While she sipped her tea, the dowager went on to regale Kit with the latest news and gossip from London; the duchess seemed to find great amusement in watching young chits and their mothers scramble hither and thither like hens in a barnyard as they made their all-important preparations for balls and parties.
"Unfortunately, we will have no further diversions of that sort until autumn." Then the duchess paused and set down her teacup. "And now I have a favor to ask you."
Kit braced herself. "And that is?…"
"The last week of this month I am due to visit my grandson at his country estate near Stow-on-the-Wold. I had hoped you would consent to accompany me."
"Accompany you?" Kit pulled a face; she was doing it again. Soon she would be nothing but a complete mimic.
Her Grace did not appear to notice. "You make it sound like such a remarkable request, child. Really, I know of no other person whose company I can tolerate so well as yours."
Kit swiveled around in her chair and poured His Grace a fresh cup of tea, her shoulders hunched so that the duchess could not see her scowl. "How long will you be staying, ma'am?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
"Oh, a week, at most. I would consider it a great favor to me, Kit. My great-grandchildren are delightful, but I fear my grandson and his wife are as stiff rumped as they come. They are convinced that I have become completely addled in my old age and that it is high time I settle down in the dower house and stop making a fool of myself. Bah. Stop making a fool of myself, indeed! I shall need your assistance in reasoning with these young idiots."
Kit pursed her lips. "I think it very wrong of them to force you to do anything, Your Grace."
"Yes, but that will not prevent them from trying, I can promise you that. But do not worry, child-you will have no social obligations and no responsibilities save to keep me from pulling caps with my relations. You will be there as my very great friend. Surely you agree that a change of scenery will do you good. Come with me, Kit, do."
The young woman considered the remaining liquid in the bottom of her cup. Spend a week in the home of the man who had tried to bribe her into severing her friendship with the dowager? The small fortune he had offered would have rendered her a very wealthy woman, but she did not hold her friends so meanly as His Grace did his own relations. Her jaw tightened. She had just gained her own freedom; she could not bear to see the dowager lose hers.
She raised her head. "If you believe my presence will help, then yes, Your Grace, I will go with you."
The duchess beamed. "Capital, my dear. Capital! It will be a week you will not soon forget."
Kit smiled back. "Oh, I am certain of it."
London
Bored.
Bored, bored, bored.
Nicholas Darcy, Marquess of Bainbridge, stifled a yawn with the back of one elegantly manicured hand. God's teeth, now that the Season was over, here he was, poised to cock up his toes from sheer ennui. Town was frightfully thin of company, and would be for the next two months. Nothing of note had been entered into the gaming book at White's, or any of the other gentlemen's clubs, for that matter. Recent bouts of inclement weather had kept him from his regular afternoon gallop. Even the lush blond charms of his mistress, the exquisite Angelique Auvray, were wearing thin; her fits of coquettish jealousy, which he had once found amusing, had become rather tedious of late. If he did not soon find something with which to divert himself, he would surely run mad.
At the moment, his only interesting prospect lay in a mysterious message from his cousin, the Duke of Wexcombe. The duke had written to him a few days ago, saying that he would be in London and needed to meet with the marquess on a most urgent matter. Bainbridge flicked a glance to the clock that ticked contentedly away on the marble mantelpiece. Nearly half past three. His cousin was due at any moment.
At precisely half past three, the marquess's lugubrious butler announced the arrival of His Grace, the Duke of Wexcombe. Lord Bainbridge climbed to his feet just as his cousin marched into the study.
"Good afternoon, Wexcombe," he drawled, making a slight bow. "I had never thought to see you in London after the close of the Season."
"I know," replied the duke, his face haggard. "But circumstances dictate otherwise."
Bainbridge looked hard at his relative, then arched a dark, quizzical brow. "Gadzooks, my dear fellow-something must be very wrong, indeed. You look as though you need a drink."
His Grace nodded and lowered himself into one of the two high backed plush chairs that flanked the hearth. "Yes, I believe I do. Brandy, if you please."
