by Lynn Kerstan
He had resolved to sneak his way into Society, certain the direct approach, which better suited his nature, was doomed to failure. When he had set himself up as the model aristocrat, gained admission to the clubs, and hosted a series of impeccable parties at his impeccable town house, perhaps the beau monde would forget what they knew of his father.
But how could anyone forget, once that damned book hit the streets?
He put down his knife and fork with a clatter. No one could ruin an appetite like Lady Eudora Swann. His solicitor had confirmed the old crow’s prediction that a lawsuit would generate a vast quantity of scandalous publicity and come to nothing in the end.
He still meant to find a way to stop publication, but two weeks of worrying at the problem had led him no closer to a solution. More than once he’d set out to confront her again but ended up turning back. What more was there to say, after all? And because Lady Swann was even more wealthy than she’d indicated, it was no good trying to throw money at her. Perhaps Wellesley, a master manipulator if ever there was one, could devise a practical scheme.
Fallon became aware the servants were regarding him apprehensively from the corners of their eyes, clearly wondering what had displeased him and what they ought to do about it.
Then all eyes swung to the door as a young footman stepped inside and bowed. Another footman, the one who had poured the wine, crossed the length of the room and accepted a whispered message. He came back and delivered the message in an undertone to the butler.
Devil it, somebody just tell me, Fallon thought as Larch took a step forward, a slight frown wrinkling his usually stiff face.
“A young woman asks to speak with you, my lord. She has come alone.” That last word shivered with meaning. Larch drew himself even more erect. “Shall I send her away?”
“Well, that depends,” Fallon replied, knowing he was supposed to have said yes. “Who is she?”
More murmuring between the footman and the butler. Larch shook his head as if he’d just learned that a rodent was waiting in the foyer. “She gave her name as Miss Ryder, my lord.”
Fallon had never heard of Miss Ryder, but her timing was excellent. Now he had an excuse to leave this mausoleum of a dining room and a meal he no longer wanted.
“I’ll see her,” he said.
JANE STOOD alone in the enormous entrance hall where the footman had left her, gazing around curiously. She had never seen so much marble in all her life. The black-and-white checked floor, so highly polished she could see her reflection, felt cold through her leather half boots and woolen stockings. Marble statues, set in marble niches, lined the foyer. A sweeping marble staircase arced to a mezzanine overhead, where more marble statues were arrayed against the gold-leafed balustrade.
She tugged her brown woolen cloak around her, feeling as though she’d stumbled into an ice cave. What little color there was, from marquetry console tables and jade figurines, washed out against the dazzle of white stone. This was the sort of place where rich people were entombed, she thought. Nobody could actually live here.
At the last moment she had decided not to tell the footman she’d come on an errand for Eudora Swann. If Fallon refused to meet with the unknown Jane Ryder, she could then pass the letter to a servant and make her escape.
But this was not to be her lucky day. After several minutes, she heard the sound of boot heels striking marble. Lord Fallon appeared at the top of the staircase, pausing a moment to look down at her. Probably wondering who in blazes she was, Jane thought, remembering Eudora’s instruction to hold her head high and meet the lofty Marquess of Fallon as an equal. Which was pure nonsense, of course.
She rather expected him to turn back and direct a servant to deal with that encroaching female, but he descended the stairs in full lord-of-the-manor fashion, an expression of aloof disinterest on his face.
He was as handsome as she remembered, but nothing else about him was the same. The tempestuous man who had stalked Eudora’s parlor, afire with barely constrained energy, was gone. In his place stood a mannequin wearing a perfectly fitted blue tailcoat over pristine white linen. When he bowed, she belatedly remembered to bob a curtsy.
“Miss Ryder, I believe?” His voice was expressionless. “My apologies. You should not have been left to stand in the vestibule. Will you join me in the—” He glanced around as if uncertain where to go, a smile flickering across his lips. “I have only just moved into this house, and no one has thought to provide me with a map. Shall we explore the upper reaches in search of a parlor?”
Charm was the last thing she had expected from Lord Fallon. But it dissipated immediately when a skull-faced butler appeared, sniffing audibly at her plain brown cloak and wilted bonnet as he led them up the stairs.
“Would you care for refreshments?” Fallon inquired politely.
She speedily declined. ‘Thank you, my lord, but I shall require only a few moments of your time.”
“As you wish.” He dismissed the butler and gestured her to a chair near the fireplace. “How may I serve you, Miss Ryder?”
Jane perched on the edge of the chair, wishing he would sit down, too. But he stood near the mantelpiece, hands clasped behind his back, so perfectly poised and self-contained that he might as well have been one of the statues in his entrance hall. Why had he agreed to see her? There was no sign of recognition on his face, nor any hint of curiosity in his eyes.
With fingers that insisted on trembling, she opened her reticule. “I have a letter for you, Lord Fallon. From Lady Swann.”
If she expected him to be surprised, she was disappointed. He only nodded, stepping forward to take the folded sheet of paper and moving back again to the fireplace where the light was better.
