by Eloisa James
“Well, he can’t have avoided society entirely,” India said, “because Eleanor writes in this letter that he’s courting Laetitia Rainsford.”
“Really!” Adelaide’s mouth formed a perfect circle. “I wonder how he came to meet Lala? She’s so pretty that I would have thought her parents could do better. And Lady Rainsford was one of the royal ladies-in-waiting before her marriage.”
“Money,” India suggested.
“Money is not everything.”
Adelaide could say that because she had never lacked it. India, on the other hand, had grown up on an estate that had been falling to wrack and ruin. In her view, money was everything. Or nearly everything.
“Do read to me what she says?”
India looked back at the letter. “She begins by telling me that Theodore beat his father at a game of chess for the first time, which apparently made them both very happy—”
“Goodness me, the child is only eight, isn’t he?”
India nodded. “Then she writes, ‘I know how much you are in demand, but I write with the faint hope that you are free. His Grace’s eldest son, Tobias Dautry, has recently acquired a country estate just outside London called Starberry Court. It likely needs some refurbishing, although Tobias bought it with its contents intact. He is courting Miss Laetitia Rainsford and he wishes to ensure that the house is in suitable condition before he invites her parents to the country. Naturally, I told him that you were the only person I would trust in such an endeavor.’ ”
“Eleanor is not happy about the match,” Adelaide stated. “How interesting! I suspect that means that the duke is equally displeased.”
“What on earth gave you that impression?”
“If Eleanor were happy about Dautry’s courtship, she would say so. And you know how informal Eleanor is; she uses Laetitia’s full name. She doesn’t like Lala.”
“I only met her once, but I thought she was a very sweet girl.”
“She’s beautiful, but not very bright,” Adelaide said with a touch of asperity. “I suppose that explains why the duke and duchess are not in favor. Her parents must have weighed her lack of wits against his unfortunate birth. What did you say that estate he bought was called?”
“Starberry Court.”
“The Earl of Jupp’s country house!” Adelaide exclaimed. “Supposedly he draped the walls in red damask and invited fourteen Italian women to live with him. The naughty sort of Italians. He held very popular parties, by all accounts. No one ever admitted to going to one, but everyone seemed to know the details.”
One quickly lost all naïveté when investigating the antics that could disrupt a badly managed household, so India nodded, unsurprised. “Starberry Court became a bawdy house?”
“Not precisely a brothel, since the services offered were gratis,” Adelaide said. “Jupp died last November, I think it was, and everyone said that he was brought low by the French disease. I expect the furnishings are deplorable.”
“We could strip the damask in a day or two.” A little prickle of excitement went down India’s spine at the idea of tackling such a large task. Of course, there was the issue of finding a husband, but surely that could wait for a few more weeks. These days a small army of craftsmen awaited her command. She could have a house painter, a master wood carver, and a stonemason on the doorstep in a matter of days.
“You could likely make it acceptable,” Adelaide conceded. “Still, I don’t know what Dautry was thinking, buying that particular estate. Given the circumstances of his birth, why buy an estate with such a sordid reputation?”
“It was probably an excellent bargain.”
“I wonder if Lord Rainsford is feeling a pinch. His wife is both spiteful and recklessly extravagant. Perhaps Lala is being sacrificed on the altar of parental excess.”
“Eleanor goes on to say that she and the duke will be in attendance when Mr. Dautry entertains the Rainsfords in his new house,” India said. “She invites us to stay as well. I hardly think that accepting an offer of marriage from a duke’s Midas-like son, even if he was born on the wrong side of the blanket, can be termed a sacrifice.”
“You’re wrong there. Lady Rainsford is one of the most arrogant women on God’s earth, obsessed by her connection to the Court. Mark my words: she is mortified to think that one of her daughters is considering marriage to a bastard. What’s more, Eleanor wouldn’t want any child of her beloved Villiers being less than celebrated. She is ferociously loyal and protective of her husband’s motley brood.”
India folded up the letter. “But if Villiers champions the marriage—which he must be doing, given that Eleanor will host the house party—it will take place.” She was reasonably certain that the duke got everything he wanted, whether that meant marrying his bastard son to a lady or to a royal princess. He was that type of man.
“We should do it!” Adelaide exclaimed. “Lala’s so witless that she might spend her whole life dancing attendance on her mother. Eleanor needs our help. That house needs our help. But heaven help her, that girl needs our help too.
“What’s more,” she added gleefully, “the betrothal will take Lady Rainsford down a peg or two. I can’t tell you how many times she’s informed me that her family has attended royalty since the time of Henry VIII.”
“You make Lala sound addled,” India objected. “I think her reputation for witlessness must be overstated.”
“She can’t read,” Adelaide confided. “She told me herself.”
“She needn’t read once she’s married to Midas; three secretaries can read aloud to her. Though I do think her governess should have been more persistent.” India had fierce opinions about inadequate education.
“By all accounts, they tried. She still had a tutor as of last year, but she just couldn’t grasp it. That must be the real reason the Rainsfords are considering this marriage. If she cannot read, she cannot run a household.” Adelaide hesitated. “I wonder if Dautry knows that?”
