The Trouble with True Love (Dear Lady Truelove #2)

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “I have been told so, yes. But what does it matter? If you don’t have it to give me—”

  The door opened, interrupting her, and his butler came in. “My lord, your father is here.”

  Rex groaned. Could his day get any worse?

  “He insists upon seeing you at once,” Whistler went on.

  “I’ll bet he does,” Rex muttered, thinking of the newspaper article Clara Deverill had shown him. “He’s heard Auntie Pet has cut me off, and he sees a vulnerability to exploit.”

  “That sounds like something he’d do,” his mother put in, causing Rex to round on her at once.

  “Pipe down, Countess,” he ordered. “You’ve no moral high ground with me.”

  His mother had the grace to look abashed, and he returned his attention to his butler. “Did he happen to have a newspaper with him?”

  “He was carrying one, yes, my lord.”

  Rex sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

  “Do you wish to receive him, sir?”

  “Here?” Rex jumped to his feet, appalled by the prospect. “My father and my mother in the same room? Are you mad?”

  His butler stiffened as if affronted by that question. “I had thought,” he said with dignity, “to put Lord Leyland in the study.”

  “No, that won’t do. If you don’t bring him to the drawing room, he’ll immediately start speculating why, and I’ll never get my quarterly allowance back if he goes down that road. Tell him I’m not receiving. Got in a fight, head trauma, all that rot.”

  “No,” his mother interjected before the butler could move to depart. “See him. He’s the main source of your income, especially if Petunia is being chary. Best not to antagonize either of them.” She stood up. “I’ll go, and slip down the servant stairs so he won’t see me.”

  “That’s not necessary, Mama, for I have no intention of seeing him.” He paused to wave Whistler out of the room to carry out his instructions. “Not after the day I’ve had.”

  “But you might be able to return to his good graces, and if so, he’d resume your allowance, and you could then pay off the moneylender—” She broke off, and had the grace to blush at her own self-absorption.

  “I’m so happy to know how concerned you are about my well-being, Mama,” he said dryly. “But never fear, I’m sure Auntie and I will work things out and all will be well. In the meantime, if Papa wants to reinstate me, that would be lovely, but I’m still in no mood to eat the crow he wants to dish out, nor do I want to hear a vituperative tirade about you for the second time in a week.”

  Even his mother didn’t dare to press the topic any further. “What about the moneylender?” she asked in a whisper. “If I don’t pay him . . .” She paused, pressing a hand to her throat as if unable to continue.

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said harshly, well aware he was making a promise he was in no position to keep.

  “You’ll raise a loan, then?”

  After what had appeared in the paper, he doubted he could raise a loan for omnibus fare, much less one for a thousand pounds, but he didn’t say so.

  “I already told you I would take care of it,” he said, leading her to the writing desk by the window and thrusting a pen into her hand. “Write down this moneylender’s name and exactly where in Paris one might find him.”

  “But where are you going?” she asked as he turned and started for the door.

  “To make certain Papa has really left and isn’t still lurking somewhere about the house. God knows, if he saw you here, I doubt he or Auntie would ever speak to me again, much less reinstate my allowance, and I’m not about to let that happen.”

  Upon verifying that Whistler had seen Papa get into his carriage and that said carriage had definitely departed Half Moon Street and turned onto Piccadilly, Rex returned to the drawing room, where his mother presented him with a folded sheet of paper.

  “The man lives in a little cul-de-sac near Montmartre,” she explained. “You should be able to find the place easily enough.”

  “Me, go to Paris?” He shook his head. “No, I can’t. I need to make amends with Auntie Pet, and if she were to hear I’ve gone to Paris, she’ll think it’s to visit you. Papa will hear of it, too, and the fat will really be in the fire. I will send my valet. He’s a trustworthy, responsible chap. And he’s discreet. The debt will be paid by Saturday, you may be sure.”

  “Thank you, Rex. I am truly grateful.”

