by Claudia Dain
“Are we hosting an event? And here I stand, with mud-spattered shoes.”
They all rose at the entry of the Earl of Dalby, Sophia’s son.
“Darling, if we are hosting an event, it is most awkward to remark on the condition of your shoes,” Sophia said, offering her son her cheek to kiss. Dalby kissed it most warmly. “And if we are not, then it is most awkward to make any remark at all.”
This time, it was Cranleigh who stood.
“No event, Dalby, simply a happy confluence of well-wishers and gift-bringers,” Cranleigh said.
“Lord Cranleigh was of the gift-bringer variety,” Sophia said, looking pleasantly at Iveston. Iveston had yet to stand. He did not care to leave at present. Certainly there was no rush? “As was Lord Tannington and the Duke of Edenham, both concerning minor wagers.”
“Wagers, Mother?” Dalby asked, sitting down next to her on the sofa. They fitted quite nicely together, looking comfortable in each other’s sphere, as was so unusual in Society as to bear taking note. “Is it possible that you wager too much?”
“I don’t think so,” she answered pleasantly. “Particularly as I win so often.”
“Which would explain why some would come to the conclusion that you wager too often,” Ruan said.
“The losers, you mean?” Sophia asked.
“Precisely,” Ruan answered. “Lord Dalby, do you wager against your mother?”
“Not recently, Lord Ruan,” Dalby answered. He was a handsome man of brown hair and eyes, quite tall and fit-looking. Still quite young, though fully in possession of his title. “My father warned me against taking on my mother; I thought I knew better, and lost two quid as a result.”
“You don’t mean literally,” Penelope Prestwick said. “You can’t mean that your mother actually took money from you, your own money.”
“He who wagers must be prepared to pay his losses,” Sophia said, looking directly at Miss Prestwick. “I do demand that once an agreement has been reached, even one bearing the structure of a wager, all parties play within the fences, so to speak. I’m quite firm about it, which I can’t think is a surprise to anyone in this room.”
Iveston did not know Sophia Dalby well at all, but he was quite aware in that moment that she was speaking very nearly directly to Penelope Prestwick. One had only to observe the slightly alarmed look on Miss Prestwick’s face to see that. But about what?
He had no idea.
Suddenly and quite decidedly, he was determined to know all.
“Shall we leave, Iveston?” Cranleigh said softly.
“I should prefer to stay, if you don’t mind,” Iveston answered, studying Miss Prestwick’s face.
“I never thought to hear it,” Cranleigh murmured.
Cranleigh sat back down with great reluctance. Iveston didn’t care if Cranleigh were reluctant or not; he wasn’t leaving.
“What did you wager, Lord Dalby?” Iveston asked. “Can you remember?”
“Can I remember? I can hardly think it possible that I should forget, Lord Iveston,” Dalby answered. “I wagered that the Duke of Aldreth’s best hound would whelp less than six pups. My mother wagered that it would be more. The bitch delivered seven.”
“A woman has an advantage in wagers of that sort,” Sophia said mildly.
“Regarding bitches?” Ruan asked, also mildly.
“Precisely,” Sophia answered with a languid smile.
It was quite obvious that Ruan was in the process of seducing Sophia. It was also quite obvious that Tannington was not happy about it. Edenham, on the other hand, seemed to find the entire thing amusing.
Miss Prestwick did not. Not amusing at any rate, but fascinating. It was most peculiar, but the girl did not seem to find any of this behavior, and surely much of it was not proper for her, an assault upon her sensibilities.
What to do but wonder why?
IT was perfectly obvious to Penelope that Lord Ruan was very near to seducing Sophia Dalby completely. One was left to wonder, knowing what was common knowledge about Sophia, why it was taking so long. The sooner the better, certainly.
Penelope’s greatest fear, well, perhaps not her greatest but definitely ranked within the top ten, was that Sophia would scoop Edenham up before Penelope had a proper go at him. That wasn’t going to happen. She would not have put it beyond Sophia’s plans to actually have decided that marrying Edenham would only enhance her, but it was plain now, seeing them together, that they didn’t have the slightest interest in each other that way. Which, truthfully, was absurd as they were a most glorious-looking pair.
