The Luck of the Devil (10 page)

R
owanne's father had been with the Foreign Office. Surely some of his diplomacy must have rubbed off on her, that she could assemble her disparate group for a dinner party the following night. Then again, her mother's father had been a noted horse-trader.

"I still do not see why you had to invite that dirty dish to our table, Ro," her brother complained when she interrupted him in his study that evening. "He may be a duke now, and a war hero, but he is no gentleman."

"How could I not invite St. Dillon, Gabe, when it's an engagement dinner for his sister, who just happens to be staying with us? It is merely en famille, dear, to please Suzannah."

"If it's his sister, why isn't he throwing a dinner?" Gabe asked grumpily, tossing down his pen. Today there were no almond tarts left for his tea; for the second day in a row he had to make do with buttered fingers of toast. Furthermore, for the first time in his life, and at the worst time for his career, Gabriel was having difficulties concentrating on his work. He blamed it all on the intrusion into his life of that harum-scarum female Suzannah Delverson, and now her rackety brother.

"He will, dear, but he is a bachelor in mourning, and Delverson House is not yet in condition for guests. His Grace sent for the staff from Delmere in Dorset to come help, but until then he is putting up at Grillon's. He asked very nicely if we would mind entertaining Suzannah a bit longer, and naturally I told him no. It will not be for long."

"Good. Then he won't be making any improper proposals at my dinner table."

"No, for Emonda will likely leave with Suzannah."

That gave her brother pause. He polished his spectacles. "Hmph. We'll see about that. Lady Clyme belongs at
Wimberly House, not some bachelor's barracks. In the meantime, Rowanne, I can tell you it's going to be deuced difficult being polite to a philanderer who sold his own aunt to a crotchety old man."

"You know, Gabe, you once accused me of condemning him without a fair hearing. Emonda tends to be the smallest bit oversensitive where St. Dillon is concerned."

"Lady Clyme's innocence and gentleness of spirit leave her unprepared for the attentions of a rake. She is everything that a lady should be."

Rowanne got up to leave. "Then we must show her that we are also everything polite, by extending our courtesies to her relations."

"Hmph." Gabe went back to his papers.

Emonda refused to attend the dinner if Lord St. Dillon was coming, Suzannah's engagement or no. "I'll stay in my room, then your numbers will be even: Woody, St. Dillon, and Lord Gabriel, you, Suzannah, and Lady Silber."

Rowanne pretended to consider the implications of an odd number. "No," she reflected out loud, "I think I must worry more for my brother's assuming that St. Dillon had offended you to such an extent you could not face him. I only pray that
Gabe does not challenge His Grace to a duel.…"

Emonda gasped and pressed both hands to her cheeks. She would come.

"St. Dillon's a sinner? I know that, girl. I prayed for his soul just last night."

"No, Aunt Cora, he's coming to dinner."

Lady Silber lofted her parrot-beak of a nose and announced, "I shall not break bread with a profligate who goes around littering the countryside like a stray tom, and neither shall you.

"When are you going to have a care for your name, you cloth-head? Dallying with the likes of Carey Delverson won't get you an eligible parti, missy."

"Aunt Cora, I am not getting up a flirtation with the man, I am inviting him to dinner for his sister's sake."

Cora hadn't heard a word. "No, not even if he is as rich as Golden Ball and has to find a wife soon, he'll never make a good husband for you."

"Me?" Rowanne tried to laugh heartily. "Ha-ha. It's Emonda the duke wants. Ha." That was half-heartedly, the half that didn't feel a sharp pang at the idea of His Grace limping down the aisle with Emonda on his arm. Rowanne could not think the duke would be comfortable taking Emonda to wive, if she did not expire during the wedding service. Nor did their last dialogue seem loverlike. Rowanne had heard more affectionate conversation between Cook and a butcher with his thumb on the scales. Still, "The duke is liable to snabble Emonda right out from under Gabe's nose if you are not there. A practiced rake and all that."

"I daresay you are right. The chit is too sweet by half, and Toodles likes her too, but there's no getting around that she's got more hair than wit. And that brother of yours couldn't attach a female on his own if he sat in the glue pot. No, I'll have to come to your dinner, Rowanne. Pour me a cordial, will you, to make sure I'll have enough strength."

"It's not good for your heart, Aunt."

