How to Treat a Lady

by Karen Hawkins

“I just came from a meeting.” He looked at her in a meaningful way. “At the bank.”

  Where else would he have been at a meeting, she wondered with some irritation. “Indeed. How nice for you.”

  He waited, apparently expecting her to ask for more information.

  Harriet easily withheld the impulse. “Perhaps you came today to see about Stephen’s injured leg. That is quite nice of you, and I—”

  Mr. Gower’s smile disappeared. “Your brothers are—” He caught himself, coloring heavily. “I don’t mean to say anything untoward, but I must tell you that your brothers would be the better for Mr. Ward’s presence.”

  “We would all be the better for Mr. Ward’s presence. Unfortunately, his death makes that an impossibility,” Harriet said dryly.

  “I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean to offend you. But your brothers need the steady influence of a man, someone who could deflect their high spirits. But you are right in saying that you could benefit from having a man about as well.” He glanced around the room as if assessing each piece of faded furniture. “It’s such a pity how everything has gone to ruin.”

  Harriet bit the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something very unworthy. The man oozed certainty, and it annoyed her no end. “We all miss my father. He was a wonderful man.”

  “So I’ve heard. I was most impressed to find that he was listed in Debrett’s. That is quite an honor.”

  Debrett’s was a book that listed England’s peerage. There was a very dusty copy of it somewhere in the library, though Harriet hadn’t seen it in years. “His brother inherited the title, of course, but Father was always pleased to be mentioned.”

  “You are mentioned as well, Miss Harriet.” Mr. Gower beamed, as if she’d accomplished something of great merit.

  “Yes, though they spelled Harriet with only one ‘r.’”

  “That must have stung,” he said earnestly. “To make the pages of that hallowed book, then be robbed of its true glory by an error.”

  Harriet could find nothing to say to this, so she settled for nodding in as cool and impersonal a way as her uncertain temper would allow.

  Mr. Gower slid closer to the edge of his seat. The horrid odor that clung to him seeped closer to Harriet.

  She pulled her skirts closer and scooted away. What was that smell?

  Mr. Gower smoothed his uneven hair in a nervous gesture. “I can’t tell you how delighted I am to have this unexpected pleasure of speaking with you.”

  “You’ve already said that.” Harriet wondered how she could draw their meeting to an end. She supposed she could say she was overcome by fumes.

  “Yes, well, there is a reason I’m glad you’re here. Especially alone. Miss Ward—Harriet, I was going to speak to your mother today, but perhaps—”

  “I don’t believe I’ve given you permission to use my Christian name,” she said quickly, an uneasy feeling arising. Goodness, surely this pompous oaf wasn’t on the verge of making an overture? Surely he wasn’t—he couldn’t possibly think—she met his gaze, and her heart sank in her chest like a ship smashed on a jagged reef.

  Good God, she should have been protected from this sort of thing—the entire world thought her engaged to the dashing, though absent Captain Frakenham. Her gaze narrowed on Mr. Gower. But perhaps Mr. Gower hadn’t been as gullible as they’d thought?

  “Harriet…my dear Harriet,” he said with that odiously superior smile, “I have known your family for far too long to stand upon feeble conventionality.”

  Harriet had to breathe through her nose since her teeth had clenched so tightly together that air could no longer pass between them. And breathing through her nose made the odor only worse. Her eyes began to water, and she coughed a little. “I’m sorry. There’s a smell—”

  Mr. Gower’s superior smile disappeared, his face reddening in an instant. “Can you smell—Damn it! Of course you can. I thought I’d cleaned my shoes, but—” He grimaced. “Yes, well, that is because of your brother.”

  “Stephen?”

  “The other one. He picked up a bucket of…something just as I dismounted. I’m afraid I didn’t recognize him, and I asked him to see to it that my horse was taken care of. And he, apparently offended by my request, poured the contents of the bucket on my shoes.”

  Harriet looked down at Mr. Gower’s leather shoes. They were dark and stained. Her nose wrinkled. “I’m certain Derrick didn’t mean to do such a thing.”

