A Truly Perfect Gentleman

by Grace Burrowes

  “I believe I’ll send regrets, Thiel. I’d like to catch up on my reading. We’ll attend tomorrow night’s ball, though. I’ve already promised my supper waltz.”

  Thiel closed the door with a decisive snick. “My lady should do as she pleases.”

  Casriel had said the same thing, telling Addy to look to her own wishes, as had Theo. That raised the inconvenient question, though: What did she want, and was an affair with Casriel bringing her objectives any closer?

  Addy wasn’t coming. No matter how many times Grey glanced at the door of the cardroom, Addy wasn’t coming, and she wasn’t among those already at the gathering.

  Grey wasn’t exactly disappointed, and he wasn’t exactly relieved. He wanted to see her, but more than that, he wanted to be with her, to spend time conversing or even being silent. Touching, talking, learning her mind and body, as he’d said.

  Finishing the intimate journey they’d started also figured on his list of aspirations where Lady Canmore was concerned. Avoiding her gaze across a cardroom full of gossips would have figured among his notions of purgatory.

  “If I partner you for the second half of the evening,” Sycamore said, “I’ll lose what little coin I have left.” He accepted a glass of punch from the footman ladling from the men’s bowl, took a sip, and passed Grey the goblet. “You are about as focused on the cards as I was on classical philosophy at the age of thirteen.”

  “The Arbuckles will put a few extra groats to good use,” Grey replied. “I’m sure they have bonnet ribbons to purchase. What of you? Can you stand the loss?”

  The mid-evening break had begun, half an hour to take the air, move about, and dine on sandwiches and tattle. The opportunity to brace Sycamore about his management of The Coventry might not come again soon, for Grey’s youngest brother often slept for much of the day and was out for most of the night.

  “You are trying to be delicate,” Sycamore said, moving toward the doors to the terrace. “You want to know if I’m about to fall on my handsome arse before all of polite society. You are gently inquiring whether, in a few short weeks, I’ve taken an enterprise that all but mints money and driven it into ruin.”

  “Your aggrieved tone suggests my fears are grounded in possibility, if not fact.” For Sycamore excelled at protesting too loudly.

  The terrace was cool and quiet compared to the cardroom. Grey searched the shadows for Addy, though he knew that was pointless.

  “Your unwillingness to drop the subject,” Sycamore muttered, “suggests your real concern is the loan balance I ran up at university. I’ll pay you back, Casriel. I’ve always said I’ll pay you back.”

  All of Grey’s brothers always said they’d pay him back.

  “Of course you will.” His standard reply. “The family resources are for the family’s use. I merely sign the bank drafts.” And merely watched the bank balance decline, season by season. “But I must warn you, Cam. My larking about in London has cost us the rent we usually make when we let out the town house for the Season. Lady Warwick has already told me she won’t be leasing from us again.”

  Her ladyship had been a reliable and conscientious tenant for eight years. This year, she’d had to rent elsewhere and had informed Grey—on three separate, public occasions—that she was exceedingly pleased to be dwelling at a “less quaint” abode.

  “I hadn’t…” Sycamore propped a hip on the stone balustrade. “I’d forgotten we usually lease out the town house. I can sleep at the club.”

  But would Cam send his tailor’s bills to the club? Stable his horse at the club? Would Cam sleep? Would he eat? Or would he subsist on worry and fine brandy while he watched a profitable enterprise crumble before his young and proud eyes?

  “If you remove to the club,” Grey said, “your employees will never get a rest from you. You’ll be like Papa, always tromping across the tenant farms, dropping in for a chat when a man has fields to tend, or telling a diker how to mend a wall before the fellow even has his tools assembled.”

  Sycamore made a handsome picture silhouetted against the garden shadows. He was filling out, adding muscle to his height, growing into the Dorning frame.

  But was he maturing?

  “Do you know why I’ve bided in London, Casriel?”

  Because you could not tolerate the discipline of university. “I spent my three years at Oxford, Cam. Papa wasted a great deal of coin in the hopes that I’d form lasting friendships with men of influence. I’m not sure what the other fellows were doing there, besides drinking, wagering, and pestering the tavern maids, but they weren’t forming a lasting association with yet another impoverished Dorning heir. You were bored.” So was I.