"What's that? Your part in it? Don't worry, girl, you're safe. St. Dillon's high-flyers were always riper females than you'll ever be, and he'll never look in your direction, not if he's looking to marry a biddable girl like Emonda."

Ha.

Woody wanted to know what was for dinner, and Suzannah begged for champagne for the toasts. Rowanne had such a headache she thought she might cancel the whole thing.

And the subject of all this rumination? Leaning back in his soaking tub of hot water to ease his leg after spending the evening at White's, a cheroot in one hand, a brandy in the other, Carey, Lord St. Dillon, considered that life could be worse.

His sister's future was secure, even if it was not the future he would have chosen. No doubt those two would be as productive as rabbits, so Carey could even petition the courts to have Suzannah's first son succeed him if necessary. Hell, they wouldn't have to fly the ducal banner when Suzannah's brat was in residence; they could just let his ears flap in the breeze. And Emonda was actually welcomed to stay by Clyme and his sister.

Now there was a rare bit of luck, Carey reflected, lazily blowing smoke rings. His wayward wards had landed on the doorstep of the one gently bred young woman in all of London of whom he had fond memories.

Miss Wimberly was as lovely as he recalled, an appeal formed not just of her considerable quiet beauty but her intelligence and poise. He'd swear she was not given to high flights and fancies that could make a man's life a living hell, and she had a fortune of her own so there would be no question of cream-pot love. She had a sense of humor and varied interests. Carey had been fascinated by the collection of fragile little things that seemed to show so well Miss Wimberly's delicate touch and her good taste, beyond the elegance of her house and dress. More, she seemed to accept his handicap without looking on him with pity, or fussing over him with cushions and commiseration.

She had even graciously invited him to dinner, although he could sense her reluctance. Carey blew the smoke into the brandy snifter and watched it rise over the amber liquid. Devil take it, how the deuce was he going to sit through a dinner with Miss Wimberly, making social chit-chat? What he really wanted to do was throw her over his saddle bow, ride off into the night, and keep her captive with his kisses until she promised to marry him. He could practically taste her lips—no, not the brandy—as she met his passion with her own, agreeing to give up her glittering London life for marriage to a half-man, a rundown estate, and social calls from Mrs. Reardon. No, he acknowledged, taking another swallow, it would never work. He couldn't even sit a horse.

Nevertheless, it was an unbelievable stroke of good fortune finding Miss Wimberly still unwed while he was in need of a bride… even if she did look upon him as something that lived under a damp rock.

It was a very different gentleman who appeared at Wimberly House the next evening. The slightly seedy-looking ex-soldier had spent the day with his tailor, his banker, his superiors at the War Office, and various discreet individuals he set to making inquiries. He was now formally a civilian, wealthy beyond even his expectations, and every inch a duke. He wore black satin breeches and a black velvet coat stretched perfectly across his broad shoulders, tapering at his narrow waist where a white marcella waistcoat and white lawn shirt showed in pristine splendor. His neckcloth was tied just so, with a fine black pearl nestled in its precise folds. He carried a jeweled snuffbox, mostly to ensure the muscles of his hand did not tighten up with lack of use, and a silver cane with a quizzing glass mounted in the handle.

If looking back at a blue eye magnified twenty times did not scare Master Jeffers out of his striped pantaloons, nothing would. Woody tried to disappear into the wainscoting, as much as he could wearing a gold coat with padded shoulders, shirt collars so high they almost succeeding in camouflaging the ears and an orange waistcoat embroidered with goldfish and waterlilies.

Rowanne's lips twitched and she nearly applauded St. Dillon's performance as an affected dandy. It was an act, wasn't it?

He was appreciative to Gabe for seeing to his ladies, and civil to Emonda, who snatched her hand back from his kiss and wiped it on her skirt.

Suzannah threw her arms around him again in her excitement, causing Carey to beg her, "Leave off, puss, the rig took long enough to get right. Rudd fussed so, I felt like a prize pig being readied for judging. Besides, I've brought you a gift." He reached into his pocket.

"What's that?" Aunt Cora wanted to know. "What's the mealymouthed coxcomb mumbling about, Rowanne?"

Rowanne tried to shush her aunt. "He is giving Suzannah an engagement present, pearls, I think."

