by Judith Ivory
Her pride puffed a little. Yes, she was doing first-rate work, it was true.
Mick snorted. "Right," he said. "You all have done a bloody fine job."
Ah. Winnie said quickly, "No, we all." To the Misters Lamont, she declared, "Mr. Tremore is the most able student I have ever taught. He is at the heart of the change."
Any rapprochement among the men her words might have won, however, was immediately lost when Jeremy said, as if he spoke to a trained monkey, "Say something. Talk."
Mick made a sideways pull of his mouth, then held out his hand. "Lemmy see them notes there, Cap'n. Pass 'em over, eh?" He put Cornwall into his voice as thickly as he could.
Alarmed, Jeremy turned to Winnie. "He sounded better when I first came in."
"He's annoyed with you." She scowled.
Mick said, "I can speak for myself. Let me see the notes, mate." He pointed to the money Jeremy had stacked over the fireplace.
Jeremy raised an eyebrow in affront.
Mick looked at him levelly, unmoved.
A kind of tension grew.
Happily, Milton dissipated some of it by walking in just then with the tea tray.
As tea and biscuits were served, Jeremy sat. He balanced his hands in front of him on the ferrule of his cane. To Mick, he said, "I'm leaving the money here. Feel free to examine it, Mr. Tremore. Oh—" He threw a concerned glance at Winnie. "Which reminds me. We have to find a better name. I was thinking Michael Frederick Edgerton, the Viscount Tremore. It's not a real title, but has the advantage that if anyone calls him 'Tremore,' he'll respond. Meanwhile, if we are called upon to do so, we can claim the title for a remote viscountcy in Cornwall. Hardly anyone pays attention to that provincial tip of England." He turned to Mick and repeated, as if trying it out, "Michael?"
Mick snorted. "It won't be hard to answer to. It's my name. Michael Tremore."
"Well." He looked at his brother, as if to say, More surprise, more delight. Their evident pleasure seemed to grow by the second. "He does talk well, doesn't he? Isn't it amazing the change it makes?" To Mick, he said, "Perfect then. Michael it is." To Winnie, "You must call him 'Michael' from now on so as to be sure he's accustomed to it."
Michael, Winnie thought. Michael. Something inside squirmed, uncomfortable. He was Mick to her. It was hard to think of him differently.
"Say something," Emile said from his chair again. "Make him speak more. I want to hear it."
Mick turned toward him. For a moment, Winnie was frightened as to what he might say. God knew he could still be profane. She said quickly, "Read something, if you please." She pulled down a book and pushed Mick toward the desk.
He sat, disgruntled, but he opened the book. He began to read aloud a passage they'd read the night before. Everything, and then some, that a person might want to know about whales. He wasn't perfect with it—most of the sounds were right, but he struggled over a word here and there before he recognized it.
Still, he was amazingly convincing.
Listening to him, again Winnie felt that ghostly sensation. Another man, Emile had said. It was true. Mick's family in Cornwall, the friends he spoke of in London, the way he could mimic his old accent—his real life, she reminded herself—seemed sometimes just another one of his extravagant stories, another of his jokes. Here was the real man. Michael Whomever - They – Wanted - to - Call - Him, soon to be the Viscount Whatever, world traveler, humanitarian, bon vivant, and wealthy member of English nobility.
And would-be suitor to Lady Edwina Henrietta Bollash, only child to the Marquess of Sissingley. Ah, now there was a lovely fantasy. Soon she'd be gathering pumpkins and mice, hoping for a fairy godmother to come along and turn them into a coach and eight.
Yes, someone, please turn my ratcatcher into a prince for me.
The someones who all but had stared at Mick—or rather, Michael—as he closed the book with a snap of its cover, a grip in one hand that would have allowed him to throw the volume across the room.
She quickly took it as Jeremy began, "That was"—he stood, as if for an ovation—"that was simply, well"—he could barely find words—"marvelous … unbelievable." Looking at his brother: "Can you credit it, Emile? Did you hear? Better and better—oh, I like it!"