After recording Eudora’s dictation in shorthand and neatly reinscribing the text on the paper he was reading, Jane knew every word of the letter by heart.
Lord Fallon,
As it is the season of kindness and generosity, I have given thought to your request that I exclude your family from my book. Would that it were easy to grant such a boon.
Alas, it is not within my power. My associate, Miss Ryder, will explain the reasons, although I am certain you understand them clearly enough. Scandalbroth must be published whole or not at all, and the thought of departing this world without bestowing upon it a legacy of my own is insupportable.
However, I have also assembled another book, something of a history of the aristocracy for the past seventy years, which will be filed away and released a century from now. Because this volume is not focused on scandalous doings, the Fallons scarcely appear at all.
Should you agree to release for Miss Ryder’s inspection all information and documents relating to your family, and if she can thereby compile a history to my satisfaction, there is a possibility I shall consider foregoing Scandalbroth altogether.
While I am away, Miss Ryder will be free to examine your records. And on my return, in light of what you have provided her, I shall make my final decision.
Happy Holidays, Lord Fallon.
Yrs, etc.,
Lady E. Swann
For the briefest moment, flames seemed to leap from Fallon’s eyes. But she must have imagined it, because within seconds he was perfectly composed again. Only the slightest lift of his aristocratic eyebrow, a gesture more telling than he probably knew, betrayed any emotion whatever.
“Rubbish,” he said in a level voice. “A possibility that she will consider? Does she expect me to take seriously this alleged offer of a compromise?”
Jane thought it a rhetorical question, but his steady gaze remained focused on her, and the eyebrow was still arched. Good Lord, who was she to speak for Eudora Swann, never mind that Eudora had sent her here to do precisely that.
Jane gave him a noncommittal smile. “Lady Swann says little she does not mean, my lord. The of
fer is as genuine as the escape routes she has provided for herself, should she decide the Fallon history to be of insufficient interest.”
“On the contrary. This is an underhanded ploy to wring access to information she cannot acquire by legitimate means, which she will proceed to use without the smallest concern for anyone but herself.”
“Unfair! You leap to judgment, sir. You do not know her.”
“I recognize her kind,” he said derisively. “I’ve dealt with any number of them over the years. At times I have used similar tactics myself . . . but only when dealing with fools. Does Lady Swann think me a fool, Miss Ryder?”
“She has not said so, Lord Fallon. Has she reason to believe it?”
His lips twitched but quickly hardened again. “I suspect she has long since decided that all men are fools. And like everyone else, she expects me to follow in the inglorious footsteps of my ancestors.”
“People will judge you for what you are,” she said, thinking how inane that sounded even as the words came from her mouth. With a tiny sigh, she tried again. “I am familiar with every scandalous tale in the book, and you are nothing like any of the Fallon marquesses described there.”
“Am I not?” His eyebrow arched once more. “You are guessing, Miss Ryder, and that is not a wise thing to do. Anyone who ever trusted a Fallon has paid for it. For all you know, I mean to present a false image of myself to lure ingenuous pigeons into my trap.”
“Which is precisely what you accuse Lady Swann of doing with this letter. Perhaps the two of you are well matched.” She stood, straightening her skirts. “I’d as soon not be caught in the middle, my lord. If you do not intend to comply with her proposal, I must be on my way.”
“I do not.” He lifted a hand. “But tell me, please, how it is you have associated yourself with a filthy-minded old woman and her revolting book. You do not seem the type.”
She couldn’t help but grin. “Perhaps I, too, am presenting a false image. To be perfectly honest, my lord, I greatly enjoyed every story she told me about your family. Most were rather pedestrian—the usual drinking, gaming, and wenching—but now and again, your ancestors were amazingly inventive.”
“That’s quite enough! You would do well to seek better employment, young woman.”
“And you would be astonished, sir, to learn how few choices females have when seeking employment. I much prefer taking dictation about vice than being compelled to experience it for myself.”
He flushed hotly. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to read you a lecture. Well, obviously I did mean to, but I had no right. Certainly you need not be caught up in my quarrel with Lady Swann. Where can she be found?”
“She did not give me leave to reveal her direction, sir.”
“Trust me, I can find out.”
“No doubt. But you will only do yourself harm by going there. How will it look to the assembled company, and I assure you she is among excellent company indeed, if you swoop down upon an elderly lady in a wheeled chair and make a scene? It will be better if you accost her privately, on her return to London.”
“And when will that be?”
“Not for several weeks, I believe. She expects me to research your family history in the meantime, but clearly you do not mean to cooperate. Good day, Lord Fallon.”
Jane started for the door, head high, pleased to escape this unnerving man with her dignity intact. The rest of her had not fared so well. She felt uncommonly warm, and sharp little fingers seemed to be clawing at her from the inside out.
Before she was halfway across the parlor, he caught up and held out his arm. “I will show you to the door,” he said.
What had been merely overheated and agitated became scorching and panicky. She stumbled on the smooth carpet and felt his muscles tighten as his arm supported her. He was kind enough to say nothing.