  “I am in London taking my turn at nannying you. We didn’t precisely draw lots, but when Ash went back to Dorning Hall and Will abandoned us for the charms of his lady wife, the duty of ensuring you don’t make a complete cake of this courting business fell to me.”

  I am making a cake of myself, nonetheless. “I account myself touched.” And Cam was in utter, exasperated earnest. This realization was amusing, upsetting, and surprising.

  What did Cam know of courting a proper female, but then, what did Grey himself know?

  “Ash wrote to me,” Cam said. “The brothers are managing, though they complain about everything from the weather to the teams pulling the hay wagons. Do you know how lovely it is that they are complaining to me rather than about me?”

  “You left the letter on the piano,” Grey said. “I recognized Ash’s handwriting.”

  Cam’s smile was patient. “And you did not read my correspondence, because you are a gentleman.”

  “Also because Ash has terrible penmanship, and I’d rather work on Mrs. Beauchamp’s harp.” The instrument could take only so much reconstruction at one time. Glue must dry, wax must be absorbed, old wood must be given time to adjust to new pressures and stresses.

  Cam folded his arms, stretching the fabric of his coat across broad shoulders. “Your damned decency also means you do not sneak about The Coventry, making sly inquiries or tempting my staff to bear tales. I will put you out of your misery: The Coventry continues to thrive under my able and enthusiastic management.”

  Meaning Cam was most definitely floundering. “Glad to hear it. If that ever ceases to be the case, you will apply to me for sympathy, if not a loan. I know more than any one man should about ventures that refuse to come right.”

  “Like your courting efforts?” Cam pushed away from the railing and strolled to the steps. The garden was lit with torches, though Grey would never have ventured onto the paths by himself. Not when Miss Quinlan had been eyeing him the way a feral cat prowling outside the dairy eyes an open window.

  “My courting efforts are proceeding well enough,” he said. “Witness, we partnered the Arbuckles earlier this evening.” For the longest hour and a half of Grey’s life. The twins had taken turns brushing slippers over the tops of his boots, pressing their persons against his arm, and smacking him with their fans.

  “They are too young for you, Casriel, and whichever one you married would insist that her sister dwell with her. You’d be left with double the bills from the modistes, twice the expense from the milliners, and only half the joys of marriage.”

  Sycamore’s casual prediction had a disquieting ring of probability. An unmarried sister frequently joined the household of a married sibling.

  Well, damn. “Do you have a preferred candidate for our next countess?”

  “My preferences ought not to matter, Casriel, else I could be doing your courting for you.”

  For Cam, that was uncharacteristic diplomacy. “Lady Antonia Mainwaring seems an agreeable sort.” Grey hadn’t noticed whether she was present among tonight’s crowd.

  “Agreeable.” Cam made the word a pejorative. “God save me from a lifetime commitment to a woman who finds my company merely agreeable. Do you suppose Papa and his countesses had nine children on the strength of agreeableness?”

  The evening was co
ol, meaning few people were enjoying the torchlit gardens. Grey kept his voice down, nonetheless.

  “Papa and his first countess were forced to tolerate each other as spouses because I came along and took away their options. His second venture to the altar was necessary to provide a step-mother for his bereaved children, though I daresay he chose in haste. I will make my choice based on factors other than lust and hurry.”

  Cam jammed his hands in his pockets. “You’ll make your choice based on duty and stupidity, which strikes me as an even worse bargain. Have you ever wondered where your eight siblings came from? Papa had his heir, he had nephews. He and his countesses need not have troubled each other to the tune of additional children.”

  Hawthorne was a by-blow, though Grey would pummel any who said that aloud. “I cannot answer your question honestly without insulting our parents, Cam, and this discussion has nothing to do with my marital prospects.”

  Cam’s expression put Grey in mind of their sisters, a long-suffering pair of ladies. “Lady Antonia would make a lovely countess, but I don’t see her being the wife for you. Miss Quinlan has been casting lures at you all evening. I suggest you partner her while I’m on hand to chaperone, or I’ll be writing to the brothers with unfortunate news indeed.”