  “Are you?” He took a deep breath, looked into his mother’s eyes, and worked to add another layer of armor to the ones already encasing his heart. “If so, then I trust you will show your gratitude by staying the hell away from me.”

  Despite his efforts, the hurt in her eyes pierced his chest like a knife, making it clear that a few more layers of that armor would be required. “Go,” he ordered, “before I realize just how great a fool I truly am.”

  He turned away and walked to the writing desk without a backward glance. He sat down and made a great show of retrieving paper, envelopes, and stamps from the desk as if to demonstrate that he’d already dismissed her from his mind, but it was a pose, for he found himself holding his breath until he heard the door behind him open and close.

  He waited a moment longer, then glanced over his shoulder to find that she was indeed gone. Only then, did he allow himself a sigh of relief.

  That relief, however, was short-lived, for as he’d told his mother a few moments ago, he had to mend his quarrel with Auntie. He also had to obtain a thousand pounds and get it to Paris by Saturday.

  Suddenly, it occurred to him that both these problems might be solved at the same time, and by one action. He considered a moment how best to proceed, then he drew a sheet of paper closer, pulled the pen out of its holder, and flipped open the inkwell. After taking a moment to compose in his head just what he wanted to say, he inked his pen and began to write.

  Chapter 8

  Though Clara had lived in London her entire life, she had been inside the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden only once, and the view she’d had then from her inexpensive seat in the stalls could not compare to the view she had now.

  The theater’s domed gold and white ceiling, its crimson velvet seats and draperies, and the dazzling light from its hundreds of gas jets made an even more breathtaking display when one was seated in a box three floors above the stalls.

  “Let me say again how glad I was that you were able to accept my invitation this evening, Miss Deverill.”

  Clara turned her gaze from the dazzling vista below to the elderly woman standing beside her. “I was happy to receive it, Lady Petunia.”

  “Surprised, too, I daresay.” The older woman smiled, a gesture that deepened the good-humored creases at the edges of her pale green eyes. “It was such a last-minute business.”

  Clara had been surprised, but the spontaneity of the invitation had not been the reason. She hardly knew Lady Petunia Pierpont. To be singled out by someone of her rank not once but twice was a circumstance for which she could find no explanation, especially since the duke’s family, having so recently been rocked by scandal, were receiving a decidedly cool reception from most of society this season.

  If all that wasn’t enough to make Lady Petunia’s invitation to the opera surprising, there was also what had happened this afternoon. No doubt Lady Petunia’s great-nephew would prefer Clara at the bottom of the sea right now than anywhere near the members of his family. Granted, Galbraith and his aunt were not on the best of terms at present, but still, one’s own family was always more important than any outsider, particularly among the ton. And the viscount would surely have called upon his aunt after leaving Clara’s offices with the intent of mending their quarrel and restoring his income. But given the fact that she was here tonight, Clara could only conclude that either he didn’t know Lady Petunia had included her in their party, or he had not yet succeeded in regaining any influence with his elderly relation.

  “I had no plans this evening but to have dinner at
home with my sisters-in-law and retire to bed early,” she replied. “Your invitation may have been spur-of-the-moment, but as I said, I was happy to accept, and I thank you for thinking of me.”

  “You are quite welcome, my dear, although as much as I should like to have the credit for inviting you this evening, I don’t deserve it. No, the idea came from my great-nephew, Lord Galbraith.”

  Clara stared at Lady Petunia, astonished. “Lord Galbraith suggested that you invite me?”

  “He did, and I was delighted to oblige him.”

  Galbraith’s anger this afternoon had been plain, his refusal of her proposition quite clear. When he had departed from her office a few hours ago, they had seemed—to her mind, at least—at stalemate. “I can’t imagine what would inspire him to do such a thing,” she said truthfully.

  “Can you not, my dear?”

