by Regina Scott
Cleo whirled to face her. “Well, I like that. First Leslie is the most perfect gentleman in London, and I should swoon to have my name coupled with his, and now he consorts with the hounds of hell. You, madam, cannot have it both ways.”
“Neither can you,“ Lady Agnes replied. “You’ve taken great pains to show your sisters how wicked he is. Now will you balk if I do the same?”
Had she given her plan away? Cleo felt herself paling and was again thankful for the uneven light. “I cannot think what you mean. You know I consider Leslie a friend.”
“Such a friend that he nearly ruined your Season,” her godmother pointed out. “And all for his own gain, or so he claims.”
Again Cleo was sorely tempted to tell Lady Agnes exactly how selfless Leslie had been, but she could not do so without making his sacrifice worthless. She snapped her mouth shut and returned her gaze to the window.
“And don’t think you’ll be the only one to hear my scold,” Lady Agnes warned her. “I plan to scald Leslie’s ears the next time I see him. I only hope he dares to come calling tomorrow, so I have tonight to think of an appropriate barrage.”
Cleo cringed. She rather hoped Leslie had ignored her whispered plea to meet her at the house. He hardly needed more verbal abuse tonight, particularly from their godmother. Luckily, no crested coach awaited them at the door of their townhouse. She could only pray that Lady Agnes was wrong about his wicked tendencies and that Leslie was somewhere safe for the night.
Chapter Twelve
I
f Cleo had seen Leslie that night, she could not have thought him safe. Nor would she have thought he had left his predilection to mischief behind. He had marched into his town house, demanded a bottle of port, and sequestered himself in the library. And none of this servants had seen him until morning.
Leslie woke with a groan. It wasn’t that he was hung over. Far from it. Chas Prestwick had always complained that while Leslie was the first to feel his liquor, he was also the first to recover. He seldom felt the least effect of the alcohol the next day, no matter how many drinks he’d managed to put away the night before. So today there was no pounding headache or wretched stomach to remind him of his folly. There was simply the unalterable fact that he had ostracized himself from Society. Some marquis he’d turned out to be.
He should never have started on that bottle of port. But in truth he hadn’t expected the pain that had accompanied Sally Jersey’s words. He should not have dwelled on them; they were, after all, only the prideful ravings of a woman who took her power in Society too seriously. But having started on the bottle, he couldn’t seem to stop. It was as if she had found the one hole in his armor and neatly slipped the dirk into his heart.
And twisted it.
In truth, he hadn’t been certain how she’d react to his willful disobedience to one of Almack’s most sacred rules. He’d rather hoped she’d give him a playful slap on the wrist. He’d wanted to shock Cleo’s sisters, not the world. No such luck. He was in exile, banished from good Society for the Season.
But perhaps he deserved his banishment. He groaned again, throwing an arm up over his unshaven face. He was failing dismally at keeping his gentlemanly protector role with Cleo. Each time he saw her he wanted to take her in his arms. He’d tried to be the good friend when they were dancing last night, but instead had succumbed to his desires, pulling her closer to him, wanting only to feel their bodies touching.
Well, that was done now. He was not likely to be given the chance to dance with her again. Surely her sisters would send him packing. He had only to make his obligatory appearance to his godmother today to receive his notice. Cleo would be allowed to make her own decisions. He only hoped one of those decisions might involve remaining friends with him.
He did not reckon on company that morning, particularly female company. He had gone upstairs to bathe, change, and shave himself, then arrived in the breakfast room ready for a hearty meal. Bertram, his father’s stiff-necked butler who seemed to be no more easy than Leslie about the new lord of the manor, stood even straighter than usual when he came to the breakfast room. Leslie paused in wolfing down his breakfast of steak and eggs to learn the reason for the interruption.
“My lord,” Bertram intoned, “a woman is here to see you.”
Cleo. Leslie bolted out of his chair. “You didn’t let her in, did you? Think, Bertram! She could be ruined coming to see a gentleman like this.”