  “I’m sure he did, though he claimed it was an accident and the handle slipped.”

  “If he said it was an accident, then it was,” Harriet said, though she had an instant image of Stephen’s mischievous grin.

  “He meant to do it, the little—” Gower clamped his mouth closed.

  “Perhaps he did,” Harriet said, lifting her chin. “He is not a servant to take your horse at your demand.”

  “He was dressed like a servant and so I thought he was one. Besides, my error does not excuse his behavior.”

  “No, it doesn’t. If he did indeed sully your shoes on purpose, he is in the wrong. But so are you, for being so remiss in the attention that is due him.”

  Mr. Gower’s mouth thinned. “I gave him a shilling for his trouble. Considering the sad case of your family affairs, one would think he’d be glad for the—”

  Harriet stood. “Mr. Gower, thank you so much for coming to visit.”

  He reluctantly climbed to his feet, his brows knit. “Miss Ward—Harriet, I only meant that your family is in a very poor situation—”

  “I don’t care how poor my family’s situation is. It was an insult to Derrick and to everyone under this roof that you tossed a coin to him as if he was a common linkboy. You are just fortunate I wasn’t in the barnyard, for I would have poured the bucket over more than your shoes.”

  “You—how can you say that? Look at these!” He held out one foot.

  Harriet pressed a hand over her nose. “Indeed. I’m very sorry you wore them into the house because now I’ll have to have the rugs cleaned.”

  He lowered his foot, a mottled red traveling up his neck. “After all I’ve done for your family—”

  “Done for my family? Endlessly tormenting us about the payments?”

  “It’s my job to—”

  “Exactly. It’s your job. So don’t come here, mewing about how you’ve had our best interests at heart. All you’ve had at heart is money. Our money. And nothing else.”

  He straightened his shoulders. “At one time, that may have been true. But now—Harriet, I do not pretend that I find your family’s sad financial plight to my liking. I do not. Though I’ve admired you and your determination for many months now, your situation has caused me some hesitation in speaking my mind.”

  “How unfortunate for my family,” Harriet said with a burning look.

  “So it is,” he responded, missing her sarcasm altogether. “Most men would never willingly overlook such things. But however much I deplore the state of your finances, I have to admit it is gratifying to see that you’ve only one payment left before Garrett Park is your own. Of course, I realize that there is nothing else to be had. Neither you, nor any of your sisters, will have a dowry, will you?”

  How dare the man even ask such a question! Harriet was so angry that she wasn’t sure whether she could make it out of the room without saying something she was sure she would regret. “That is none of your concern.”

  “Oh, but it is,” he said gravely. “For all my hesitations about your lack of a dowry, there is no denying your good breeding. Your father is in Debrett’s, your mother was a Standish. I daresay no other family in this area is as well connected as the Wards.”

  “Mr. Gower, where are you going with all of this?”

  The pompous ass smiled down at her, completely unaffected that she was glaring back at him. “Simple, my dear. After much thought, I’ve decided to make you my wife.”

  Chapter 8

  The first time I fell in love, I was sixteen years of ag
e. The second time I fell in love, I was also sixteen years of age. But then I grew older and wiser and I did not fall in love for a very, very long time. In fact, I almost made it to my seventeenth birthday before I experienced that wretched state again.

  Mr. Devon St. John to Lord Kilturn, an antiquarian with an unfortunate penchant for dressing the dandy and dangling after much younger women

  Devon St. John tossed his cards on the green baize table that stretched before him. “I lose,” he said in an affable voice.

  Through the swirl of smoke that permeated the card room at White’s, his opponent, Mr. Lawrence Pound, sighed languidly. Renowned in polite circles not only for his close connection with the Bessingtons, but also for his polite manner and impeccable dress, Pound tossed his own cards onto the table and said in a rather plaintive voice, “It is insulting how well you take defeat.”

  Devon quirked a brow. “What do you wish? Sighs and laments? Wild cries of unjust hands and a threat to put a period to my existence?”