Emile stood. Mick did, too. Nothing. There was nothing for anyone to disagree about, yet Winnie felt it expedient to get the Lamonts out the door as quickly as possible. She took Jeremy's arm. Emile followed. "You wait here," she told Mick, who wore consternation all over his face.
At the doorway, though, he stopped them by calling, "Will the invitation work to take her to the ball, too?"
She turned, sending him a sharp frown. "I don't need an invitation."
All three men paused to look at her. It was her tone. She explained, "I'm invited every year. I send my regrets. Xavier only invites me for form's sake."
"Surprise him," Mick said. "Go." When she only scowled at the suggestion, he argued with her name alone, "Winnie—"
"Winnie?" Emile repeated, lifting an amused eyebrow.
"Shut up," Mick told him.
The room grew icy-quiet for a moment. Then Emile smirked and began, "Oh, no. This is too good to—" He stopped.
Mick glowered at him, a look of open, hateful animosity from a man a head taller and five stones heavier at least.
He presented enough threat that Emile raised his hands, a surrender. "Goodness," he said. He longed to say something more; his face twitched with it for a moment. Then he seemed to think better of it. "Well," he risked saying. "What an amazing afternoon."
Winnie hastily ushered the Lamonts out, thanking Jeremy profusely for the payments, seeing that he and his brother had their hats, canes, and gloves in their hands, then closed the door on them, as happy to see them go as she had been to see them arrive.
When she returned to her father's study, Mick was still there: holding one of the banknotes up to the light.
He said, "It's good."
More relief—a sense of out-and-out deliverance. Which said a great deal about her own doubts.
He destroyed her peace of mind, though, by adding, "Extremely good. Better than what Rezzo and I ever came up with. It's on the right paper."
"Oh, stop it," she said, walking briskly over to him. She snatched the note away, then took the whole pile from the mantel into her possession.
He looked at her, offended. "Look at it, Winnie. It's all new. Not an old bill among the pack." He added, emphasizing the last diphthong, "Fresh-sh-sh."
She looked at the money in her hand. They were new bills, but no, she would not be impressed by the fact. She frowned at him. "The Bank of England does occasionally print new ones, you know."
"Then hand the whole stack over to two blokes who throw it around like"—he corrected—"as if it were water?"
"They're rich. Besides, we aren't. What could they possibly want from us?"
"What they're getting, I'd have to say."
That made her stop and think, then ask, "What are they getting?"
He lifted one shoulder. "I don't know. Your skill. Me, all decked out like a lord. It has to do with that ball." He paused, then said, "Winnie, I want you to go with me." More quietly, "Don't send me alone. You know the people I'll be mingling with." He rephrased again. "With whom I'll be mingling. Things could happen I don't understand, and you'll know what they mean."
After a moment, she said pathetically, "I can't." Then, "If you're afraid, we'll tell them it's off. We'll stop."
He shook his head. "I don't think we can. I know this game. Jeremy is the good one, Emile, the bad. If we try to back out, there will be pressure. Jeremy will shake his head and apologize, while trying to hold his brother back, but he won't succeed. Emile will make threats and—well, I'm not sure how far he'll go. They have a lot invested in their game. They've gone to a great deal of trouble."
"If they become unpleasant, you could—" She didn't finish. What did she envision? Mick, the hero? Rushing in to protect her from anyone who became har
sh with her?
"Thank you," he said, as if she'd made perfect sense. He smiled. "And yes, I bloody well could. But I don't want to stop them yet. I want to ruin them. I don't like being set up. I want to see what they're up to and shove it down their throats." He grinned lopsidedly. "Come with me. Do it with me."
"I can't." She tried a practical reason. "I don't have a dress."
"Let's find you one. What do you have in your wardrobe?"
A dress. In all her life, Winnie had never purchased an evening gown. She didn't even own one to alter. She'd been too young to have one when she'd been of a monied family. Now, of course, she couldn't afford one that would be appropriate. She ignored Mick's suggestion.
Besides, he was seeing shadows. There was nothing wrong going on here, aside from a little prank on her cousin who would never know. It was a bet, she told herself. A stupid, competitive wager between two rich brothers, nothing more. Mick was judging others by the fact that he'd run too many "games" himself. A classic case of the kettle calling every pot black.
