by Anne Gracie
“Hah!” Zach punched his fist into his hand. “I knew it! So why would that harridan give her the cut direct?”
“What harridan?”
“Lady . . . Lady somebody.” He snorted. “Harpy, more like. Lady Elbury, Endbury—no, Embury, that was it—Lady Embury.”
“Lady Embury? Oh, then that is interesting.”
Zach sat up. “You know something. What?”
“Well, it’s just a whisper . . .”
“Dammit, Gil, this is no time for blasted discretion.”
“Well, I’ve heard a whisper that Lord Cambury has been—”
“Not Cambury—Embury,” Zach said impatiently.
“Lady Embury is Lord Cambury’s aunt,” Gil said calmly. “Now do you want to hear what I have to say or not?”
Zach scowled and flung himself back in his chair. “Go on.”
Gil regarded him a moment and then grinned. “This girl has really got you wound up, hasn’t she? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this way over a woman.”
Zach said tightly, “She was given the cut direct by Lady whatsit, simply for walking in the park with me. It’s a matter of righting a wrong.”
“Oh, the white knight again, is it?” Gil grinned, and when Zach muttered something rude, he laughed. “Well, the whisper is that after years of searching the ton for an incomparable, Lord Cambury has finally found his ideal.”
Zach gave him a blank look. “So?”
“Lord Cambury is a collector of beautiful things. I’m told he requires exceptional beauty in a wife as well.”
“What does that have to do—oh, my God—you don’t mean—”
Gil nodded. “Word is, he’s made an offer for the Chance girl and been accepted.”
There was a short, stunned silence. Zach looked down at his hands, and carefully unclenched his fists. “Betrothed?” he said in what he hoped was an even tone. “I don’t believe it.”
Gil raised his brows. “It’s hardly surprising—she’s young, a diamond of the first water and her invented family background suggests she’s angling for a rich husband. She’s quite clearly on the marriage mart.”
Zach was unable to think of a suitable response. His fists had clenched again. It seemed so, so damned reasonable the way Gil put it, but he refused to believe it could be so. “No. If she were betrothed, she would have told me.”
Gil’s brows climbed a little higher. “Confide in you? Concerning a betrothal that is not yet official? To one of the richest barons in the kingdom?” His eyes danced, but he continued in an amazed tone, “Well, I’m shocked. I cannot imagine why she would not immediately inform you—and any other chance-met gypsy strangers she met down a dark alley or in a park. Most extraordinarily secretive behavior on her part.”
There was another short silence. Zach glowered at his friend. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“Immensely.”
“Swine.”
“Another cognac?” Gil refilled both their glasses.
Zach picked up the glass and swirled the cognac moodily, staring into its golden depths as it caught the firelight. “What’s he like then, this Cambury fellow?”
“One of the Regent’s set, with all that you’d expect—wealth, property, the best of good ton—”
“Yes, yes, but what’s he like?”
“Really?”
“Yes. Charming? Good-looking?”
“Short, balding and running to fat.”
“Ah.” Zach liked the sound of that. “What else? Does he keep a string of mistresses? Does he beat them? Drink like a fish? Gamble to excess? Come on, Gil, you know what I’m asking—what are the fellow’s dirty little secrets? What does your famous nose tell you?”
Gil screwed up the famous nose and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Then he shrugged. “He’s dull.”
“Dull?”
“As ditch water. Worse than ditch water, which at least produces the odd tadpole and frog. He’s boring, tedious, stupefyingly, yawn-makingly dull.”
“Dirty linen?” Zach asked hopefully.
Gil shook his head. “No mistresses that I’ve ever heard of—none of the other either. Member of all the usual clubs, dutiful nephew, regular churchgoer, drinks, but in moderation—everything in moderation actually, apart from the huge sums he spends on his artworks. He’s a collector of art and things of beauty—has a passion for it, and goes on and on and on about it, ad infinitum, ad nauseam—”
“All right, enough of the Latin. So he overspends?”
Gil shook his head. “So wealthy it can’t signify. Sorry, my friend, but the fellow is perfectly inoffensive.”
“Inoffensive?” Somehow Cambury’s very inoffensiveness was offensive.
Gil nodded. “All things considered, an excellent match for your girl.”
“She can’t possibly marry him!”
“Why not?”
The question hung in the air for a full minute.
“Because—” Zach glared at his glass and groped for a reason. “Because she can’t, that’s why.”
“Oh, well, in that case . . .” With a faint smile, Gil settled back comfortably in his armchair.
Zach glared at him. “A warmhearted, lively girl like that, you can’t yoke her to a fellow who’s criminally boring!”
“Better than one who’s criminally wanted for murder.”
“I keep telling you, that’s just a stupid mix-up!” Zach grabbed the poker and stirred the coals in the fire savagely. Sparks flew everywhere.
“Any news from the lawyer’s man?” Gil said.
Zach shook his head. “Too soon. Won’t be back from Wales yet.” He stared into the fire, brooding. “Dammit, Gil, what the devil am I going to do?”
“About Cecily?”
“Not Cecily—that’s all quite straightforward. The moment we produce Cecily, the problem’s gone. What am I going to do about Miss Chance?”