  The implication in that softly uttered question was not only erroneous, it was also absurd, and the idea that Lady Petunia might be harboring the notion that Galbraith had any attraction to her filled Clara with dismay. Still, there was no way to explain the reality, nor was there any point, so Clara looked away, pretending vast interest in the boxes on the opposite side of the theater.

  “I don’t mean to embarrass you,” Lady Petunia said, breaking the silence. “But whatever it was that Galbraith said to offend you so grievously the other night, I do hope you can forgive him.”

  She had no idea which of that outrageous man’s words the other woman was alluding to, or how she even knew Clara had been offended by anything, but before she could inquire further on the subject, they were interrupted by the very topic of their conversation.

  “I can mend my own fences, Auntie Pet. No need for you to do it for me.”

  Clara turned to find Galbraith standing behind her chair. Despite his evening clothes and the flutes of champagne he was carrying, he looked every inch the golden, windblown Adonis of ancient Greece to whom she’d first likened him, so much so that Clara’s pulses quickened in response, a reaction that filled her with chagrin.

  “And in that spirit of fence-mending,” he went on, lifting the filled glasses in his hands, “I’ve brought Miss Deverill a peace offering.”

  This certainly was proving to be an evening of surprises, and champagne was quite a delightful one, for she’d never tasted the stuff in her life before. But she held back from taking it, unwilling to seem too impressed and show how easily she could be disarmed, especially after the set-to they’d had earlier. “Champagne is a rather unorthodox peace offering, isn’t it?”

  He grinned. “They didn’t have olive branches on the refreshments menu.”

  The laugh was out of her mouth before she could even think to check it, and she appreciated that though Galbraith might be an utter scapegrace, he also had charm. When considered in combination with his breathtaking good looks, it seemed terribly unfair, a cruel trick of Fate played on unsuspecting females, and Clara was heartily glad of the conversation she’d overheard in the tea shop that prevented her from being one of those females.

  “I suppose not,” she said, accepting the flute from his hand. She lifted it to her mouth, and took a tentative sip.

  It was glorious, utterly glorious, and she smiled, feeling as if she’d just swallowed a mouthful of liquid joy. But when she lifted the glass again for a second, more eager taste, she caught him watching her, his head to one side and a slight smile on his lips, and somehow, the idea of him seeing just how unsophisticated she truly was seemed unbearable. She lowered the glass again, working to school her features to a neutral expression. “As peace offerings go, champagne is probably more successful than a fusty old olive branch. Thank you.”

  “I’m glad you’re here at last, Galbraith,” his aunt put in before he could reply. “I was just telling Miss Deverill how inviting her was your suggestion, and then I wondered if I ought to have admitted the fact, given the time. Being late isn’t the way to make a favorable impression on new acquaintances, my dear.”

  “I’m not late though, am I?” he countered, leaning down to press a kiss to his aunt’s cheek.

  She sniffed. “Arriving only thirty minutes before the performance isn’t what I’d call punctual either, especially when we have guests in our box. My great-nephew,” she added, turning to Clara, “is always the last member of the family to arrive for any event. I can never decide if it’s because he possesses an inferior pocket watch, or if he just likes making an entrance.”

  Despite this rebuke and their recent quarrel, her affection for him was obvious, and Clara wasn’t the least bit fooled by her disapproving tone. Neither, she noticed, was Galbraith.

  “I’m usually the last only because the rest of my family believes arriving half an hour early is the height of punctuality. But,” he added before Lady Petunia could offer a retort, “in this case, Auntie, you’ll be happy to know I was not the last one here. I was, in fact, the first.”

  “But where have you been, then? We arrived ages ago.”

  “When I got here, you and the rest of our party were nowhere to be found, so I occupied my time by going back down and ordering refreshments.” He held out the second glass to her. “Champagne?”

  She waved aside the offered glass. “No, no, thank you. I had two glasses of wine with dinner. Champagne so soon afterward will make me tipsy.”

  “I believe I’d like to see that,” he murmured, earning himself a look of reproof.