  Though the two men were both lean and well built, Devon St. John had the broad shoulders and well defined hands of his family. That along with the unmistakable combination of black hair and blue eyes, proclaimed his breeding as clearly as if the St. John coat of arms were embroidered on his pocket.

  Pound took a thoughtful sip of port. “I rather like the last scenario, but then I’ve always been rather fond of gun play. Perhaps next time.”

  “Perhaps. If I lose again, which I doubt.”

  Pound sighed wearily. “I should have known better than to toss the cards with a St. John. Winning is devoid of pleasure when one knows it is but a temporary lapse in the alignment of the stars.”

  Devon leaned back in his chair and grinned. “You were the one who insisted on playing. I merely wished to talk.”

  “Yes,” Pound said in a meditative tone, “it is a common fault with my family, to rush toward their own demise in a most hodgepodge manner. Quite ill-bred of the lot of us.”

  “Nonsense. You didn’t rush at all. At times, it took you so long to play your card that I worried you had expired but were too polite to fall over.”

  Pound’s thin lips twitched. “I was struggling to maintain the lead. You play a difficult game.”

  “You are too severe on yourself. There were several seconds I was unsure of the outcome.”

  “Seconds? Considering we played for over four hours, I find that statement positively vile.”

  Devon chuckled. “You find everything vile. Everything but port. Come, let me procure a new bottle for the winner—”

  “Devon St. John!” came an urbane voice to their right. “Just the man I was looking for.”

  Devon lifted his glass from the table, his gaze still on his companion. “Shall we play one more round?”

  Pound opened his mouth to reply, but the insistent voice intruded again. “Mr. St. John, you don’t know me, but I’m—”

  “How rude,” murmured Pound. He lifted the quizzing glass that hung from his waistcoat by a ribbon and regarded the man who now stood beside their table.

  Devon finished his drink. “Well?”

  Pound’s eye was hideously magnified by the quizzing glass. “No. I do not recognize him.” He dropped the glass and picked up his port once again. “They are not nearly particular enough at this club. Perhaps I shall join Watiers.”

  “Mr. St. John—” This time the evidently annoyed individual moved to stand in Devon’s line of vision. “I need but a moment of your time.”

  Dressed in the height of fashion, Harry Annesley appeared like any other pompous young ass of fashion. His shirt collar was starched to points so high he could not bend his chin a normal height. His cravat was a complex mess of knots and twists, fastened with a huge, gaudy ruby of questionable authenticity.

  Devon decided after a moment’s inspection that there was something…unsavory about the man. Something unrefined, as if despite the polish of his boots, a whiff of common breeding seeped through. “Well? What do you want?”

  Annesley flushed at the curt tone.

  Devon was well aware of Annesley’s acquaintance with his brother Chase. He wondered that Chase would countenance such a man. His brother was usually far more fastidious in his choice of friends, but that had been before Chase’s descent. Before Chase had cut his family from his life as thoroughly and ruthlessly as a surgeon.

  The thought caused Devon’s chest to tighten.

  Harry smiled, a seemingly casual, self-deprecating smile, though Devon could sense a hint of superiority behind it. “Mr. St. John, I am indeed sorry to bother you and your acquaintance, Mr. Pound, but—”

  “It knows my name,” Pound murmured. He arched his brows. “Should I be honored?”

  In Devon’s opinion, Chase’s downfall was somehow tied up with this man. “No,” he said to Pound, setting his glass on the table with a snap. “You should not be honored at all.”

  Harry’s face turned bright red, his mouth thinning for an instant. But he quickly regained control and plastered his usual false smile on his face.

  Devon rather thought he preferred naked anger to the tight smile. He flicked a glance at the man. “Well?” he prompted shortly. “What do you want?”

  The smile grew tighter, but remained firmly in place. “I wonder if you could assist me. I have been looking for your brother, Chase. Have you heard from him lately?”

  Devon managed to keep his face expressionless, though it was difficult. The louse wanted something; his kind always did. What was truly unusual was that Chase was normally in the pocket of this man. If Harry Annesley didn’t know where Chase was, who would? A knot of disquiet began to form in Devon’s stomach. “I haven’t seen my brother in almost two weeks. Not since our brother Brandon’s wedding.”