Gil was silent for a moment. “Tell her who you are. If you say she’s in the market for a rich husband . . .”
“I can’t ask her to throw over a sure thing like Cambury while my own affairs are in a mess. Not while I’m—technically, at least—a wanted man.” Besides, he didn’t want to be just another potential rich husband to her.
Gil grimaced. “I see your point.” He gave Zach a thoughtful look, and said, “Do you think Cambury knows the girl’s background is a fabrication?”
“I doubt it.”
“It’d be one way to scotch the betrothal . . .”
Zach considered the suggestion. It was tempting, very tempting. Cambury sounded exactly like the kind of stuffy fellow who would recoil from any whiff of a shady background in his future bride.
But he couldn’t do it. If Cambury was who she really wanted, Zach wouldn’t ruin things for her. Much as he’d like to. He couldn’t betray her like that. Not even for her own good.
He tossed back the cognac and poured himself another glass. And a thought occurred to him.
“What if Cambury isn’t her choice at all?” he said to Gil.
“What do you mean?”
“What if that woman she lives with—Lady Whosit—”
“Lady Beatrice.”
“Yes, her so-called guardian. What if the old lady—or the sister—is forcing her to accept the fellow because of his wealth? That makes more sense to me.”
It was obvious, now he came to look at it. She was the youngest of the sisters. Their aim in coming to London was to hook themselves rich husbands. Two of the sisters had already done so—Davenham and Monkton-Coombes must have been easily gulled. And now the older sisters were forcing Jane to marry a frightful bore for the sake of his money, damn their eyes.
Gil considered it, then shook his head. “Don’t see it myself. Doesn’t sound like the old lady at all.”
Zach didn’t argue.
It all made sense to him now. She was being pressured into it.
“If you ask me, your best hope is that Cambury bores her into calling it off,” Gil said.
“Good thing I won’t ask you, then,” Zach said dryly.
“Well, what else can you do?” Gil drained his glass and set it aside.
It was the question that occupied Zach’s thoughts for the rest of a very sleepless night.
Chapter Fourteen
Oh, what care I for my house and my land?
What care I for my money-oh?
What care I for my new wedded lord?
I’m off with the raggle-taggle gypsy-oh.
—TRADITIONAL FOLK SONG
Jane woke before dawn, sweating and shivering, despite the chill draft coming from the window that was open, just a crack.
The dream again. She hadn’t had it for days, not since she’d accepted Lord Cambury’s offer. But this time the dream had suddenly changed, and she found herself struggling to escape a tall, dark gypsy, who seized her and carried her off into the night.
Only she wasn’t so much struggling, as clinging to him . . .
You’re skating on thin ice, missy.
She was, she knew it. She didn’t understand Lord Cambury at all. What kind of man got more upset by her being seen talking to a man in a shabby, worn-out coat than he had been about her being kidnapped and taken to a brothel?
Whatever, she would learn from her mistake. Obviously appearance mattered to him a great deal—in all things. She must not jeopardize her future for the sake of a few hours’ conversation with Zachary Black.
No matter that her heart beat faster at the sight of his tall, lean figure striding lazily toward her. No matter that the minutes she spent talking to him flew by like seconds, and that at night, in her bed, she relived those moments over and over, like a squirrel counting her nuts before winter.
Zachary Black was not any kind of man she could marry. He had no money, no home, no job, and worse—it didn’t seem to bother him in the least. And even though she was sure Max would give him a job if she asked, she wasn’t at all sure Zachary Black would take it. It was clear from the tales he told that he liked his wandering life.
He was, as Daisy had said, just a passing fancy and she would be a fool to think anything else.
Her future was elsewhere, with Lord Cambury. And she had other things to think about, like the ball tonight, her first ever ball.
Jane took Caesar to the park later that morning. William followed like a large, silent shadow three paces behind her. She had no expectation of seeing Mr. Black. It was Caesar snuffling and dragging at the lead that alerted her.
She stopped dead.
How dare Zachary Black put her in this position again? She had told him in no uncertain terms that she could not—would not—see him again. That it was too much of a risk. Yet there he was, his tall, lithe figure strolling across the park with that self-assured gait that seemed so much a part of him.
She ought to turn around, march back across the street and disappear into Lady Beatrice’s house.
But her traitorous feet—not to mention the dog—refused to budge. One more time, a small voice inside her said. One more time.
A cacophony of yipping to her left drew Jane’s attention. A large woman in a fur-edged puce pelisse stood glaring across at Jane. Lady Embury. Perfect.
Her wildly excited dogs got all tangled in their leads, but Lady Embury took no notice. Her eyes narrowed, and her large bosom puffed with outrage.
Jane’s spine stiffened. She would not be accused—silently or otherwise—by that woman. She would not live her life under Lady Embury’s thumb—now or in the future.
She forced herself to bow politely.
She could almost hear the woman’s sniff of outrage in response. What was she supposed to do? Apologize for being in a public square? For being approached by a man she had not asked to approach her? She would not.
A firm crunch of gravel behind her told her Mr. Black had arrived. She turned to greet him with cool composure. “Mr. Black, I did not expect to see you again.”