Well, well-this was a curious development; the stiff and proper Duke of Wexcombe rarely indulged in spirits, and never before dinner. But, ever the obliging host, Bainbridge crossed to the sideboard, uncorked the decanter, and poured two bumpers full of amber liquid. He handed one to his guest.
"I assume your rather unsmiling demeanor has something to do with your message," he prompted, settling himself into the chair opposite his guest.
The duke stared into the depths of his brandy, then regarded his cousin with somber gray eyes. "It involves my grandmother."
"Ah." Bainbridge settled back in his seat and savored a sip of his drink. "What is Great-Aunt Josephine up to now? Another adventure?"
His Grace made an impatient gesture. "She gets more difficult with every year," he grumbled. "At first I thought her odd starts were the result of boredom, but I vow she has become as eccentric as Lady Hester Stanhope herself. First her voyage to Greece, then to Turkey, then to India, of all places. And now…"
The marquess rubbed at his chin. Yes, his cousin could be a pompous ass. Yes, he was damnably high in the instep. But there could be no doubt that he loved his grandmother and cared for her welfare. Whatever had happened, it was something that did not bode well.
"And now?" he prompted.
The duke thrust a hand through his wheat-blond hair, undoing the careful Brutus style. "I feared this might happen. I shall be blunt, Bainbridge. Grandmama is no longer in complete possession of her faculties. Non compos mentis."
The marquess frowned. "How can that be? I saw her a year ago Christmastide and she appeared right as rain."
His Grace sipped his brandy. "I believe she is in good physical health," he admitted, "but her judgment is not as it should be. Look at the company she keeps these days… that scandalous fellow, the poet-what's his name… Shelley, and Lady Holland's Whiggish set. And then there was that balloon ascension, and now-"
"Just what are you saying, Wexcombe?" Bainbridge demanded. His cousin's words struck a chord of alarm.
The duke's mouth thinned. "A scurrilous personage has attached herself to Grandmama, no doubt with the hope of sponging off her, or even inheriting some of her fortune."
"A fortune hunter? Whatever gives you that idea?"
"When Grandmama returned from India, all she could talk about was a certain Mrs. Mallory, a widow she had met during the voyage. She spends more of her time with this woman than she does with her blood relations. I tell you, Bainbridge, it's not natural."
"A widow," the marquess mused. "Do you know anything about her? Perhaps she is just someone who befriended Aunt Josephine onboard ship. What exactly has you so concerned?"
His Grace took a long pull of brandy, then made a face. "I did some checking up on this woman, and you will like what I found even less than I did. She is the daughter of Baron Sudbrooke."
"Good God."
"My thoughts exactly. And it gets worse. Eight years ago she married a Cit by the name of George Mallory. A very wealthy Cit. Wealthy enough to pay off Sudbrooke's debts."
"His debts at the time, you mean," Bainbridge snorted. "Lud, the man's a sieve when it comes to money. Hasn't a feather to fly with."
"Quite."
"Didn't he flee the country last year?"
"Yes, and went to ground somewhere. His debts were excessive."
"So what are you worried about? If this Mrs. Mallory is a Cit's widow, she should have enough
blunt of her own."
"On further investigation, I discovered that her jointure was relatively small." His lips twitched. "She has enough to live comfortably, but hardly in the manner to which I'm sure she has become accustomed. Like father, like daughter, I'll wager. Then just a few days ago I received a note from Grandmama, saying that she's bringing this woman with her to visit us in Gloucestershire."
Bainbridge considered this. "So you think this widow is planning to get her hands on Her Grace's money?"
"I do," replied the duke with a curt nod. "Grandmama will be seventy-four come Michaelmas. She is no longer as agile, physically or mentally, as she would like us to think, and therefore she is vulnerable. I think this Mrs. Mallory is egging her on, taking advantage of her lessened mental capacities."
A muscle flexed in the marquess's jaw. "Then we must look after her, Wexcombe."
"I am relieved to hear you say that, Cousin, because I came here to secure your help." His Grace leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees and an intent, angry light in his eyes.