  That Sycamore was giving out sound advice should have inspired a fraternal insult, a comment about flying pigs or blind hogs, for example.

  Cam was right, however. Grey should be playing cards with Miss Quinlan, he should be waltzing with her. She was clearly ambitious, and though not as agreeable as Lady Antonia, she had been sending Grey glances, whereas Lady Antonia waxed eloquent about some brilliant medieval nun named Hildegard.

  “We should go back inside,” Sycamore said. “If we tarry here, we’ll be stuck partnering the elders, and while they have all the best jokes and know all the best stories, that will not advance your marital aspirations.”

  The Arbuckles, arm in arm, perched at the top of the porch steps, smiling ferociously.

  I cannot endure another eternity of assault by fan and flattery.

  Grey was worried for Sycamore, who was about to ruin his first commercial venture. He was worried for the brothers back home, who were complaining to Cam while maintaining an ominous silence toward Grey. He was tired. He was…

  He was longing to spend a quiet evening with Addy, reading her poetry, perhaps. Rubbing her feet, being irresponsible, and doting.

  Miss Quinlan emerged from the house on the arm of Mr. Thomas Blessingstoke. Blessingstoke was a decent sort and an earl’s heir. His carefully pleasant expression turned to unmistakable relief when he spotted Grey.

  “The Dorning brothers, my dear,” Blessingstoke said, patting Miss Quinlan’s hand. “Mr. Sycamore Dorning is noted to be a dab hand at the cards. Lord Casriel, I believe you and Miss Quinlan have been introduced.”

  No, they had not, not formally. Time to stop dodging that inevitability. “Perhaps you’d oblige?” Grey said. “I have admired the lady mostly from afar.” Too afar, considering his objective for coming to London.

  Blessingstoke scampered through the introductions, clearly preparing to bolt before partners were chosen for the second half of the evening.

  Miss Quinlan’s curtsey was exquisite. Her attire was memorably elegant. Her manner was gracious toward Grey and condescending toward Sycamore without being arrogant. She smiled beautifully, she laughed beautifully, she accepted beautifully when Grey extended the obligatory offer to partner her.

  As he cast one last glance around the cardroom, confirming again that Addy was not present, he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror over the mantel, Miss Quinlan at his side. She was gazing in the mirror as well, her expression speculative, as if she were considering a new bonnet, but wasn’t quite happy with the angle of the feathers.

  As soon as she noticed the direction of Grey’s attention, she smiled brilliantly, pressed closer to his side, and patted his arm.

  He nearly shook free of her grasp and excused himself.

  Lady Antonia it would be, then, particularly if she was amenable to a courtship that progressed at a decorous pace and was followed by a long engagement.

  The previous evening, Addy had danced with Jonathan Tresham and she’d avoided dancing with anybody else. She’d sat with the dowagers and ignored the sight of Grey Dorning enjoying the supper waltz with Lady Antonia.

  His lordship had made the taller half of a perishing, dratted lovely couple.

  Addy liked Lady Antonia, she more than liked Casriel, and if marriage to Roger had taught her one thing, it was the folly of possessiveness. She was determined not to call on his lordship to inquire about Aunt Freddy’s harp, determined not to go whining to Theodosia, who’d never had an affair and clearly never would.

  She was thus whiling away her afternoon, perusing Theo’s helpful little book, when Thiel rapped on the parlor door. “You’ve a caller, my lady. Lord Casriel is asking if you’re at home.”

  She’d taken the precaution of placing her book within the folds of a fashion magazine, a trick Roger had taught her. Half the time when he’d appeared to be poring over some treatise on the profitable cultivation of mangel-wurzels, he’d been enjoying salacious French sketches.

  “You may show him up, Thiel.”

  “We dusted the formal parlor just this morning, my lady, if you’d like to receive him there.”

  “I have fresh flowers here,” Addy said. “Please have the kitchen send a tray as well.”

  Thiel withdrew, though Addy would bet her most comfortable pair of slippers he’d deliver that tray himself.