He ignored the dog snuffing happily at his boots. “You’re betrothed!” It sounded like an accusation.
Her spine stiffened further. She hadn’t intended to discuss it, but she supposed if he knew why she’d told him she couldn’t see him any longer, it would help. “Yes, but how did you know? It hasn’t been formally announced yet.”
He dismissed her question with a curt gesture. “They’re forcing you, aren’t they?”
Her brows drew together. “Who are you talking about? Forcing me to do what?”
“Lady Thingummy—your guardian or aunt or whatever you call her. Owns the house you live in.” He indicated it with a jerk of his head. “She’s forcing you to marry this fellow, isn’t she?”
“No. Lady Beatrice loves me. She would never force me to do anyth—”
“Pressuring you, then—for your own good.”
“No, I told you—”
“Your sister then—the one who’s married to her nephew.”
“No, of course not. Nobody is forcing me—or putting any pressure on me—to marry Lord Cambury. Quite the contrary, in fact.”
“Quite the contrary?” He frowned. “You mean they don’t want you to marry the fellow?”
Belatedly she realized it was quite inappropriate to be standing in the park discussing her betrothal with him. “I don’t wish to discuss it.”
“You mean you’re marrying the fellow of your own free will?”
She didn’t answer.
“Why, for God’s sake?”
She stepped around him and continued walking, dragging a reluctant Caesar after her.
“Why on earth would you choose to marry such a man?”
He sounded so appalled by the idea that it gave her pause. She stopped and turned toward him. “Is there some reason you know of why I shouldn’t?”
There was a short, tense silence, then the words burst from him. “He’s all wrong for you.”
“I asked for a reason, not an unsolicited opinion. Do you have one?” She waited for him to explain further.
“Nothing that I know of,” he said sullenly, “but—”
She marched off, her temper growing. She was fed up with people telling her what she could and couldn’t do. What business of his was it whom she chose to marry? How dare he question her choices? It wasn’t as if he was planning to offer her any alternative, was he? It wasn’t as if he could. And now, to confront her in this, this accusatory manner!
Zachary Black caught up with her in a handful of steps. “You can’t marry him.”
She was walking as fast as she could without running; he seemed to stroll, damn him. “Why not? He’s a respectable gentleman of the ton, with a good reputation, a dutiful family man who—”
“My father was a gentleman of the ton with a reputation as a dutiful family man, but he was an animal when he drank, and he beat me and his wife—possibly both wives, only my mother died before I knew her—savagely.” Zach broke off, shocked. He’d never told anyone that before.
She swung around and stared at him wide-eyed. “Your father beat you? That’s dreadful.”
Zach said nothing. He hadn’t meant to say that.
Then her brow creased in puzzlement. “A gentleman of the ton? I thought your father was a gypsy.”
“My real father.” It wasn’t a lie, but he knew how she’d interpret it—that his father had begotten him on a gypsy woman.
“Oh, I see.”
“You cannot trust Cambury—trust any so-called gentleman—on reputation alone.”
Her brow pleated with worry. “Do you know something ill of him? Have you heard rumors or, or anything?” He didn’t answer, so she added, “Mr. Black, are you trying to tell me that Lord Cambury beats wome
n too—is that what you’re saying?”
Zach was tempted to lie, and say yes, but with those wide blue eyes gazing anxiously into his, he couldn’t lie to her. He sighed. “No, I’ve heard nothing to his discredit.”
Her lips pressed together. Her eyes sparkled with some emotion he couldn’t read.
“But he’s all wrong for you. He’ll bore you to death in a week. You can’t marry him, just because he’s rich—there are more important things than wealth, you know.”
She made no reply; she simply marched away, her head held high. Her cheeks were a little flushed.
Zach followed. “Listen—I have . . . feelings for you, and I suspect you have feelings for me. But I won’t pursue an unwilling girl. If you tell me now, and to my face, that you harbor no tender feelings for me, that I am mistaken, I’ll leave you alone.”
She hesitated, as if she were about to say something, but in the end she kept walking, saying nothing.
The words burst from him unrehearsed and unplanned. “Be clear on this; it’s marriage I’m talking about.” He hadn’t meant to say that either, but once the words were out they felt right.
She stopped dead, and for a moment he thought she was going to ignore him. But she straightened her shoulders and turned toward him. “I’m flattered by your interest, but I cannot encourage you. I am already betrothed. Before I became betrothed, I considered marriage very carefully and rationally; it was not a light or frivolous decision I made to accept Lord Cambury’s offer.” Her face was set, but her eyes were troubled.
“Carefully and rationally, eh?” He sent her a burning glance. “So love doesn’t come into it at all?”
She looked uncomfortable. “For something as serious and binding as marriage, a girl in my position needs to consider a range of factors.”
“What sort of factors? You mean money, property, a title—that sort of thing?” His temper was growing. He wanted to grab her, to toss her over his saddle and ride off into the sunset with her.
She didn’t deny it. Her flush spoke for her.
He felt his lip curl. “So your sole intent is to snag a rich husband.”
“N—y—oh, you make it sound so cold-blooded, and I’m not.”