He wouldn't let it rest, though. More ideas, more questions. "You must have connections. Can you ask someone about them?"
She looked at him, frowning at his concern. For no other reason than to please him, she nodded. "All right. I stay in touch with several of my former students. I'll ask them. I'll see what they know of the Misters Emile and Jeremy Lamont."
* * *
That very evening, she sent Milton with several inquiries. By morning, she had two responses. No, her contacts in the realm of high society knew nothing one way or another of a Lamont family, not good nor bad. By default, the Lamonts were in the clear.
Then after elevenses tea, she received a third correspondence. It was from the Duchess of Wychwood, a delightful young woman, recently wed, and a student of Edwina's just the summer past.
Particularly happy to hear from the girl, Edwina quickly tore open what unfolded out into a lovely, long letter—or lovely until the last few sentences, which made her frown and reread them:
As to your new clients, I'm afraid I have no recollection of any Emile or Jeremy or Sir Leopold Lamont, not does my mother. Mother mentions, though, that she heard of gentlemen twins in Brighton last season—she doesn't know their name—who ran some dubious investments out of the pocket of a cousin of the Marquis de Lataille. I sincerely hope your Misters Lamont are not the same men.
Oh, crumbs, Edwina thought. All right, she reasoned, it didn't matter so much that no one knew the Lamonts; her lofty friends wouldn't necessarily know every member of every minor family of consequence. But this other—
No, no, she told herself, she would not believe the worst. There were many sets of twin brothers in England. Why, the two who'd caused trouble in Brighton could be any of them.
Besides, she reassured herself, there was no profit in taking a bogus nobleman to the Duke of Arle's ball for an evening.
Another voice whispered though: Profit or not, if the bet isn't legitimate, you have no reason to continue teaching Mick. You must stop; your association with him is over, here and now: sooner than expected.
She would lose their final week.
As she folded the letter, with its last dreadful sentences, back into its envelope, a part of her knew perfectly well that Lady Wychwood had just told her the Lamonts might well be as Mick suspected: some sort of confidence men involving him and herself in a fraudulent scheme of unknowable depth.
But there was the problem: the knowing part of Edwina didn't care what the truth was or what the risks were. She wanted the last days with Mick Tremore. They were hers. She'd counted on having them, and she would, come what may.
* * *
Chapter 19
« ^ »
"If I have to say that one more blasted time, I'm going to puke." Thoroughly exasperated, Mick twisted his mouth and looked at Winnie across a table on which—it was too splendid an image to forget—she'd once stood with her long legs showing.
"Well." She blinked and cranked her head at him. "That was perfect," she said. "Especially if you could think of something a little more genteel to threaten than puking." She laughed. She let go, a small, light peal of genuine delight. "Oh," she said, "you did the H just as it should be and every vowel perfect. Hahff to, blahs-sted," she repeated. "You didn't even curse too badly, and the grammar was perfect. That was wonderful. And quite natural."
"Truly?" He laughed too. Though mostly at her. Her nose wrinkled when she laughed. It wiggled at the tip.
He'd said he'd stay away from her, but he couldn't. And she wouldn't let him anyway. No matter where he went in her house, she chased him down, then insisted they "get on with it." And so he put up with her "it," whatever "it" was she was doing to him. Any contact seemed better than none. He put up with her moods and seemingly unassailable, stiff-necked propriety, and watched and waited and hoped.
"What a lovely nose you have," he said. He reached, thinking to touch it.
She pulled back. Her laughter stopped. Her eyes, a look in them, grew wary, almost hurt. He realized that she thought he was playing with her in an unkind way.
"I mean it," he said. "I love your nose." Love. He'd said it. Though only for her nose. It was only her nose he loved.
Her eyes grew larger, wider behind her eyeglasses. She looked afraid, yet full of hope. She was dying to believe him about something she couldn't see in herself.
"I don't like my nose," she said.
"You're so hard on yourself. I think your nose is the best nose I've ever met."