The silence lasted all the way down the marble stairs and into the entrance hall, where the formidable butler stood like an irate fence post.
Fallon drew her to a halt several feet away and leaned forward, speaking very softly at her ear. “Thank you for bringing the letter, Miss Ryder. If I offended you, be sure my temper was solely directed at your employer.”
His hair brushed her cheek. She felt that light, intimate touch all the way to her toenails. And because it startled her, she withdrew her arm and quickly stepped away.
“I understand, sir.” She curtsied. “And I wish you a very pleasant Christmas and a happy New Year.”
Chapter 4
WHEN MR. MILHOUSE completed his report, his reedy voice faltering at the end, Fallon leaned forward in his chair and propped his elbows on the desk.
“Is there any good news?” he inquired mildly.
“I’m afraid not, my lord. You’ll want to review the details in this file, of course, but I have given you a fairly accurate summation. Wolvercote is all to rack and ruin.”
As he’d expected, Fallon thought, wondering why he had nonetheless cherished a futile hope that something of worth could be salvaged. But the estate was a shambles twenty years ago, when last he saw it, with only a few families still working the land to provide for themselves. His father had ignored their presence on the rare occasions he came up from London to sell off more of his heritage to pay his gaming debts. “What became of the tenant farmers?” he asked. “And the servants?”
“I have been unable to discover that, my lord. The house itself was abandoned not long after his lordship’s demise, and we cannot determine when the last of the tenants fled. It must have been some years ago, given the condition of their cottages and the land, but no one remains to answer our many questions.”
Fallon opened the file and scanned the first few pages of the investigators’ report. “What of the woman mentioned here? Agathy Bligh. What has she to say?”
“Not a word, I’m afraid. Country folk are generally mistrustful of strangers, especially Londoners, and she has no legal right to be in the cottage where she is living now. I daresay she thought my clerks had come to evict her, because she would not let them through the door.” Milhouse polished his spectacles with a handkerchief. “Do you wish me to see to it?”
“Certainly not. She is doing no harm.” Fallon sifted through the thick sheaf of papers. “Is there a map somewhere in here? I require the precise location of every building on the estate and what lies just beyond the boundaries in all directions.”
“Forgive me, my lord. I should have thought of that.” The solicitor mopped his damp brow. “I shall immediately dispatch surveyors and have a detailed map in your hands by Wednesday next.”
“It can wait until the New Year, Milhouse. After all this time, another week’s delay is of little consequence. But where did your people reside when they were inspecting Wolvercote? I had thought the house to be uninhabitable.”
“So it is. Even the dower house, which was far better maintained, stands in need of considerable repair. By the way, someone has been staying there quite recently, although I surmise it was only a vagrant seeking temporary shelter. As for lodging, my employees made use of a small inn several miles from the estate. You’ll find the name and direction in the files.”
Fallon rose and swept the thick folder from the desk. “You have done well, Milhouse. I’ll take this report to study and meet with you again after the first of the year.”
When Fallon reached the outer office, a clerk stood waiting with his coat, hat, and gloves. And while he took a moment to put them on, the young man dashed ahead of him into the street, whistling for the carriage that waited around the corner.
These days, Fallon reflected moodily, people tripped over themselves to perform even the most unnecessary services. He was not at all sure he liked it. Hell, he’d made his fortune knowing where to go before others even guessed to go there and risked his life a hundred times to do what no one else dared
to do.
Waiting around for servants grated on his nerves. He was used to being active, and this business of remaking himself into a man of leisure was proving to be damnably hard work. No doubt someone would even hold an umbrella over his head while he walked the few yards through the afternoon drizzle to the street.
Someone did. And tried to give him the umbrella, too, on the chance he might have need of it later.
Money changed everything, he reflected as his crested coach rumbled along the crowded street, and it would change him, too. But there was no point wondering if that was for good or ill. He had worked for two decades to arrive at this point and would be equally relentless until every last goal he’d set himself was achieved.
The carriage shuddered to a halt. “Cabbage wagon overturned directly ahead,” the driver called. “We’ll be stuck here fer a bit, m’lord.”
Chuckling, Fallon leaned back against the plush leather squabs and crossed his ankles on the opposite bench. What use were a lofty title and a vast fortune, he thought, when a cabbage wagon stood in the way?
In any event, he’d nowhere important to go. Richard Wellesley had got him voted into White’s, and another comrade from India days saw him admitted to Watier’s, but there was little reason to hang about reading newspapers and sipping brandy when everyone of importance had left for the country. Until Parliament reconvened, London would be a social wasteland.
In his opinion, Christmas was a dratted nuisance. He chafed to get on with the restoration of Wolvercote, but even the architects he planned to interview would not return to the city before Twelfth Night. What the devil was he going to do with himself for the next two weeks?
He could go to Wolvercote himself, he supposed, and have a look around. He’d meant to do that anyway, and this was as good a time as any. Even so, the prospect of setting foot in the house where he was born sent shivers down his back. He’d loathed the place when he lived there and had no reason to love it now.