  “Now that you are here, Galbraith, I shall leave Miss Deverill in your hands and mingle with some of our other guests. Try not to offend her again, if you please. And Miss Deverill?” She turned to Clara. “If he dares to be impertinent, you have my leave to turn your back on him and walk away, just as you did at my ball.”

  With that, she departed for the other end of the room, and Galbraith moved between chairs to join Clara at the rail.

  Clara turned toward him. “Lady Petunia doesn’t know about that, does she?” she asked in alarm, glancing back to be sure the other woman was out of earshot.

  “About what?”

  She faced him again, her gaze rising as far as his tie, but she knew from the heat in her cheeks that her face was about the same rose-pink shade as her evening gown. “What you said,” she whispered, oddly more embarrassed now about his suggestion of kissing her than she’d been at the time.

  But he only laughed. “God, no. If she knew I’d made such a naughty proposition to a young lady, she’d not only have stopped giving me an income, she’d have flayed me alive. No, that secret stays between us, if you don’t mind.”

  Relieved, she lifted her gaze to his, and at the sight of those brilliant eyes, she suddenly wanted to know why he’d made that wicked proposition in the first place. But she’d have died rather than ask.

  “I’m glad you came,” he said in the wake of her silence. “I wasn’t sure you would.”

  “Was my presence here really at your instigation?”

  “You seem skeptical.”

  “Should I not be? When you left my offices this afternoon, you seemed angry enough with me to spit nails.”

  “That’s true enough,” he conceded, leaning one hip against the railing. “But if you knew me better, you’d know I don’t hold grudges. I . . .” He paused and looked down, frowning into the glass in his hand. “Holding onto anger, Miss Deverill, is an ugly thing, something I’ve watched people do through most of my life, and it never answers. Therefore, I strive never to do it.” He paused and looked at her again, lifting his glass. “Truce?”

  “Truce,” she agreed, clinking her glass to his. “I’m not the sort to hold grudges either.”

  His eyes creased at the corners as he smiled. “Good, because I’m afraid my effort to mend fences with you has an ulterior motive. I’m wondering if your offer of employment is still open?”

  Clara froze, her champagne glass halfway to her lips, feeling a jolt of hope, for her attempts to compose an answer for the Devastated Debutante after his departure this afternoo
n had been dismally unsuccessful. “Why do you ask? Have you changed your mind about accepting it?”

  “That depends,” he said, an ambiguous reply that reminded Clara getting one’s hopes up about a man like this was a foolish thing to do, even as she mentally crossed her fingers.

  “Yes,” she answered, “my offer is still open.”

  “Before you say that, I must warn you, I have a few conditions of my employment. For one thing, my fee would need to be one hundred and twenty-five pounds per column.”

  “Done,” she said, too relieved to quibble about an additional two hundred pounds, especially since the paper could easily afford to pay it.

  “And,” he went on, “I would require all the money in advance.”

  “All of it?”

  “Yes, all. That is a nonnegotiable point,” he added before she could reply.

  “Wages are usually paid only after the work has been done,” she felt compelled to point out.

  “True, but anything less than one thousand pounds paid immediately negates my sudden need for funds.” He did not explain further. Instead, in the wake of her silence, he raised an eyebrow, looking amused. “What’s wrong? Are you afraid I won’t come up to snuff and you shall have to give me the sack before I’ve earned my pay?”

  “Let’s just say I’m not sure I can trust you to take the responsibilities of the job seriously. Laughing,” she admonished as his smile widened, “only underscores my concern. Writing the Lady Truelove column is not a lark, Lord Galbraith. It is a task that requires serious thought and deliberation.”

  “Inventing problems for fictitious correspondents and scribbling advice to solve those problems seems rather a lark to me, but I won’t debate the point.”

  She could have told him that the people Lady Truelove advised were not fictitious, but she decided to save any explanations of what would be required of him for later. If he truly was serious about taking this on, she didn’t want to scare him off. “I will pay the funds in advance. Are we agreed?”