Bertram raised his long nose and audibly sniffed. “I tried to dissuade the person, my lord, I assure you. She is adamant. I deposited her in the sitting room.”
How like Cleo. Leslie threw down his napkin and strode for the door. In fact, he was rather surprised she hadn’t brazened it out completely and bearded him at breakfast. Bertram did not bother to point out that he was still in his shirtsleeves. The fellow looked more than happy to step out of his way and absent himself in the nether parts of the house. Leslie was sure he would soon be regaling the rest of the staff of this new indication of their young master’s depravity.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded as he entered the sitting room.
Eloise Watkin, resplendent in a silk walking dress of a bright saffron hue, turned from her perusal of his father’s gilded world globe. “I apologize, my lord. Is this a special memento for you?”
Leslie skidded to a stop, his shoes making a decided dent in the Oriental carpet. “Miss Watkin. I didn’t expect, that is, I thought.” He sounded like a school boy! Raking a hand quickly through his hair, he collected himself and bowed. “Your servant, Miss Watkin. How may I assist you?”
She crossed to the settee, where his top hat reposed on a cushion. “You did not come for your hat, my lord. I thought perhaps I should bring it to you.”
Leslie smiled stiffly, moving forward to accept it from her. “Very thoughtful of you, I’m sure. But you must have a care for your reputation, my dear. Do you not know that ladies are not supposed to visit gentlemen?”
“I know the dictates of Society,” she replied with a pretty blush. “I took precautions. My maid is waiting at the front door. It is early, before most of the ton will even be awake. Indeed, I left my chaperone at home asleep.”
“Very wise of you,” Leslie returned, wondering whether she made a habit of these early-morning visits. Still, he could not fault the view. Unlike at their previous meetings, she did not appear to be overly primped. Her dark lashes swept pale cheeks, and her lips were moist, as if with dew. His smile deepened in appreciation.
“I want you to understand how seriously I take matters,” she said, keeping her gaze on the tips of the half boots that peeped out from under her full skirt. “I assure you, I would not have come at all except I feared I would never see you again otherwise.”
He had been remiss in not furthering the acquaintance, as he had implied he would do. “My apologies for taking you out of your way,” he told her. “I should have called.”
“I understand how busy you must be,” she said humbly. “You have been much sought after. However, after last night, I was afraid you could not call. You see, I heard about the contretemps at Almack’s.”
How many people had heard of the contretemps at Almack’s? Probably a better question was how many people hadn’t heard, given Sally Jersey’s predilection to gossip. “I’m even more amazed you would deign to visit me, madam.”
She sighed, laying a hand on his arm and giving it a squeeze before quickly withdrawing. “My lord, that is the very reason I knew I had to call. This accusation against you is most unfair. I simply wanted you to know that your true friends will not abandon you.”
He could not help but be touched by her devotion. “You are too kind. Unfortunately, I must insist that this visit will only bring you harm. I would not see a true friend censured because of me.”
She gazed up at him, head cocked. “You are sending me away?”
“I am returning your friendship by ensuring your good reputation. Thank you for comi
ng, but I must insist that you leave before any harm comes to you.”
“I do not believe any harm could come to me when I am with you,” she said, gazing up at him. Face upturned, eyes half closed, lips dewy, she begged for a kiss. Leslie swallowed.
“You honor me, madam,“ he said, stepping away. “I am certain my man will be ready to see you to the door.”
He could only hope Bertram would have had the sense to station the footman somewhere handy. He thought perhaps she might persist, but she merely smiled.
“Very well,” she murmured. She wandered to the door, only to pause to look regretfully back at him over her shoulder. “Good day, Lord Hastings. I do hope I shall see you again soon.”
Leslie bowed, keeping his eyes on her and straightening slowly in a sign of devotion. She seemed content with that, moving out into the corridor. He heard the sound of her heels on the polished stair. Only then did he allow himself a wry smile.
