“Or in newspapers?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.
As his gaze locked with hers, full of meaning, full of threat, her fervor drained out of her. This was it—his next assault. She waited for it with her heart pounding.
He turned to where Jordan and his wife were finding seats around the card tables. “Speaking of newspapers, Jordan, I brought a number back from London for you. I have an interesting article to show you.”
Felicity’s knees went weak. Her column—it had to be. But if he’d seen it, why would he want his friends to read it?
Thankfully, Emily said, “I thought we were going to play cards. That is why you suggested we go to the card room, isn’t it?”
Ian had suggested it? Oh, of course. Her heart plummeted as she noted the servants who scurried about lighting candles and making the room comfortable. The party’s move to the card room had been no sudden impulse. He’d planned this “accidental” encounter, the devil. He must have discovered her whereabouts from a servant during dinner. So this truly was it: their next battle. And she wasn’t ready.
“Well, isn’t it, Ian?” Emily repeated. “I do so want to play whist. I seldom get the chance.”
Jordan laughed. “You see what happens when you expose a country girl to some fun? She can hardly get enough of it.”
With a cross look, Emily retorted, “You know that’s not the only reason. There’s never enough people here in the country to play, since Gideon dislikes the game so.”
“Confoundedly stupid game,” Gideon muttered. He sat in a wing chair near the fire warming his hands.
“Unfortunately, Emily, we now have too many people to play,” Ian said. “We wouldn’t want to leave Miss Taylor out of the game.”
“Oh, don’t trouble yourselves over that,” Felicity hurriedly said. “I’ll simply continue reading. You four go on with your game, by all means.”
“Impossible,” Ian remarked. “We’ll be noisy, and that’ll restore your headache.”
Glaring at him, Felicity gritted out, “Then perhaps I should retire.”
“No, I insist that we cancel our plans. I won’t be responsible for depriving everyone of your company, especially when you’re returning to London tomorrow. Besides, I think you, too, will find the newspaper interesting.”
His amused gaze met Felicity’s baleful one, and she wanted to strangle him. What was he planning, drat him?
The others didn’t seem annoyed by his insistence on dictating their entertainment. Emily even graciously conceded it would be unfair to leave Miss Taylor out of the game. Nor did anyone protest when he sent a servant off to fetch his newspapers.
After the servant had gone, he took a seat on a spindly chair, dwarfing it with his large frame. When he leaned back, legs splayed and thumbs tucked into his waistcoat pockets, he wore the smug air of a man who always got his way. “Now we can all join you in reading, Miss Taylor. I brought copies of Ackermann’s Repository for you females.” The smile he fixed on her was as insidious as coal dust in a chimney. “And for Jordan, I brought the Gazette. He’s a great admirer of Lord X’s column.”
She swallowed. This made no sense. Why would Ian want his friends to read her column about him? Was it simply his obnoxious way of leading up to exposing her?
She forced a note of contempt into her voice. “Isn’t Lord X that man who writes the gossip?” She strolled nonchalantly to the opposite side of the room and perched herself on a silk-upholstered settee. “Lord St. Clair, I can’t believe you criticized my preference for fiction when you read a rumormonger like Lord X.”
“Ian doesn’t read him; he hates the fellow,” Jordan interjected. “But I admit to admiring the writer myself. His biting comments are a tonic to all the hypocrisy among our peers. Lord X is quite a wit, even if he does take a poke at Ian occasionally.”
Ian’s gaze was riveted on her. “Yes, he’s a wit. At other people’s expense.”
A slow churn began in her stomach. Why the devil wouldn’t he get it over with? If he wanted to expose her…
“That’s not true,” Emily remarked. “The man’s judicious in his wit. He only sharpens it on the pompous, cruel, and unthinking. Only last week he defended young women who ignore their parents’ greed to elope with the men they love.”
The young countess’s unexpected defense lifted Felicity’s spirits.
Then she noted the sudden tension in the room. Jordan cast his wife a reproachful glance. “You shouldn’t mention elopements around Ian, darling. He’s not so fond of them as you are.”