"Prevent girls? The jackanapes is more of a fool than I thought. They ain't even shackled yet. 'Sides, that's an old wives' tale, how you can do anything to get sons instead of daughters. Just look at Prinny." Aunt Cora's voice was always loud enough for someone as deaf as herself to hear. Now it seemed as loud as the bishop's at St. George's on Sunday morning as she blared out: "Fellow must have been injured worse than we thought, if he's looking to his sister for the heirs."

Emonda shrieked and Suzannah giggled, but St. Dillon turned to Rowanne, who was sitting on the sofa next to Aunt Cora—and he winked. His eyes held the twinkle Rowanne had been missing in the urbane Exquisite in her drawing room and the careworn traveler of yesterday. She smiled back.

"My dear Lady Silber," he said, bowing outrageously in that lady's direction, "your concern for the continuance of my name, ah, unmans me. Rest assured, however, that while I may no longer take up sword in the country's defense, the proud house of St. Dillon shall ever be ready, willing… and able to answer the call."

Rowanne announced that dinner was served. Ten minutes early.

Dinner was not a total disaster. The food was good, when it got there. Rowanne had struggled with a seating chart for the small group in vain. There was simply no way to keep her one awkward guest apart from Gabe, Emonda, Woody, and Aunt Cora at the same time unless she seated the duke in the kitchen. Instead she put him in her usual seat, facing down the table to Gabriel. She placed herself to his right, Suzannah to his left, Emonda and Aunt Cora next to Gabe. Woody was on Suzannah's other side, where she could act as buffer in case the duke took exception to Woody's extravagant lace sleeves flowing in the turtle soup.

As the dinner progressed from sole in lobster sauce through roulade of beef and veal Florentine, conversation was general. That is, Suzannah chattered away about her sightseeing, Aunt Cora talked about weddings, and Woody ate his way through four courses and removes. Gabriel answered Rowanne's questions about the day's events in Parliament and St. Dillon answered her questions about news from the War Office. Emonda sat silently next to Gabe, pushing peas around on her plate and pleating her serviette. One would think they were serving poison, to look at the young widow. Rowanne almost wished they were, as Gabe grew more and more taciturn, seeing Emonda's distress, and Suzannah more loquacious with each glass of champagne. Rowanne was disgusted with all of them. She'd been hostessing brilliant dinners for years with scintillating conversation, gay repartee, informative discussions. This was not one of them.

Finally St. Dillon put a halt to Suzannah's prattle by nodding to a footman to take her glass away. He then gently asked Lady Silber to make a list of everything she deemed necessary for a proper wedding, for Heaven knew, neither he nor Suzannah had the least notion. Of course nothing need be done for a year, he told that lady, with Suzannah underage and the family still in mourning.

"Speaking of mourning," he casually went on, gesturing toward Emonda's gray gown, "I am surprised to see you still wearing widow's weeds."

Gabe was scowling even more ferociously, and Rowanne was wondering if she could suggest leaving the men to their port before dessert was served. It was chocolate mousse, her favorite, though, so she fixed a gay smile on her face and answered St. Dillon: "Oh, Emmy would be in black if we let her. She is everything that is proper. It is Gabe and I who bend the conventions. But I find black depressing, don't you know. And we never even met the earl."

She felt her leg kicked! Surely she did. She stared in amazement at Carey, but he was lounging back in his seat, still looking at Emonda. The widow's eyes were fixed on the ring her water glass had left on the table.

"Quite right," Carey told Rowanne, slurring his words as if he had had too much champagne also, although Rowanne knew he had not. He had barely touched the stuff except for the toast, and hardly ate enough to justify Cook's exertions, preparing all day for a wealthy, bachelor dook. "And your good fortune, never knowing
the old curmudgeon. I'm surprised at Emonda, though, wearing the willow for that tough old bird I had to force her to marry. Kicking and screaming, she was. We even thought about pouring laudanum down her throat, but she agreed to behave if we didn't tie her up."

Woody's mouth was hanging open and Suzannah whispered, "Carey how can you?" Rowanne would have given anything to see the devil's eyes, but he was still staring at Emonda. "After a year or more I would have thought you'd be happy to see the last of the old nipcheese, now that you are free to spend some of his money at last. I suppose it's too much to hope you'd thank me for the favor I—"