  “Lord Casriel, my lady.” Thiel’s announcement was made a bit too loudly. He bowed and withdrew, leaving the door to Addy’s personal parlor wide open.

  And Grey Dorning filled the doorway. His lordship made an elegant figure in evening attire, but in the more relaxed and individualistic morning attire, he was truly delectable.

  “My lady.” He bowed. Addy got to her feet to curtsey.

  “My lord. A pleasure to see you. A tray should be here shortly.” In case you were interested in a torrid kiss, even though Thiel—I should dock his wages—left the door all the way open.

  “I came by to let you know I’ll be at least another few days with Mrs. Beauchamp’s harp. My progress is of the slow and steady variety, which is typical of me.”

  Was Casriel nervous? Addy was, also pleased and annoyed. He’d come to call. He’d not attempted to kiss her. I am no longer sixteen years old and smitten with the earl’s dashing young heir.

  “Aunt Freddy will be pleased to hear you haven’t given up. Won’t you have a seat?” Perhaps Casriel was waiting to be kissed? Perhaps he’d come to cry off, so to speak?

  “I stopped at Mrs. Beauchamp’s house, though she was not receiving. With the elderly, one never knows whether to pay a call earlier in the day when the mind is more alert, or after noon, though naps are typically taken at such a time.” He took a seat at the end of the sofa closest to Addy’s wing chair. “How are you?”

  Glad to see you, I think. “I am well, and you?”

  Why is this so awkward?

  Rattling and tinkling came from the corridor, followed by Thiel pushing the tea cart. In the space of a few moments, the kitchen had assembled a midday meal and prepared the good tea service. Not the formal service, which Addy hadn’t used in years, but a porcelain ensemble she usually reserved for her monthly at homes.

  Thiel set the plates on the table one by one, making quite a production of arranging dishes. He finally withdrew, again failing to close the door.

  “Here’s my theory,” Casriel said when they were alone. “The female staff, meaning the cook, housekeeper, and the maids, hope I will offer you marriage and are thus exerting themselves to impress me. The footman—who is too handsome by half—has a different explanation for my interest in you and is letting me know that I’d best watch my step.”

  “I made up the bed,” Addy said, softly. Another lesson from Roger. “Aft
er your most recent call, I made the bed myself, smoothed the covers, refolded the quilt. The staff can’t know anything for certain, and I’m not about to tell them.”

  Casriel accepted a cup of tea, though Addy had forgotten to ask if he’d like sugar or milk. “You are not happy. Having second thoughts, Beatitude?”

  She adored his eyes, adored the patient honesty in them, the hint of self-deprecating humor and weariness.

  “Watching you waltz with Lady Antonia was difficult.”

  He held his cup and saucer without taking a sip. “Playing cards with the Arbuckles was difficult. Partnering Miss Quinlan was a penance of proportions a gentleman ought not to admit. She is already choosing the guest list for our engagement ball, unless I am very much mistaken, and I should not be burdening you with any of this.”

  Casriel would hate having an engagement ball. “Hence you turn your attentions on Lady Antonia.”

  “Lady Antonia’s company is agreeable, even if she does have odd notions regarding who is supposed to lead on the dance floor, but might we change the subject?”

  His question assured Addy he was in difficulties too, which was some consolation. “I’d like to close the door.”

  He rose and not only closed the door but locked it, then resumed his seat. “Better?”

  “Somewhat. I am still indisposed. Will you drink your tea?” Addy had gone for five years without blushing, but in Casriel’s presence, all of her savoir faire deserted her.

  “Not until you pour some for yourself. One assumed you were still plagued by your lunation.”

  “And yet, here you are.” She poured herself a cup, mostly so she’d have something to do with her hands besides touch her guest.

  “I’ve missed you.” Casriel rose again, this time going to the window and unfastening the drapes. Nobody ought to be peering into a second-floor sitting room, but Addy appreciated the precaution.

  Also the admission. “You saw me two days ago.”

  “I saw you last night, flitting about on Tresham’s arm, flirting with old Quimbey.” He turned to face her, his smile crooked. “Driving me mad.”