Emily colored. “Goodness gracious, I forgot…that is, I…”
The newspapers arrived at that moment, sparing Lady Blackmore any further embarrassment. Now scowling, Ian flipped quickly through them, then drew out one that looked like the Gazette and tossed it to Jordan. “Well, there’s no mention of elopements in Lord X’s latest column. But I dare say it will interest you and Emily all the same. It seems the rumormonger hasn’t tired of me as a subject.”
“What?” Jordan looked genuinely surprised, a reaction that seemed to be shared by everyone else in the room. Felicity prepared herself for doomsday.
Jordan shook open the paper and began turning pages. “Ian, I thought you intended to find out Lord X’s true identity. Don’t tell me you couldn’t convince the man to keep quiet about your affairs.”
Felicity sucked in a quick breath as her gaze shot to Ian.
Ian took his time about answering, obviously delighting in the power he held over her. “I had some trouble tracking down a man named Lord X. But I did talk to Pilkington. Though he wouldn’t reveal the identity of his correspondent, he told me something very interesting.”
Felicity’s stomach began to rival a butter churn for activity.
“Pilkington?” Sara interjected. “But Ian, isn’t he the man you mentioned when—” She broke off, her gaze flitting from Ian to Felicity.
Felicity couldn’t meet her friend’s gaze.
“Pilkington is the Gazette’s publisher,” Jordan explained, oblivious to the new tension in the room. He scanned through the paper for the column. “Wait, here it is.”
“Read it aloud,” Ian commanded, shooting each word at her like a dratted archer.
Felicity truly felt ill now. It was one thing to write the words while alone in her room, bolstered by her anger. But to hear them read by Ian’s own friend…
Drat it, she wouldn’t let Ian provoke her guilt! She’d had every right to retaliate after his nasty tactics on the balcony. If her column embarrassed him before his friends, then he shouldn’t make them read it. Besides, it didn’t begin to compare to the utter humiliation he’d heaped upon her that night, the way he’d made her respond to his kisses, then taunted her about her response before Sara and Lady Brumley.
She balled her fists in her lap as Jordan’s amused voice rumbled across the room:
Take heed, my friends, lest you invoke Lord St. Clair’s ire by reading this column. He was unhappy to be mentioned here last week. It seems the good viscount would have us believe that the woman on Waltham Street is not his mistress, but his wartime compatriot’s sister to whom he’s providing friendly aid during a time of difficulty.
If this be true, his behavior deserves praise, not censure. Your faithful correspondent, however, finds the possibility dubious, especially his assertion that he fought in the war. Has anyone heard of his feats or seen his bravery in battle firsthand? If so, let the Gazette know at once. We would be most happy to print tales from his lordship’s years abroad fighting Napoleon.
Yours truly suspects, however, that the viscount’s “war years” are as questionable as his “benevolence,” in which case his claims insult the bravery of all those men who truly fought for our country.
Jordan tossed the newspaper down, eyes alight with anger. “I take back every compliment I’ve ever given the man, Ian! This is libelous! You should bring suit against him! He can’t defame you like this—he must be forced to retract this insult or provide y
ou with satisfaction on the dueling field!”
Felicity made herself continue to hold Ian’s gaze. His lack of expression amply demonstrated that he awaited her reaction. No doubt he expected her to blush or flinch or show other evidence of shame.
He wouldn’t get it from her, the scoundrel! She didn’t regret a single word she’d written! Truly, she didn’t!
Well, perhaps that last little bit was excessive. She probably shouldn’t have asserted her doubts so boldly. But she’d been angry, and with good reason. He’d humiliated her as publicly as she had him. No, she didn’t regret what she’d written. He deserved everything she could throw at him.
“What I don’t understand,” Emily put in, “is how Lord X knew what you’d told us about your friend, Ian. I swear I never said a word to anyone outside this room.”
“Nor did I,” Sara chimed in.
