A Perfect Gentleman

by Barbara Metzger

  “Good.” But for some reason his instant, absolute, heartfelt assertion did not feel good. Ellianne hurried on before she could think about it. “Then we are agreed. I am hiring you to help in finding my sister, because those of your social circles might have clues to her disappearance, and I require your entree and your escort to those circles. I am not employing you to shower me with false gallantry or feigned affection.”

  “I assure you, my affections are not for hire.” And affection was the last thing he was feeling for her at this moment.

  “And there will be no flirting, no stolen kisses.”

  “I promise, if you do.”

  Her cheeks turned scarlet. “What? Me? Heavens, as if I would—”

  “But you think I would? Trade favors for money? By heaven, I am no kept man, Miss Kane, and I would challenge any man who dared imply otherwise.” He pounded his fist on the shelf for emphasis, and the parrot started squawking and the dog started barking. Someone must have let the cur in, and that someone would be in this room in a moment, checking to make sure another mistress was not bludgeoned in the book room.

  It was a close call.

  Stony sat down before he did commit mayhem, and Ellianne wiped her forehead. “Well. It appears we have only to discuss your payment.”

  “Miss Kane, gentlemen do not discuss money with ladies. In fact, they seldom mention remuneration.”

  “Which is why so many gentlemen end up in debt. Punting on River Tick, I believe they call it. I call it cork-brained. I am not a lady, however, even if I am accepted among your society’s elite. No, I am Ellis Kane’s daughter, of Kane Bank, and I would know the price of a pig before I purchase it.”

  “Now you are calling me a pig?” Stony was halfway to the door. “Good day, ma’am. And good luck. You will need it.”

  “Oh, botheration, Wellstone, come back. I did not mean to liken you to livestock. I just wished to ascertain what you expected to be paid, and how. By the week? By the month? You are the one doing the work, so you should be the one to make sure the payment is sufficient. Here, look at my chart. I tried to calculate a value for your time and another for your—”

  Stony had stamped across to the desk. He leaned over, picked up her chart, and tore it to shreds. “If I work for you, you will pay me what my efforts are worth to you, no more, no less.”

  Ellianne looked at the scraps of paper on the desk. “I wish you would stop doing that. It is very rude, you know.”

  “So is treating me like an employee.”

  “But…but I thought that’s what you were.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The first order of business, when Stony and Ellianne were finished glaring at each other, was to introduce Miss Kane to Gwen, Lady Wellstone. At least that was what Stony decided had to come first. He could not take a marriageable— whether she chose to marry or not—woman out and about by himself without giving rise to a shower of gossip. The fact that Miss Kane was no young miss, but nearly on the shelf, would turn the shower into a pelter of hailstones. Hell, knowing that she was an heiress and he was an empty-coffers viscount, the ensuing deluge could drown both of them.

  Once they had established that Wellstone’s respectably widowed stepmama had taken Miss Kane under her wing, he tried to explain, then, and only then, could Stony take her for solitary drives, hold private conversations, escort her to unknown destinations. The ton might look askance at a single woman, even at Ellianne’s advanced age, in public without a chaperon, but Gwen’s approval would stifle the gossip. Besides, Stony predicted, Ellianne would instantly be labeled an Original, which was a polite term for a woman wealthy enough to be as eccentric as she deuced well chose. A poor woman, or one without such connections, would have been labeled Or Not. As in: She’d be invited places if there was an empty seat, or not invited. She’d be introduced to the eligible bachelors if no other girl needed a partner, or not be noticed at all.

  Miss Kane could not not be noticed.

  For her part, Ellianne saw no reason for visits to the shops with Lady Wellstone, ices at Gunter’s in the viscountess’s company, paying morning calls at her side. It was all a waste of her time. If she was not searching for her sister, she’d do better to read the newspapers, visit the new manufactories, tend to her investments.

  What she’d rather be doing, what she thought Lord Wellstone should be helping her do, was breaking into Lord Strickland’s house to see if the dastard was cowering under his bed. Or if he had Isabelle hidden there.