"What would you like me to do?"
A slight flush colored the duke's pale cheeks. "I pray you do not take offense at this, Cousin, but I believe we have need of your particular… talents."
"Ah. Do I take you to mean that you want me to seduce this Mrs. Mallory?" Bainbridge grinned in spite of himself.
"Anything it takes," the duke declared. The pink in his face grew brighter. "I've already offered her ten thousand pounds to leave Grandmama alone, but the jade refused it. She's probably holding out for a greater offer. See what you can do; I will pay whatever it takes. Seduce her, then abandon her if you have to. Just enough to give my grandmother such a disgust of this woman that she'll never want any further contact with her."
"Hmm. Won't this widow be suspicious? After all, my reputation often precedes me."
Wexcombe swirled the brandy in his glass, then shrugged. "You are my cousin, and this is a family house party. What is there to suspect?"
"What about the duchess and the children? I'm not sure how much of this sordid affair we will be able to hide from them."
"Caroline is aware of the situation, as is her sister Elizabeth, and I will instruct the governess to keep Nathaniel and Emma in the nursery. This might be our only opportunity, Bainbridge. Once the ton returns to Town, who knows what Grandmama might try to do? Lord knows I don't want a scandal on my hands."
The marquess snorted. He knew better than to think his cousin was doing this purely for his grandmother's benefit. But the dowager's welfare was at stake, so he could hardly refuse. "When do you need me at Broadwell Manor, Cousin?"
His Grace set aside his glass. "Grandmama and her… friend… are due to arrive next Monday; I would like for you to be there when they do."
"Then I shall pack at once and travel to Gloucestershire directly," Bainbridge stated. He rose and offered his hand to the duke. "After next week you shall have nothing to worry about."
Wexcombe took his hand and shook it gratefully. "I am counting on it."
"Just be careful. Remember what happened the last time you tried to tell Great-Aunt Josephine what she should and should not do-she boarded the next ship for Calcutta."
The duke rolled his eyes. "You needn't remind me," he admonished, then took his leave.
Bainbridge stared after him. A slight smile crooked one corner of his mouth. How ironic. A few moments ago, he had wanted nothing more than something, anything to ease his crushing boredom.
He should really be more careful about what he wished for.
Chapter Two
They were staring at her.
Every time Kit raised her head from her book she fancied that she saw one of the others look quickly away. Or was she imagining things? The Marquess of Bainbridge, at least, made no attempt to conceal his scrutiny. The first time their eyes met across the drawing room, his lips curved in a slight, intimate smile that sent gooseflesh racing over her skin. A bright display of color rose in her cheeks, and Kit wrenched her attention back to her reading, though the words on the page made little sense to her restless mind.
She had expected some condescension from the relations of the dowager duchess, but not such veiled hostility. During dinner, the duke and duchess asked her a number of pointed questions about her experiences in India, but their inquiry seemed to focus more on her late husband's dealings in trade than on anything to do with Calcutta or its many wonders. Lady Elizabeth Peverell, the duchess's sister, had sat next to her, and although on the surface her conversation sounded quite congenial, the lady made several insulting comments sotto voce to her, well out of the dowager's hearing. Kit frowned. And this was but the first battle.
She shifted on the Chippendale chair and tried to concentrate on her book, but Mr. Coleridge's sonnets had lost their appeal. She had never traveled in such exalted social circles, even when she made her debut; the penniless daughter of a reprobate baron received few invitations, never mind vouchers for Almack's. Perhaps that was why she felt so out of place.
It had started the moment she and the dowager had arrived. Although Kit had worn her best gown to dinner, the sight of the lovely raven-haired duchess in her dress of celestial blue silk and Lady Elizabeth in a creation of silver net over sea green satin was enough to make her compare herself to a crow that had inadvertently landed in a flock of graceful swans. Her navy blue gown, though well made, looked woefully plain by comparison. Now she knew why the dowager duchess had gone on about new dresses. Kit pursed her lips and turned another page.