  “No?” Harry’s practiced smile faded and was replaced with an equally fake expression of concern. “I wonder where he could have gotten to?”

  Devon shrugged. “I daresay he has found yet another amorata. He flits from woman to woman like a bee.”

  “With a stinger, no doubt.” Pound shook his head sadly. “That was poorly done, St. John.”

  Devon managed a genuine smile. Pound’s dry wit perfectly suited his own. “I shall try to be more subtle.”

  Harry placed his hands on the table and leaned closer, his cologne drifting over Devon like a fine cloying mist. “I hesitate to say anything because…” He broke off as if too embarrassed to continue.

  Devon’s gaze narrowed. What the hell did the shyster want? More to the point, where the hell was Chase. Devon continued to shuffle the cards, then dealt them into two neat stacks. “Out with it, Annesley.”

  “I didn’t wish to say anything, but your brother…” He paused, sending a side glance at Pound. “Mr. St. John, perhaps we should discuss this in private.”

  Pound’s gaze lifted from his hand of cards. “Ah! A secret, is it? Pray do not attempt to dismiss me then. There is little I like more than a secret.”

  Devon hesitated. Pound, for all his dissembling humor, was something of a gossip. But there was nothing for it now. Annesley had said too much already, and any attempt to keep Pound out of it was long gone. “Speak, Annesley.”

  “Very well. Mr. St. John, I’m sorry to bring this matter to your notice, but it is unlike your brother to miss a meeting.” Annesley paused, casting a quick look toward Pound. “Especially when that meeting was a matter of honor.”

  Devon cursed to himself when he caught the interested gleam behind Pound’s bland gaze. Whatever Annesley had to say, it would be all over town before dawn. Devon forced his attention to his cards. He carefully selected his discard before answering. “I’m sure there must have been some sort of misunderstanding. Perhaps he had the wrong location or time.”

  “I hardly think it could be that.” Annesley pursed his lips. “To be blunt, your brother owes me a considerable amount of money.” Harry reached into his pocket and withdrew a note. He placed it on the table. Devon glanced at it, then frown
ed. The note promised twenty thousand pounds to Harry Annesley and was signed with a sloping flourish that Devon immediately recognized as Chase’s.

  A stirring of unease filtered through Devon. Something wasn’t right. Still, he forced himself to leave the paper on the table though he longed to snatch it up and rip it in half. “If it’s a matter of honor, I’m certain my brother will answer it to your satisfaction. And he will no doubt be chagrined he missed your meeting.”

  “I hope so,” Annesley said ruefully. He tucked the paper away. “Chase was a little upset when last I saw him.”

  “I daresay he’d been drinking. Heavily. It seemed to become a habit with him once he began to converse with you.”

  “Touché,” murmured Pound.

  With a noticeable thinning of his mouth, Annesley patted the pocket where the note lay. “I only hope your brother isn’t gone too long, or I shall begin to wonder—”

  “Annesley,” Devon said with deadly calm, “what will you wonder? Surely you are not maligning the St. John name.”

  Silence filled the small area. Pound watched, an amused expression in his sharp gaze. Annesley seemed to be searching for words—though it was difficult to tell whether he wished to retract his statement or reassure Devon.

  Devon turned away. “That will be all, Annesley. I’m certain that whenever my brother returns to town, you’ll get your funds.”

  Annesley’s expression was a frozen grimace compared to the wide smile he’d once had. There was nothing left for it but to bow and make his way to the door.

  Devon and Pound played in silence for several minutes. Though Devon’s mind was elsewhere, luck favored him and he won.

  “Ah, the St. John luck returns.” Pound picked up his port. “What do you think of Annesley?”

  “Who?”

  Pound’s eyes shimmered with appreciation. “Annesley,” he repeated gently.

  “I don’t think of him at all.”

  “Hm. I wonder where your brother is? He has been a bit of a loss of late, hasn’t he?”

  Devon didn’t answer.

  “For the last six months—maybe longer—Chase St. John has not been acting like…well, a St. John.”