There was something about this proposed marriage that India didn’t like. The mercantile nature of it was jarring.
On the other hand, her parents had married for love—disastrously. Even though her father’s estate desperately needed an influx of money in the form of a dowry, he had decided that happiness would solve everything. He had been wrong. Love was a terrible reason for marriage, in India’s estimation.
“Eleanor is requesting that we spend the next fortnight at Starberry refurbishing the house, after which they would join us,” India said.
Adelaide’s expression cleared. “An excellent idea! And it would give you time to do something with your hair before we return to London.”
India’s hair was thick and hard to handle, as well as being an unusual color, more like silver than gold. One minute Adelaide thought she should rinse it with rosemary extract, and the next with egg yolks. Or better yet, dye it yellow.
India simply instructed her maid to pin it up as best she could. In her experience, women were of the opinion that her hair could be “brightened up,” but men seemed to like it as it was. India just thought there was too much of it.
As best she could tell, she had her paternal grandmother’s bosom, and there was too much of that too. Fashionable clothing was designed for small breasts, which always caused problems with fitting gowns—but luckily, she hadn’t had reason to dress fashionably. In fact, it was the opposite.
She had to wear gowns that promoted respect, but also trust. In order to do her job, the people who hired her must feel she could be trusted with their homes, and dressing in the very latest styles often frightened them.
Consequently, she traveled with three trunks, because she never knew how she might need to present herself. Sometimes the master of a household responded best if she dressed like a duchess, with an emphasis on diamonds. (They invariably assumed that her jewels were family heirlooms, even though India had bought them herself.)
Other times she presented herself as a docile, modest young lady, who valued ev
ery word that dropped from the man’s lips. And then there were times when the seventeen-year-old scion of the house was clearly going to make a nuisance of himself. She would come to breakfast with braided hair, wearing a dress of brown homespun reminiscent of a German governess.
If she took on Starberry Court, she should probably wear something that minimized her rank. A man who wished to rise in the world and overcome his illegitimate birth would be looking for reassurance. She would have to protect Dautry’s sense of amour propre, while giving tactful instruction about the manners and style of a great house.
“All right,” she said, making up her mind. “We’ll say farewell to Lady Dibbleshire and inform Mr. Dautry that we will help him with the renovation. And with catching the woman of his dreams.”
“An excellent plan,” Adelaide said, nodding. “But India darling, I must remind you that time is passing. This house cannot be an excuse to put off a decision about marriage.”
India’s good cheer wavered. She summoned a smile. “The house won’t take long.”
“You must decide between your various suitors, my dear.” Adelaide patted her hand. “They won’t wait forever.”
“I will,” India said, the words hollow even to her own ears. “I mean to find a perfect husband, Adelaide. Just as soon as I have time.”
Chapter Four
June 17
40, Hanover Square
London
India was happy to see that the Duke of Villiers’s eldest son lived in a spacious town house built of white marble, its pillars the perfect size and shape to support its portico. There was nothing she liked more than to be given carte blanche in her renovations, and from all appearances, her client had the funds to do so.
But the moment she and Adelaide entered his library and Dautry rose from behind his desk to greet them, she realized she had made a grave miscalculation.
He walked toward them with the effortless confidence of a man who is formidable in every respect, even though he wore no coat or cravat, just a white linen shirt and breeches that stretched over his thigh muscles. Stubble darkened his jaw, and his hair was neither pulled back in a neat queue nor covered by a wig.
He looked like a farm laborer.
Or a king.
India would guess that he dominated any group of men in which he found himself. Birth hierarchy would be displaced by a more primal hierarchy of maleness. He breathed a power brewed from masculinity and intelligence, not from an accident of inheritance.
Still, his bones were knit together with a fineness that spoke of his father, of the Duke of Villiers. In fact, she could see the duke in Mr. Dautry’s every lineament: in his high cheekbones, in the brutal turn of his jaw, even in the white streak that punctuated his black hair.
To her horror, India realized that all that maleness had kindled a sultry warmth in her stomach, and her pulse was thumping to a disgracefully erotic beat. She was both shocked and surprised by her body’s reaction. She was decidedly not a woman who turned weak-kneed over a man.
The feeling, however, was decidedly not mutual. Indifferent eyes flicked over her, and he turned to her godmother. “Lady Xenobia,” he said to Adelaide, bowing, “it is a pleasure to meet you.”
Adelaide giggled, a girlish sound that India had heard only once or twice. “Mr. Dautry, I fear you are quite mistaken. I am Lady Adelaide Swift. May I introduce you to my goddaughter, Lady Xenobia?”
No sooner had surprise flashed across his face than it was gone. “I am honored, Lady Adelaide,” he said smoothly. He turned to India. “My apologies, Lady Xenobia. I assumed you were Lady Adelaide’s companion, judging you far too young to have accomplished the miracles that the Duchess of Villiers credits you with.”
His reference to her youth—welcome though it might have been—did not make up for his assumption about her status. The only thing that made her feel better was that she was almost certain that proper grammar would require “with which the duchess credits you.”