  After a great deal of growling and gnashing of jaws—Atlas joined them, but Miss Kane had a cooked carrot in her pocket—Ellianne was convinced to let Wellstone track down the baron while she let herself be seen about Town. Someone might recognize her and inquire after her sister, but only if she were not hidden inside a black turtle shell of a bonnet.

  “I’ll have you know I paid a great deal of money for this bonnet.”

  “Which should prove that money cannot buy everything.”

  Ellianne had to bite her tongue before she reminded him that money had bought his company and cooperation. Wellstone seemed to be a bit sensitive on the subject of money, although Ellianne could not understand why. She saw no embarrassment in working for one’s living, in earning an honest wage. There was nothing underhanded about what Lord Wellstone was doing, especially if he was not committing breaking and entering, as she wished. So what if he was being paid to escort a woman to a ball? He could have been the coachman driving, or the lackey cleaning the streets when the carriage passed. Of course, he could have gone into the army, or the church, or studied law, professions considered genteel enough for a member of the aristocracy, but at least he had shown initiative. Ellianne did not have any less respect for him. She did not have any more, either, for the prideful, officious, infuriating man.

  She did let herself be convinced, however. He knew the beau monde far better than she did; she would not have hired him otherwise. So she dutifully went off to meet Gwen and to go shopping. Aunt Lally refused to go, out of Stony’s hearing, of course. What, sit silent while the gentry morts swilled tea? Or pay some faker with a French accent six times what a hat was worth? By Saint Tarcisius’s twig and berries, one bonnet was good enough for her, and she could get better yard goods, at better prices, from her late husband’s friends, besides.

  Ellianne went and enjoyed herself, to her surprise. She found Lady Wellstone a charming companion, as mutton-headed as Aunt Lally had predicted, but far more knowledgeable about fashion than anyone she had yet encountered. The viscountess truly believed that a woman should look her best at all times, for her own sake, not to please anyone else. Since such a pretty young widow could have rewed any time these past years, she must not be dressing merely to attract a man, Ellianne decided, and approved. Gwen—for they, at least, were quickly on a first-name basis—was also obviously devoted to her stepson, singing his praises, enumerating his accomplishments, deferring to his judgment…and likely planning his wedding. Which would have been fine with Ellianne, she told herself despite a peculiar pang, if she were not the chosen bride.

  She had to nip such unfounded optimism in the bud, especially if she were to be friends with Gwen. “You do know that Lord Wellstone is in my employ?”

  “Oh, I wish you would not speak of it so. Polite company frowns on mention of trade, you know. Well, you might not, but just a hint, my dear, for you would not wish to be thought… Goodness, everyone knows your father was…so I suppose…”

  Ellianne was beginning to understand her new acquaintance, ellipses or not. “But they will pretend I am one of them, if I do not keep reminding them.”

  Gwen beamed at her. “So clever. Just like my dear stepson. It is so lowering to think that dear Aubrey has to… That is, his father was not as careful as he should have been. And we do try to ignore the necessity, for there are those who might not be as understanding. Of course, they never had dressmakers dunning one for payment, or rooms shut up for economy’s sake so that one’s cousins h
ad to…” Gwen let a slight frown mar her still-youthful loveliness, but only for a moment. She patted Ellianne’s hand. “But I am sure that dear Aubrey would have helped you anyway, as a favor or out of gentlemanly duty, because he is so kind and caring.”

  Ellianne did not believe for an instant that a member of the ton would put himself out for Ellis Kane’s daughter unless there were some gain in it for himself. Trying not to hurt her hostess’s feelings, Ellianne merely smiled. “Lord Wellstone is a fine gentleman, indeed, but spoken aloud in company or not, ours is a matter of business. I hope you will not read anything more into our arrangement.”

  Hope sprang eternal in a mother’s—or stepmother’s —breast. “Ah, but you will be much in each other’s company.”

  “But not keeping company, as they say.” Ellianne was firm on the topic. “We are not stepping out together.”

  “But your steps fit so well. Most other ladies barely come to his collarbone. Although I suppose I should not mention a gentleman’s anatomy.”

  Neither should Aunt Lally, but that never stopped her. Ellianne smiled again, and agreed that height in a husband was much to be desired, especially for a bean stalk of a female like herself. “However, I do not want a husband. I do not plan to marry.”