One never could predict the way these things would fall, more’s the pity. There was no logic at all to coupling that she could see, which was why she was approaching it from a truly logical foundation: that of social prestige and monetary gain. What other measure was as constant and precise? Love. Passion. Ridiculous, ephemeral notions that served playwrights and poets and no one else.
Still, Sophia clearly being no threat to her plans, Edenham appeared not at all interested in her. Worse, by returning to Dalby House at a time when Sophia had expressly not wished her to come, she had made a quick enemy of a barely made ally.
Bad bit of planning, that. Though, to be honest with herself, and she did make it a point to be honest with herself at least, it had not been so much of a plan as an impulse. Horribly untidy and unproductive, giving in to impulses. She’d known that for years and here she was, paying the price for impulse.
She’d simply have to make it up to Sophia, that’s all. It couldn’t be all that difficult, could it? She did seem to like getting gifts, and apparently had a passion for Chinese porcelain. She didn’t suppose it could be that difficult to find a pretty enough, expensive enough vase and present it, groveling if necessary, into Sophia’s lap.
Groveling was the least she was prepared to do to attain her duke.
The very least.
Penelope was quite well aware that Lady Caroline, Sophia’s daughter, and Lady Louisa, Sophia’s something or other, not to mention Lady Amelia and the episode in the mews, had each achieved perfectly respectable husbands in a matter of days, if not hours, by getting themselves well and truly ruined.
How difficult could it be to arrange for Edenham to ruin her?
With Sophia’s aid, it should be simplicity itself.
Oh, most girls of good family, and even those of questionable family, would look at ruination as being the worst fate that could befall a girl. Ridiculous. The worst fate to befall a girl was not getting what she wanted, and in her case, what she wanted was a proper duke. If she had to get him improperly, well then. What of it? Once she’d got him, she’d got him. What could he do about it then?
The thing to do, naturally, was to arrange for Edenham to ruin her before every man in the ton became aware that ruination had become the new betrothal. Once they had done so, and she was not so naïve as to believe they could be kept in the dark about it forever, it would become nearly impossible to lure a man into anything even resembling a compromising situation, which surely would turn Society on its head.
How to get him to do it, that was the question facing her now. Getting him alone was essential. Penelope surveyed the room. It was so very difficult not to give in to dismay. Was every man in Town going to be admitted to Dalby House today? It certainly appeared so.
Fredericks appeared at the door again and Penelope very nearly groaned, but he was only bringing in more tea things, so all was saved, or at least not any worse than it had been. The thing to do was to try and encourage some of these people to leave. Lord Tannington most definitely. She had never before met Tannington, but she could discern with no trouble whatsoever that he was a complete rogue, just the sort to ruin a girl for the fun of it. At the moment, he was staring insolently and with overt hostility at Lord Ruan, who was ignoring him completely to concentrate on Sophia. Lord Ruan must be got rid of as well.
He was, she could plainly see, a most experienced, indeed, perhaps even a danger
ous rakehell. The type of man who did not seduce girls for fun, but, worse, did so without actually trying to at all. What was more dangerous than that?
Lords Iveston and Cranleigh should have left long ago. What were they lingering about for? Cranleigh had delivered his gift. Iveston had stumbled over some completely ridiculous remarks that were in the poorest taste and without a jot of wit. What more could they hope to accomplish in a single visit?
That left Edenham, George, Sophia, and she. It was going to be difficult enough to get Edenham to ruin her with having to dispose of George and Sophia. She did not think she had it in her to manage it with more than that clogging the corners of the room, figuratively speaking. She did know that she’d have to get him alone and arrange for him, or at the very least encourage him, to do something scandalous to her or her clothing.