Mr. Dautry bowed to her, though with none of the flourishes that men generally produced when introduced to the daughter of a marquess. Even those who knew something about her father—that is, that he had been as daft as a chicken in the rain—paid obeisance to her title. Yet this man didn’t even bother to brush his lips over her glove.
“It is a pleasure, Mr. Dautry,” she murmured, wishing that she was wearing a gown that would bring a man to his knees. Irritatingly, that image just sent another streak of heat down her legs.
Of course, her godmother tumbled back into speech. “I could never accomplish any of darling India’s miracles, I assure you! Why, when we were at your father’s home . . .” Still talking, Adelaide trotted over to a sofa and happily accepted an offer of refreshment. India followed, watching as Mr. Dautry jerked his head at the butler, sending him off to fetch tea.
As Adelaide talked on and on, scarcely pausing for breath, Mr. Dautry’s face took on a faint air of boredom. India adored her godmother, although she sometimes found herself dazed by Adelaide’s prattle. But that was for her to feel, and no one else was allowed to exhibit the slightest hint of ennui in her godmother’s company. She gave Mr. Dautry a narrow-eyed glance that said without words that his expression was an impertinence.
He just raised a brow, not a bit abashed.
Once the butler returned with a tray, Adelaide engaged herself pouring tea—a ceremony that she took extremely seriously—and there was finally a moment of silence in the room.
“So, Lady Xenobia,” Dautry said, “my stepmother assures me that you are quite proficient at renovating houses.”
Proficient? Eleanor would never have damned her with such faint praise. Clearly, this man was not going to be as easily managed as most of her clients.
Temper was ever her failing, and sure enough a spark of it kindled at his insult. “She has informed me that you are desperate to refurbish a country house,” she replied.
Next to her, Adelaide’s brows drew together. There was nothing that Adelaide disliked more than rudeness, and India’s tone had been slightly impolite—as had Mr. Dautry’s.
He settled back in his chair and gave India the smile with which a tiger greets a gazelle. “Yes, that’s accurate. I hate to wait, you see. I am easily bored.”
He probably never waited—not for a carriage, nor for a woman, nor for anything.
“I was very pleased to hear that you are planning to marry,” Adelaide said, jumping into the charged silence. “Darling Eleanor confided that you have met an irresistible young lady.”
India was watching Dautry carefully, and she saw a flash of irony in his eyes. This man found no woman irresistible.
“I have indeed been lucky enough to meet a lady whom I hope to make mine,” he agreed. “But, of course, I must first ensure that my house provides a suitable setting for such a treasure.”
The man was impossibly arrogant. He deserved to be taken down a peg or two, if only for his condescending reference to Lala as a “treasure.”
But that was not her responsibility, India reminded herself. She merely had to be civil long enough to fulfill her promise to Eleanor. She leaned forward and gave him her “approval smile,” the one that promised she liked him, that said she thought he was marvelous. Men loved that smile.
Dautry’s mouth tightened and his gray eyes became distinctly cold. She sat back abruptly.
All right. That didn’t work.
“What would you like to have done to Starberry Court, Mr. Dautry?” she asked, pitching her voice toward crisp authority.
“I should like it to be habitable in a fortnight.”
“I assume the house is in excellent condition? A fortnight is an exceedingly short period of time.”
“I have no idea,” Mr. Dautry said, draining his teacup in one swallow.
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I sent a man around to ensure that it was structurally sound before I bought it.”
She and Adelaide stared at him.
The irritated look crossed his face again. “It’s a house,” he stated. “In the right location, with a quite large estate attached to it. I was assured that this house is just what a young lady would desire—or perhaps the better word is require. That is where you come in, Lady Xenobia.” He put down the cup. “By the way, is that truly your name? ‘Xenobia’?”
India knew perfectly well that people often thought her name extremely odd, but they rarely said so. For one thing, the name was recorded in Debrett’s. And for another, anyone who had met her father was unsurprised by her name. She considered herself fortunate that she had not been christened “Moonflower.”
“Yes, it is,” she said evenly, and immediately returned to the topic at hand. “Do you truly mean to tell me that you have no idea of the house’s condition?”
He answered her with a look. Apparently, he was not a man who chose to repeat himself.
“My dear sir,” Adelaide cried, “you can’t possibly think to have the house habitable in a fortnight. From what I’ve heard, it served as a veritable brothel in the last years of its occupancy.”
“I fail to see why Jupp’s activities, no matter how unsavory, should affect the condition of Starberry Court. There are brothels that are as elegantly appointed as ducal mansions.”
India had no doubt that the man had seen the inside of many a brothel. “Lady Rainsford is an extremely fastidious woman,” she said. “She judges her behavior above reproach and insists the same of others.”
Dautry raised an eyebrow. “I see. Are you well acquainted with her?”
“Her virtues are widely known,” India said, leaving it at that. “If you wish to marry her daughter, not a hint of ill repute can be attached to your estate. Even if the walls and furnishings are in decent repair, it will be well-nigh impossible to achieve the correct tenor in a mere fortnight.”
“Tenor?” He looked as if he was about to start laughing.
His expression sent pure irritation up India’s spine. “Given your circumstances,” she said, “your house must be not only charming, but also impeccably refined.”