Since they dined en famille, the gentlemen did not go to a separate room to enjoy their port after dinner, but rather the entire group had adjourned to the drawing room. At present, the duke and duchess sat on either side of the dowager on the long striped divan by the hearth. The marquess lounged against the ornate stone mantelpiece, a glass of sherry dangling from his strong fingers. Lady Elizabeth sat nearby and attempted to engage the marquess in conversation. Lord Bainbridge, however, did not appear to be drawn in by her sallies; he made but brief replies, his gaze never straying far from Kit's.
What part did this fellow play in the duke's scheme? Whatever it was, she was determined not to let him unnerve her. With a huff, Kit turned a deliberate shoulder to him.
There, that was better. She tried to find her place in her book.
Was he still…
Temptation got the better of her. She glanced over her shoulder.
Yes, he was.
Heat flooded her features for the umpteenth time that evening. Why did the man stare at her so, and why did it seem to affect her pulse so strangely? He was handsome, very handsome, but something about his demeanor disturbed her, and it was not just the fact that he felt inclined to stare at complete strangers. He had-there was no other way to put it-an almost deliberate charm about him, as though he went out of his way to bring himself to the attention of the fairer sex. And he paid almost no attention to Lady Elizabeth, the lovely unmarried daughter of an earl, in favor of her, a plain-featured widow.
As if her experience on the Marriage Mart had not been education enough, Kit's experiences in India had honed her ability to identify dangerous predators, and this man was definitely dangerous. She could see it in the confident set of his broad shoulders, in the calculated smile that curved his mobile mouth. He continued to regard her from beneath seductively half-lowered lids; she dared not look into those compelling sable brown eyes, or imagine brushing that lock of ebony hair away from his forehead…
She started. Gracious-what made her think such a thing? She had dealt with over a dozen such men in India, acquaintances of her husband who had not scrupled to solicit her affections, so why did this one have her behaving like a complete widgeon?
"Mrs. Mallory," called the duchess, "perhaps you would favor us with a piece on the pianoforte. I think you will find our Broadwood grand to be a superior instrument."
Kit now raised her head to find herself the focus of everyone's gaze. Again. She forced a
polite smile to her lips. "I regret to say, ma'am, that my musical talents are indifferent, at best."
"Well then, I will play, and you can sing for us."
Kit recognized the gleam in the duchess's cool eyes. A prickling sensation spread across the back of her neck. "I fear my singing is little better, Your Grace."
"Oh, leave the girl alone, Caroline," reproached the dowager. "She is here as my guest and should not feel obliged to entertain you."
The duchess lifted a languid hand to her throat. "I was merely being polite, Grandmama. After all, we do want Mrs. Mallory to feel at home here." She turned to her husband. "Do we not, my dear?"
"Yes. Of course," agreed the duke, his mouth set in hard lines.
Kit's fingers tightened around her book. Did the dowager not notice the treacherous undercurrents of these words? Apparently not. That, or she was going to pick her battles. Kit hoped it was the latter.
"I confess I am astonished, Mrs. Mallory," added Lady Elizabeth. She shared a knowing look with her sister. "I thought every well-brought-up young lady knew how to play the pianoforte and sing. Your talents must lie in… other areas."
Kit's smiled turned brittle. "Quite so. I speak French and Italian tolerably well, although my German is only adequate. During my years in India I learned to speak fluent Hindi, along with a smattering of Bengali and a bit of Persian."
Lady Elizabeth appeared taken aback. "I… see. And your other accomplishments? Do you embroider or paint watercolors?"
"I have always wondered why society insists on measuring a lady by her accomplishments. If playing and singing and painting insipid watercolors are the sum of our potential, then we are dull creatures, indeed."
"I must protest, Mrs. Mallory," said the duchess airily. "Such refined skills are what separate genteel ladies from women of the lower classes."
"One might also claim that the ability to read serves the same purpose." Kit gestured to her book.
"Oho-a palpable hit. Good for you, child," cackled the dowager.
Kit smiled. The lady was indeed picking her battles.
A Reckless Bargain Page 2