She gave a little snort. "You see? The best nose. Honestly. You aren't supposed to notice a woman's nose."
"Why not?"
"It's supposed to blend in, be part of the overall beauty of her well-proportioned face."
"Yours is part of your overall beauty."
She made a face at him, complete with tongue stuck out.
Which made him laugh outright. It took him a moment to recover.
While she watched him with her wide blue saucer-eyes, perfectly solemn, attentive. As he calmed, she asked, "Do you really think I'm hard on myself?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"You don't let yourself see how good you are. To begin with, how striking your looks are." Striking. It was a new word. He hadn't even planned on saying it. It simply came out.
She didn't seem to notice. She merely shrugged. "No one before you has seen me as striking."
"I doubt that. I'd bet dozens of men have eyed you."
"None that said anything."
"And if they did, you'd probably criticize their taste in women. That's what you do to me."
"I do?"
"If I say you're pretty, you tell me I'm wrong."
She looked puzzled for a moment. "Well, the people who were supposed to love me best never thought I was very presentable." She cast her eyes down. "My mother thought I was 'a fright of a child.' My father didn't see me at all. If you'd asked him what color my eyes were, he wouldn't have known."
"There must have been other people."
She shrugged. "Milton."
"There you go—"
"Look, Mr. Tremore—"
"Mick," he told her. She said it occasionally, though she tried not to.
"No, Michael, we've decided. Remember: Michael."
He nodded. "Right. Michael."
"Michael," she said, then realized she'd lost the volley of given names. She broke off, as if she couldn't remember what she'd been about to say. She exhaled a long, loud breath. "Don't be foolish, Mr. Tremore. My nose is huge."
He laughed. "Yes, it's a good-sized smeller, loov. If it weren't so pretty, I might have sympathy for you."
"Pretty?" She let out an insulted breath.
"Yes." This time, when he reached, she let him run his finger down the ridge of her nose before she jerked back. "So thin and delicate," he told her, "with long nostrils, and the nicest, slightest curve to it. It's upper-class, you know. You have a very classy nose, missus. Calls attention ri
ght away to your breeding. Wish I had one like that."
She twisted her mouth as if to say that, if he weren't out-and-out insincere, he was certainly misguided. "I have a funny face."
"Funny?" He stared. "I suppose. Your face is amusing. Like a pretty puppy's. You have a witty face, a lively mug of a face, Win. As if God made everyone else's then came back to you and gave you a few extra touches, to make you stand out; you're more interesting to look at than most women, Win."
"I'm not pretty," she complained woefully.
He frowned. "All right, perhaps you're not. But your face is much more riveting than a pretty one. Pretty faces are a guinea a dozen. So predictable. I'm tired of pretty faces already. Your face, though, I'd never tire of."
That put a clunk in the conversation. Why had he said it? He shouldn't have. Of course he wouldn't tire of her face. He wasn't going to see it after three days more, was he?
Three days till a ball, when, it had only recently occurred to him, he wasn't even sure what a ball was. A lot of dancing, he thought. Saturday, though, he'd find out.
He changed the subject. "Let's go somewhere. Let's put me to the test. Let's take that pretty face of yours out of the house." He wiggled his eyebrows wickedly and leaned forward. "Let's go back to the tearoom," he said.
She let out one of her gasping laughs. "No! They'd know you."
"No, they wouldn't." He sat up straight, touching his mouth. "I have no mustache. I have a new haircut, all new clothes. I talk completely differently. How could they possibly know me?" He raised one eyebrow. "I'm not at all the same," then winked. "But I'll know them, and it would be great entertainment to see some of the fools who chased me wait on me all afternoon."
He grabbed her hand and stood. He tried to lead her up and away from the table. "Come on," he said. He remembered brightly, "Oh, and I can wear that top hat, the one we like." The idea was sounding better by the moment. Then he thought of something else and turned too quickly—she ran right into him. He smiled down the few inches into her face and said, "No big hat. No big hat for you, all right?" His wagged his finger. "A little hat, if you have one. Or no hat. I want to see your funny face."