“Perhaps this banishment won’t be so bad after all, Leslie, old boy,” he murmured aloud.
Indeed, that proved shortly to be the case. Before he could even think of making his way to Cleo’s for his lecture from Lady Agnes, he received no less than a dozen notes of support. Several were from gentlemen, like Lord Trevithan, who had been agents for his father. Others were from fellows like Mortimer Dent whom he had known at Oxford. The one that touched his heart most was from Chas Prestwick, assuring him that he and Anne would admire him even when “he chose to make an ass of himself.” Enclosed in the note were directions to the boxing match that afternoon between the Mighty Bull of Lancaster and the Giant of Seven Dials. At least some of the finer things in life were not barred to him.
*
Cleo could not erase the memory of Leslie’s sorrowful retreat the previous night. She fully expected him to be just as miserable that morning when he called. She was therefore surprised when he was shown into the withdrawing room before noon, as Lady Agnes had commanded, his cravat unspoiled and his smile chipper.
“How are you?” she asked solicitously as Mr. Cowls hobbled off to fetch their godmother.
“Hale and hearty,” he declared, strolling over to poke a finger at Hector. “Why do you ask?”
Cleo raised a brow. “You looked rather pained last night.”
He shrugged, but something in the stiffness of the gesture told her he was not as cavalier about the matter as he pretended. “You mustn’t dwell on that, Cleo. I knew the risks before I acted. I had hoped for a better outcome, but such was not the case.”
“But you sacrificed yourself for me,” Cleo protested.
“Not at all,” he insisted. “I’m the one determined to have fun, remember?”
“And being banished from Society is your idea of fun?”
He turned from the parrot to grin at her. “As you predicted, my true friends have stood by me. They have gone out of their way to give me their support. Chas, Lord Prestwick, has even invited me to a boxing match this very day.”
Cleo grinned back, relieved that Lady Agnes’ dire predictions had not come true. “Oh, Les, how marvelous! May I come too? You know how much I’ve wanted to see one.”
His smile faded. “This would not be a good time.”
“Why?” she asked, feeling her own smile fade.
Leslie ran a hand back through his hair, a sure sign he did not want to deal with the subject. “Ladies,” he said with obvious care, “do not attend boxing matches.”
“Ladies also refuse to be seen with fellows who have been banished by the patronesses of Almack’s,” she informed him. “Do you want me to stand by that rule?”
“I would rather you did not.”
Cleo stepped forward and looked up at him in entreaty. “Then take me with you. Please, Les? You’re the only one I can ask.”
He returned her gaze, face stiff, and she wondered whether she’d finally pressed him too far. Perhaps this was one area she shouldn’t encroach upon. But then his look softened, and he touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “Why do I have such a hard time refusing you?”
Cleo felt her grin returning. “Because I’m a cozening little sprout. Is that a yes?”
“Yes. But Lady Agnes won’t approve, so mum’s the word, my girl. I’ll think of some way to get you out of the house.”
She nodded, then clamped her mouth shut as their godmother moved into the room.
“And there you are, thick as thieves,” Lady Agnes declared. “Come and sit down, Leslie. We must talk. Cleo, I want you to stay and listen as well.”
Cleo didn’t mind the excuse to stay. She wanted to hear the resolution of their plan. She only hoped Lady Agnes wouldn’t roast Leslie over the coals. Despite his protests, she still felt he had done all this for her sake.
“Certainly, Lady Agnes,” she said as Leslie moved to comply. “My sisters did say I should do everything to please Leslie. Perhaps I should share his blame.”
“Loyal, ain’t she,” Leslie quipped, settling into one of the wing-backed chairs and stretching out his long legs before him. “Puts me in mind of a Spaniel I had once.”
Cleo stuck out her tongue at him. Leslie barked a laugh.
Lady Agnes shook her head. “Merry as grigs, the two of you, and I’d like to know why. Do you like being a disgrace?”