Felicity listened in disbelief. What? It couldn’t be. The two countesses must have told others. Sara had told her. And surely Ian’s reason for lying to them in the first place had been to make sure they cleared his name among the gossips.
Ian flashed Felicity the barest taunting smile. “It’s all right, Sara. I know you probably told quite a few people in my defense. I don’t blame you for that.”
“But I didn’t!” Sara protested. “You asked us not to say anything, and I upheld your wish!” Her gaze turned to Felicity, confused, upset.
The roiling in Felicity’s stomach now threatened to make her faint. He’s asked them not to say anything? Good Lord. How had he known that Sara had told her and only her? What sort of devil was he, anyway?
“You or Emily must have said something,” Ian replied in apparent innocence. “You couldn’t have known it would be passed on. Pilkington himself told me that Lord X has a woman helping him gather information. No doubt she heard the truth from one of you at the ball.”
What a liar! Felicity thought angrily. Mr. Pilkington told him no such thing!
He added slyly, “It’s probably Lady Brumley, with her penchant for gossip.”
“No!” Sara exclaimed. “I didn’t say a word to her! The only person I told was—”
She broke off at exactly the same moment Felicity felt the trap spring upon her. Why, that manipulative, lying son of a bachelor!
He leaned back with an utterly cocksure expression, basking in the success of his machinations. This ambush had been his plan—he thought to ruin her with his friends, prevent her from discovering anything else from them. To defend herself, she’d have to admit she was Lord X. But he didn’t want that—oh, no, because revealing her identity to his friends would prompt her to tell the whole truth, even the parts he hid from them!
So instead he made her out to be a sneak who passed on gossip for her own enjoyment. At least Lord X had a noble purpose; but Lord X’s assistant could only be a pawn at best, a conniving witch at worst! They would all despise her now!
She glanced at Sara, wincing to see her wounded expression. They already despised her. She scrambled for a defense, pretending not to realize the conclusion Sara had clearly drawn. “You did tell me, Sara, so you surely told someone else.”
Sara wore a heart-wrenching look of betrayal. “No. No one but you.”
Felicity wanted to protest, to act insulted, anything to wipe that horrible look from Sara’s face. But protest would only make her look more guilty. Never had she guessed she would care so much about what some countess thought of her. She’d had few close friends in her life, thanks to her father’s odd position, and she’d foolishly thought Sara might become one. How dared Ian take that from her?
Now they would all unite against her, and it would only be worse if she revealed she was Lord X. Either way, she was the outsider. They wouldn’t believe her when she said Ian’s “secret” was a blatant lie. And there would be no one else to support her tale. Except for Miss Greenaway, the only other person who knew the truth, whatever it was.
Sudden hope filled her. Of course! Miss Greenaway! Striving for calmness, she said to Ian, “You know, it might not have been one of us at all who spoke to Lord X. Your friend—the one on this Waltham Street—might have gone to the newspaper herself to explain. I know if I had been the subject of unfair gossip, I would have done so.”
There was a long pause as everyone digested this new possibility. For the first time since he’d entered the room, Ian’s self-assured stance altered a fraction. “I assure you, Miss Taylor, that Miss G—That my friend would never do such a foolish thing. She would uphold my desire for privacy.”
Sara seemed more than willing, however, to grasp at Felicity’s hypothesis. “Yes, but would she have risked her own reputation just to please you? I doubt it. And even if she would have, perhaps she couldn’t bear to see your character falsely maligned after you’d been so generous. Think how it would have weighed on her conscience.”
“Sara’s right,” Felicity added as relief surged through her. “I’m sure the woman would have found it most distressing.”
Let him wriggle out of this tale, she thought fiercely. He couldn’t refute her hypothesis without telling the truth, and he wouldn’t tell the truth to his friends after presenting them with such an outrageous lie.
Gone was his smug demeanor. Like two flints newly struck, his eyes glittered at her. He jumped to his feet and strode to where Jordan had thrown down the paper. “The lady in question did not go to the paper.” He picked up the Gazette, scanned it, then stabbed one long finger at the column. “It says here, ‘The good viscount would have us believe,’ et cetera. That implies that Lord X thinks I am the one making false claims.”