Now, how to get Edenham to rip her dress? It would be so simple if she could get him to escort her into her conservatory somehow, putting those roses to good purpose, to her good purpose. How Amelia had mangled her chances on those thorns, well, it was very nearly disgraceful. Of course, when she’d arranged for the roses to crowd her conservatory, announcing without words her adept skill at rose horticulture to the world, she hadn’t given a thought to using them to aid in ruining herself. Far from it. But with Lady Amelia so boldly leading the way, albeit that she appeared to have lost her way from the very moment she had found it, Penelope knew just what she wanted to happen.
She would get Edenham into her house.
She would get Edenham into her conservatory.
She would get Edenham into her clothing.
She would get Edenham.
So very simple. As to her list, it could all be rearranged, items dropped or added or repositioned. All but the last. She would get Edenham. He was simply ideal. He would make such a lovely husband, she was completely certain of it. Why, the fact that he’d had three wives already spoke volumes as to his eligibility and appeal. Certainly a man who had married well thrice was a man worth marrying. As to his killing off his wives by his … um, prowess. Ridiculous bit of superstition. Women died in childbed every day and certainly Edenham could not be blamed for all of them, could he?
No, Edenham was the perfect choice. Now, how to get him into her clothes?
Six
IVESTON had no idea what thoughts were scurrying through Penelope Prestwick’s head, but the look she was giving the Duke of Edenham was very nearly indecent. Actually, it did quite interesting things to her face. She looked, though she could hardly know it, quite seductive, nearly sultry. He had not thought she had it in her. It was becoming more than obvious that Miss Prestwick wore her thoughts and emotions on her very pretty face, and that she had no idea she was quite transparent.
Iveston smiled and ducked his head to hide it, just in case she was more cognizant of other people’s expressions than she was of her own.
What an astounding blend of blatant intent and devious cunning she was, for he could read both on her face. In the next instant, her expression changed completely, becoming one of complete exasperation. Iveston supposed the change must be credited to the arrival of Sophia’s brother and his three sons into the white salon.
Sophia Dalby, the dowager countess of Dalby, had a brother who was an Iroquois warrior. As Sophia and her brother John were full and complete siblings, it was therefore true that Sophia was an Iroquois.
This, it must be supposed, was a most extraordinary bit of news. No, not quite news, for Iveston was becoming aware that his parents, and indeed many of their generation, of which Sophia must be ranked among their number, had known of Sophia’s Iroquois heritage from the start. The fact that it had become hidden, likely upon her marriage to the Earl of Dalby, was to be expected. Perhaps. Still, it did seem the worst sort of foul play for one generation to be so familiar with a fact and keep it to themselves.
Actually, from what he could gather, Sophia and John were the children of an Englishwoman and an Iroquois, the result apparently being that Sophia was the more English of the two and John the more Indian.
Apparently being.
Iveston, who had truly not fully met Sophia before last week and who found her as delightful as every man of maturity did, was not at all certain that Sophia was who she seemed to be. He did not overmuch care, and certainly who she was or who she wasn’t couldn’t possibly affect him, but it was interesting, a sort of a puzzle to be worked. He did enjoy a puzzle.
Upon the thought, and rising to greet Lady Dalby’s relatives, Iveston’s gaze swung again to Miss Prestwick. She looked positively incensed. It was quite amusing.
As they all stood, bowing and curtseying to each other, the introductions made as quickly as possible, Cranleigh whispered, “It’s the perfect opportunity to leave. I’m certain there can’t be enough chairs.”
Whereupon four footmen brought in four Chippendale chairs with yellow silk damask seats. Iveston shook his head, grinning, and sat back down. The Indians sat. They all sat. Miss Prestwick looked nearly as dejected about it as Cranleigh did.
“Markham has informed me that you intend to stay in Town,” Sophia said to her brother, John. John didn’t quite nod, but did make a slight motion of assent. “I confess to being surprised. I didn’t think the joys of Town were quite your thing, John. Don’t tell me you have been seduced by its many pleasures.”