  “What, never?” Gwen was aghast. Tears came to her eyes. “All those beautiful babies! My grandchildren!”

  “Oh, heavens, I did not mean to upset you, just to warn you not to practice your matchmaking skills on me.”

  Gwen dabbed at her eyes. “I am rather good at it, you know. And Aubrey is—”

  “Just the kind of man I would least consider: patronizing, pigheaded, and puffed up with his own supposed omnipotence.”

  “That does describe most men, I am afraid. I do believe their mothers teach it to them at birth, or their wet nurses do, for they start being bullies at quite an early age, you know. My cousin’s boys… But no matter. If not dear Aubrey, what about—”

  “No. No one. I am content in my present state, and have no desire to place myself under a gentleman’s sway.”

  “Oh, dear, but they sway so nicely.” Lady Wellstone gasped, then placed her hand over her mouth. “I should not have said that either. Dear Aubrey says my tongue runs on wheels, and you an unmarried…and bound to stay that way.” She started weeping.

  Lady Wellstone’s favorite remedy for the blue devils, it seemed, was to go shopping, especially since she had a mission. Goodness, one look at Ellianne’s ensemble was enough to launch a crusade.

  Ellianne had never seen so many bonnets as went on and off her head that morning. At last she and Gwen agreed on an exorbitantly priced scrap of lace, properly black, but with red cherries at the side, drawing attention to her bright hair, instead of trying to hide it from sight. Gwen would not let her hide her feminine endowments under the high-necked gowns Ellianne favored either.

  “What, have a friend of mine labeled a dowd?” Gwen was affronted. “Your appearance is a reflection on me, you know. When I introduce you as my young friend, I would be mortified if anyone titters behind their fans. They will already be nattering on about your fortune. That is, your father. And you and dear Aubrey, which is quite enough grist for the rumor mills, especially if you and he…Well, you will want to look your best when you face the world.”

  So Ellianne’s new gowns were cut lower, in jewel-like shades of emerald or sapphire or amber, with black trimmings in memory of Aunt Augusta. She also ordered a black silk gown for evening that no one could mistake for mourning. Of course, the new gowns needed matching slippers, and new stockings and gloves to match. And new underpinnings, to make Ellianne’s shape conform to the current fashion. While she was at it, she might as well order new night rails. Even if no one saw the bed gowns, Gwen insisted, Ellianne would have prettier dreams than when wearing serviceable flannel.

  Shopping was exhausting work, Ellianne found, much harder than adding columns in her head or figuring interest rates. And more fun, especially when the shopkeepers learned she intended to pay cash.

  “My dear, a lady does not ask the price of things,” Gwen whispered at the first dressmaker’s. “And they only pay for what their pin money covers.”

  “How does a lady manage to balance her books if she does not know the cost of things?”

  The only books Gwen had balanced were those in school, atop her head, while she practiced perfect posture. “I am sure I do not know. Dear Aubrey…”

  Ellianne was becoming thoroughly sick of Dear Aubrey. “Luckily I am not a lady, then, for look at the service we are receiving. Madame Journet would never have shown that watered silk she kept in the back if not for my money in her hand. I’d wager we are being treated far better than someone who waits three months to settle her accounts, if she has not already overspent that month’s allowance. Which is another reason for a woman of independent means to stay unwed. Everything she owns becomes her spouse’s. Can you imagine a stern-voiced husband telling me how much of my own money I am free to spend? Fustian.”

  “No, dear. That is bombazine.”

  So Ellianne filled the hearts of shopkeepers with her orders and filled the carriage with packages, including a new shawl for Aunt Lally and a silver filigree fan for Gwen, for helping. Two other gowns would be delivered to Lady Wellstone when completed, with the charges added to Ellianne’s account, but those would be a surprise. She also purchased dress lengths for when Isabelle returned, summer-weight fabrics for new uniforms for the Sloane Street maids, and a pair of soft slippers for Timms.

  Ellianne was having a delightful time. Shopping was a novel way to pass the hours, not half as boring as she’d imagined.