“Not necessarily,” Jordan put in. “If he’s determined to skewer you on his pen, he might not want his readers to know your lady friend is his source, for that would weigh in your favor. Thus he couches his assertion more vaguely. After all, he didn’t come right out and say he got his information from you or one of your friends, did he?”
Sara threw Felicity an apologetic glance. “You see, Ian? It probably wasn’t one of us at all.”
Sara’s dear defense ruined Felicity’s triumph. Sara didn’t deserve to be a pawn in this battle. It was Felicity’s fault that Sara had been drawn into it in the first place. Nor did Ian’s glance of scathing contempt make her feel any better. He was right to despise her. She should never have allowed Sara to believe he’d taken liberties with her on the balcony. Until then, the war had remained between the two of them. But now it seemed to be spiraling out of control.
“It doesn’t matter how Lord X found out,” Jordan said. “What right does he have to assume you lied about fighting in the war? He gives no proof. For that alone, you should sue the paper. If I were you, I’d make the government set the Gazette straight.”
“The government wouldn’t bother.” Ian shifted his gaze from Felicity to Jordan. “What I did on the Continent was unofficial. I doubt anyone even remembers my role.”
“What did you do?” Jordan asked.
“Nothing worth discussing.”
Of course not, Felicity thought, renewed in the rightness of her position. A nonexistent military career wouldn’t be. How convenient that no one remembered his role.
“Wellington remembers what you did,” Gideon suddenly remarked from his solitary position by the fire. “He told me they couldn’t have won the war without you.”
All eyes turned to him, most especially Felicity’s.
“The duke himself told you that?” Jordan asked his brother-in-law. “When the devil did you meet the Duke of Wellington?”
Gideon shrugged. “Some ball or another, I don’t remember. Wellington and I were arguing about the British peerage’s role in the military. I’d just learned that Wellington wasn’t born a peer, but made one after his efforts for his country. So I told him I thought it was stupid to have a system where the best-educated men—the peers and all the eldest sons—were discouraged from defending their country by the demands of inheritance. In the heat of the moment, he gave Ian as an exa
mple of an eldest son and a peer who’d participated bravely and effectively in the war.”
Shock kept Felicity motionless. Could it be true? Ian hadn’t lied about his war record? It was impossible! How…why would a viscount’s heir fight in the war?
“Wellington was probably drunk,” Ian muttered.
“If he was, he hid it well,” Gideon said. “When his comment roused my curiosity, I asked more questions about you, and he suddenly remembered I used to be an American privateer. Got very quiet on the subject. I didn’t think it wise to press him.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered who you’d been,” Ian said tersely. “I’m surprised he said anything at all. It’s a great exaggeration of my small help.”
“Wellington doesn’t exaggerate,” Jordan put in, a note of awe in his voice. “What the devil did you do during the war? Were you a spy? Why won’t anyone speak of it?”
“Because it’s nothing anyone wishes to discuss. Nothing I want to discuss.” Ian’s gaze locked with Felicity’s, dire with warning. “Or to have discussed in the newspaper.”
Felicity had never felt so small. If Ian had been telling the truth, then she’d committed a great wrong by publicly questioning his honor.
Avoiding his gaze, she sank against the unforgivingly hard settee. She deserved worse—to be on the rack. What a fool she’d been to assume his rakish habits were the only facet to his character. She’d glimpsed the darkness in him when she’d first met him, a darkness only pain could carve into a man’s soul and the kind of pain that only came from witnessing horrors. Why had she been so quick to ignore her instincts?
Because of Katherine? No, to be fair, it had been more than that. It had been her bias against men of his station. He’d been so…so typically arrogant and secretive about his affairs that it had blinded her to other considerations. Like the rumors about his spying and his absence from England, which corresponded with the years of the war.
The Dangerous Lord Page 11