surely you have no designs on it.”

A wry smile played along his lips. “I’m not speaking of myself but of other men.”

“But I’m not meeting with other men,” she said, taking a seat and indicating that he should follow suit. “I’m meeting with you.”

Somewhat appeased by this communication, the duke sat down. “I want to talk about your scheme, Miss Harlow.
You must cease and desist right now. Everett Carson is not a boy to be toyed with. He is in fact a very dangerous man.”

Emma pictured the handsome man she had danced with a few nights before. Although a libertine who fit the bill in many ways, he was not to be trusted. Emma had already decided he wouldn’t do, but she nevertheless resented the duke’s interference. “Really, your grace, that’s
not very sporting of you. You have the right to refuse to help me—that’s your prerogative and I respect that—but that you should come in here and insist that I not consider a perfectly good libertine is insupportable. I wouldn’t have expected such dog-in-the-manger behavior from you.”

“Miss Harlow, I fear you do not understand the danger you court,” he said, ignoring her ridiculous speech in
an attempt to remained reasonable. “Carson is not a gentleman. He’ll give you cause to regret your actions.”

This grave warning did not perturb her. “I seriously doubt that, but if what you say is true, then I will just have to accept that. There are no rewards without risks.”

“As someone who knows more about this than you,” he said waspishly, feeling the first threads of his temper getting
away from him, “I must most strongly urge you to forget this rash plan. The risks are too great.”

Because Trent seemed so genuinely worried about her, Miss Harlow sought to put him at ease. “Really, your grace, you have no cause to worry. I have not decided on Carson and indeed it seems now that I will not use him. I have other prospects.”

The relief Trent felt at the beginning of the speech
evaporated by the end of it. “Other prospects?” he echoed.

“Yes, so there’s no cause for alarm.”

The duke could not agree. “Who are these other prospects?”

“I do not know yet, but I’m sure they will be infinitely more satisfying than Mr. Carson.”

“What do you mean by you do not know yet?”

“A dear friend is drawing up a list of possible candidates,” she explained. “She has promised to
provide me with at least five. I’m confident that one will meet all my requirements.”

“No,” said the duke in his sternest ducal voice, the one he used to quiet his interfering mother and sister.

“No?” she repeated, puzzled.

“No, you will not do this, drawing up a list of libertines and selecting one as though you were choosing a book at the lending library,” he commanded, expecting to be
obeyed. Nobody defied the Duke of Trent when he made a command. “It’s unacceptable.”

Emma didn’t recognize these words as the dictate they were and protested. “Really, your grace, I cannot see what it has to do with you. You’re not my father or brother to be telling me what is and isn’t acceptable.”

“It seems that I must be the one to tell you since neither has seen fit to do his duty,” he
said with more vehemence than he intended. He was now struggling to hold on to his temper. He hadn’t planned on discussing this with Miss Harlow. He expected her to obey his order and leave the matter alone. That he had to pursue it further angered him. “If either had, we would not be having this discussion. You would know that it’s not the thing to go around drawing up lists of libertines with the
expectation of interviewing them to find the one most suitable for seducing your sister.” Trent realized that Emma was not listening to him and jumped to his feet. He stood over her, looking his most intimidating with his dark eyebrows drawn in a harsh line. It was a stance that had not only quelled his mother and schoolfellows but members of Parliament as well. “Never in my life have I seen such
ramshack—”

“Would you like some tea, your grace?” she asked calmly, seemingly oblivious to his intimidation tactic.

“Tea?” the Duke of Trent echoed, his brows dropping.

“Yes, tea. I have been remiss in my duties as hostess. I should have offered you some the minute I entered the room. Do have a seat and let me rectify my oversight.”

The duke didn’t appreciate the interruption. He had more
to say on the topic of her conduct and refused to let the wind be taken out of his sails. “As I was saying, never in my life—”

“Well, I’m quite parched. Do hold that thought.” She got up, stuck her head out the door and began calling for Dobson.

The duke watched this odd behavior with wry amusement. Little wonder the mindless chit was tumbling headlong into scandal and ruin; she had no sense
of decorum at all.