“I have not been seduced,” John said. He was quite a rugged, frightening-looking fellow, which Iveston suspected was entirely intentional. “I have been convinced.”
“Convinced? Of what? And by whom?” Sophia glanced at her son, Dalby, who apparently was called Markham by family intimates. Most confusing.
“By me, Sophia,” the elder son said.
George Grey was of an indeterminate age; he looked younger than Iveston, and likely was, but he had such an air about him of ruthless intent and abounding humor that he seemed very much more experienced than George Prestwick, who was in all probability the same age. George Grey, Iroquois, had dark curling hair and dark gleaming eyes and the curious anomaly of a single dimple in his left cheek. Coupled with his stature and obvious physical strength, it gave him the appalling appearance of being a gleeful murderer.
Iveston was not at all uncertain that the impression wasn’t precisely on the mark.
“Of course by you,” Sophia said with a slight grin. “Not possible at all for it to have been by Young.”
Young, another private name which should have surely been kept private, was truly called John. As his father was also called John, the appellation was explained. He was the middle brother of the Iroquois in the white salon, which clearly was an odd conjoining of disparate words, for who could ever have anticipated Indians in a London town house? In any regard, Iveston understood from the way in which Young held himself, his posture and bearing, that he had no desire to be in Town and, indeed, no desire to speak a word if he could help it.
He could help it.
In response to Sophia’s comment, Young simply looked at his aunt, made some pleasant motion of his eyes, and then looked down at the floor between his very large feet.
Matthew Grey, the youngest of them, was a startling-looking young man of dark hair and complexion and piercing blue eyes. As the Greys were cousins to Lord Dalby, they did bear a strong resemblance to each other, though Dalby looked completely English and the Greys looked nothing like. Although, perhaps it was not so much their physical appearance as their demeanor. They were very nearly pugilistic in their aspect, though almost silently so. Certainly they did not talk a great deal, though they appeared comfortable enough in their surroundings.
But of course they would. Sophia was their aunt.
Iveston could not quite wrap his thoughts around it.
Tannington appeared to be having the same trouble, though the same could not be said of Miss Prestwick. Miss Prestwick, as Iveston should have expected, was giving her complete attention to Edenham. Even Edenham seemed to sense it now, not that he looked at all deligh
ted by the fact.
And who would? It was entirely too obvious of her. She really ought to at least put on an appearance of being demure and reticent. All the girls did, those who were not yet married. Once married, they behaved any way they liked, which was one of the problems of marriage, as he saw it.
Of course, he knew he would marry. It was his duty. He must marry. And he would. One day. There was certainly no rush about it, was there? He had years left to him. What he would do with those years left to him of freedom he wasn’t entirely certain. He clearly hadn’t done much by way of excitement with his unmarried years so far, but the future looked as bright as it ever had done and he was prepared to enjoy himself, in whatever fashion suited him.
At some point, he did realize, he had to find something which suited him.
And, surely reduced to being a habit by now, he glanced again at Miss Prestwick.
“Convinced of what, I should very much like to know,” Sophia asked of her brother, smiling at George Grey.
“Convinced that having a London Season,” George said, “is good fun. You’ve convinced me, Sophia, and I convinced my father of the same. Why not stay?”
“Why not stay?” Miss Prestwick said abruptly, which was most peculiar as no one was speaking to her. “Why not go? I can’t think what you would gain by a London Season, Mr. Grey.”
“A wife, Miss Prestwick?” George Grey countered, smiling at her. A girl would have to be very unusual not to be disarmed by that single, deep dimple. Iveston watched Miss Prestwick. She did not look disarmed in the slightest, no, nor charmed. It was slightly gratifying, though he could not think why. “A man, just as a woman, wants to marry.”
“Not all men, Mr. Grey,” Lord Tannington said.
“You do not intend to marry, Lord Tannington?” Sophia asked.
“I will marry when I can avoid it no longer,” Lord Tannington said, “but the point I believe your nephew was making is that all men want to marry. I would say that while all men may marry, very few of them actually want to.”