  *

  Stony, meanwhile, was having an adventurous day of his own. He’d even taken a page from Miss Kane’s book—literally, while waiting in the library for her to fix her hair and don her pelisse—and made a list of possible avenues to investigate. So far, he had no results.

  His first call was at Bow Street, to interview Edward Lattimer. The chap was brown-haired, with ears that stuck out. He could not have been much younger than Wellstone, yet his enthusiasm made the viscount feel old. The Runner was like an eager pup, tearing off in every direction. Every direction that Stony had felt so clever in writing down.

  First, Lattimer wanted to ascertain his lordship’s connection to the missing girl, for which Stony did not fault him. He would have complained to the man’s superiors if Lattimer gave out information to any Paul Pry off the streets, or from the scandal sheets. Stony proved his bona fides by means of showing the check from Miss Kane made out in his name. Lattimer inspected the signature, whistled at the amount, compared the name to the one on the calling card Stony handed him, and finally consulted his occurrence book. The thing was almost as messy and indecipherable as one of Miss Kane’s charts.

  According to Lattimer’s research, no redheaded female corpses had been found floating in the Thames recently. No unconscious or amnesiac redheaded women had landed in any of the nearby hospitals or lunatic asylums. No one recalled a red-haired lady taking a hackney from Sloane Street by herself. Or getting on a ship. Or purchasing a ticket at any of the coaching inns on the night in question.

  “I can see you have been quite thorough in your investigation,” Stony conceded, feeling not half as clever as he had an hour ago, and twice as old.

  “I promised Miss Kane my best, and I always keep my word.”

  “Admirable, I am sure. The reward money would not have anything to do with your devotion to duty, would it?”

  “The lady is already paying me handsomely. Not quite as handsomely as your lordship, it seems, but I expect you can perform other services for her.”

  Stony was prepared, his hands clenched into fists, to hear exactly what services the Runner thought he could perform. “Yes?”

  Lattimer was innocent of insulting innuendo. “The other toffs’ll talk to you.”

  Stony nodded, relaxing back in his seat at the Runner’s desk. Damn, he was going to have
to get used to the sly winks and knowing glances or he’d be defending his honor, and Miss Kane’s, from morning till night.

  The Runner was not finished. “Besides,” he said with a heavy sigh, “money or not, I’d do anything I could for Miss Kane.”

  Lud, the chub was energetic, conscientious, and half in love with the woman! That was why he did not suspect Stony of low behavior: He could not suspect his inamorata of such licentiousness. “I take it that, in order to describe her missing sister, Miss Kane removed her bonnet?”

  “Oh, yes.” The Runner turned dreamy-eyed and forgot all about his copious notes, his illustrious guest, or the missing sister. Visions of long red hair cascading across snowy white sheets must be chasing all rational thoughts from the man’s head. No, those were Stony’s mind-pictures. Lattimer was likely picturing Miss Kane in a wedding gown, the righteous clunch.

  “Did she take her hair down?” Stony had to ask.

  “Of course not. No lady would be so immodest,” the Runner said, confirming Stony’s estimation of his infatuation and his intentions. And incidentally relieving Stony’s unexpected and unwarranted jealousy that another man had seen Miss Kane in such a state. Zeus, he could not be jealous! Not over the banker’s broomstick daughter. He must be suffering from brain fever, or else he’d risen from his bed too early.

  Jealous or not, Stony was responsible for the woman. Now it was his turn to sigh. Lattimer was only the first of many, he supposed. “I daresay she can look as high as she wishes,” he hinted.

  The tips of Lattimer’s jug-handle ears turned red. “Oh, I know the lady is far above my touch. Which is not to say any swell with a title before his name is free to take advantage of her sweetness.” He glanced toward the black baton on his desk, in a not quite subtle warning.

  Brain fever must be catching. Sweetness? Were they speaking of the same woman? “Do not worry. The lady is safe with me.”

  And from me, Stony added, but only to himself.

  Lord Charles Hammett, the recently and not very reluctantly betrothed friend of Stony’s, was his next call. Charlie was one of the few gentlemen Stony felt he could question about the missing girl without his interest leading to more questions. Certainly Charlie was too involved in his wedding plans and his bride-to-be to care about any other woman.