“There is nothing disgraceful about Cleo,” Leslie said, demeanor suddenly serious. “As was proven last night, the blame for this misadventure falls squarely on me.”
Cleo waited for her godmother to agree, but, as usual, Lady Agnes had her own opinion.
“Not entirely,” she informed him. “I have already had three notes this morning canceling engagements with Cleo. I suspect more will follow. And heaven help us when Electra and Andromeda find out.”
Cleo perked up. Could it be they had finally succeeded in her plan?
“But I thought it was understood that I acted alone,” Leslie protested, leaning forward.
“You may have concocted that lie alone,” Lady Agnes replied, “but you acted with Cleo. Coupled with her curls and that race, you must admit the evidence is mounting.”
“Barbarian,” Hector squawked.
Lady Agnes frowned at the bird.
Cleo was afraid to hope. “Lady Jersey also accused me of beau snatching, and we all know that is a humbug. Surely this storm will blow over.”
“I would not count on it,” Lady Agnes said.
Cleo smothered a grin. “Then it seems I will be cut from Society.”
Her godmother’s frown deepened. “And why do I hear triumph under the words? Don’t you understand, girl? There are rules, and woe betide the young lady who flaunts them.”
Cleo snapped her fingers. “That for their silly rules. I haven’t done anything that some other young lady hasn’t tried. Look at Lady Lamb!”
Leslie shuddered. Lady Agnes shook her head.
“Caro Lamb,” she pronounced, “is an unhappy, bitter widgeon. Pray pick a better example.”
“Your nephew’s wife, Lady Thomas DeGuis, then,” Cleo supplied readily. “She works with fallen women and supposedly did so before she was married.”
“Danced the waltz before it was popular too,” Leslie commented with a fond smile.
“Margaret is an Original,” Lady Agnes informed them sternly. “Cleo hasn’t the panache to pull that off.”
Cleo drew herself up. “That, madam, is your opinion.”
“Now, now, Sprout,” Leslie put in as her godmother bristled. “The lady has a point. There isn’t anyone quite like Margaret. I’m not certain the ton could stand more than one of her.”
“Precisely,” Lady Agnes declared. “You may posture all you like, Cleo, but the facts are before you. You are facing ruin.”
Cleo hung her head, but more to keep Lady Agnes from seeing the smile that was threatening than from any sense of remorse. Her sisters would have no choice but to pack her off to the country now.
“Not to be disrespectful, godmother,” Leslie put in, “but didn’t you i
ntend to ring a peal over my head? I’d rather you left Cleo alone and got on with it. I have other engagements this afternoon.”
Cleo bit back a laugh as Lady Agnes glared at him.
“Insufferable puppy,” she scolded. “Very well, if you want it baldly. Your behavior is the outside of enough.”
“Ah,” Leslie replied, leaning back once more. “Now, that is more like it.”
“Oh, you may well laugh,” Lady Agnes told him, scowling. “You have gotten yourself banned from Society and are threatening to take Cleo with you. There is only one solution to this mess.”
“Shall I drink hemlock or fall on my sword?” Leslie quipped.
“Neither,” Lady Agnes snapped. “The only gentlemanly thing to do is offer for Cleo. This minute.”
Chapter Thirteen
C
leo surged to her feet. “No!” she cried even as Leslie barked a laugh.
“If Cleo is drowning,” he told Lady Agnes over Hector’s agitated squawk, “the last thing she needs is to be tied to a millstone. If you will remember, I was the one banned from Society last night. I fail to see how marriage to me avails Cleo.”
“Exactly,” Cleo agreed, forcing herself to sit back down as Lady Agnes shook her head.
“You might think what that marriage would avail you,” their godmother scolded Leslie. “Do you understand the magnitude of being banished from Almack’s?”
Cleo was beginning to get an inkling of how drastically he might have been served. He didn’t seem worried, but if she, who had been given Lady Jersey’s reluctant forgiveness, was still being cut, Leslie would be ostracized.