A Perfect Gentleman

by Barbara Metzger

  Charlie ignored him. “What a woman! Not that I am not happy with Lady Val, of course. Suits me to a cow’s thumb. But your Miss Kane…”

  “She is not my anything,” Stony insisted. “Except a bit of escort duty.”

  “Hah. I saw the way you were looking at her, like she was on the menu. Not that I blame you. Any man would. Unless he is newly engaged, of course.”

  And newly under the cat’s paw.

  Out loud, Stony said, “Miss Kane is indeed an attractive female.”

  Charlie snorted. “My mother is an attractive female. Miss Kane is something else. Who would have thought to find such beauty in a banker’s daughter? And he’s dead, the father, so you do not even have to worry over a merchant’s stain on your family escutcheon. You lucky dog.”

  “Devil take it, Charlie, I am not going to marry Miss Kane. She is wealthy and beautiful, educated and reasonably clever, for a woman. She is everything you say, and more.” Stony recalled her loyal and thoughtful defense. She could have left him confessing to his dinner guests that he could barely afford the peas on their plates. “But she is not for me. I’d never live off my wife.” Then he recalled to whom he was speaking. “That is, dash it, I am not in the market for a bride.”

  Charlie stubbed out his cigar and stood up. He looked back at his friend in regret. “Then you are a bigger fool, Stony, than I thought you were the day you turned down my Valentina.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Whoever dictated that the gentlemen should stay apart from the ladies after dinner anyway? Stony wanted to go make sure Ellianne was faring all right among the women, but he could not. He was the host, and so had to make sure the wine kept flowing and the talk stayed convivial. Much longer and they wouldn’t be able to see the door through the smoke, and Lord Aldershott might have to be carried out.

  Stony kept checking his watch. The deuced thing must have stopped working while sojourning at the pawnshop, for the minute hand did not seem to be moving. He went to join a knot of gentlemen at the other end of the table, not seeing Strickland among them until it was too late. Like everyone else, the baron had enjoyed the meal. His neckcloth and waistcoat hadn’t. Stony would rather speak with anyone else—except Sir John Thomasford, of course. The knighted night crawler was talking to Comte Villanoire over by the liquor tray, likely exchanging gory details about the guillotine.

  Stony was about to find that helpful footman and tell him to offer Strickland a fresh cravat, from Stony’s wardrobe. Before he could locate the servant in the smoke-filled corners of the dining room, Strickland called to him. “I say, Wellstone,” he said in a voice made jovial by the fine meal and louder by the wine. “You had me fooled, you did.”

  It would not take much to fool the beef-witted baron. Stony reminded himself once more that he was the host. If the rule separating the sexes after dinner made no sense, the one about not insulting a guest in one’s house made less. If he were offended, the lout might leave. But Stony had invited the man, on a whim that seemed worthy at the time, so he raised one blond eyebrow and asked, “How is that, sir?”

  “I thought you were interested in the younger Kane gal, not the hellcat heiress. I’ll admit she’s looking better than I have ever seen her. Your stepmama’s influence, I’d wager. Still, you ought to reconsider. This one ain’t going to make a conformable wife.” Perhaps the man was not such a fool after all. Miss Ellianne Kane was one of the least conformable, least comfortable women Stony had ever encountered. She was a guest in his house too, though, and he would not have her name bandied about by an old whoremonger with creamed carrots on his cravat.

  “That will be some other fellow’s problem,” Stony replied as casually as tightened jaw muscles would allow. “I am just helping my stepmother’s young friend find her feet in Town, not a husband.”

  Strickland laughed. “I know what I saw. Daresay everyone in the drawing room saw. But I can tell by those daggers you’re sending my way that you don’t want to give away your plans too soon. Quite right, my boy, quite right. No formal announcement, nothing signed, no notice in the papers, means you can still back out. Take your time, lad. Once you get to know the harridan you’ll be glad you didn’t commit yourself. Else you’ll commit yourself after the wedding, to Bedlam.” He gave a hearty laugh that had half the men turning to look. “Of course, by then you won’t need a wife, just a boys’ choir to join.”

  He slapped his meaty thigh. For all Stony knew, it had veal and lamb and beef stains on it. Then, “By the way,” Strickland said just before he would have found his teeth joining the carrots down his shirtfront, “did you ever locate the younger sister? Miss Isabelle Kane, that is?”

  Stony looked around to make sure Sir John was not listening, to give him the lie. “Of course. A slight misunderstanding led to the confusion. Miss Isabelle is visiting family in the north. She left before receiving the note that her sister was coming to town, and Miss Kane left her home before hearing of Miss Isabelle’s plans. I believe there are papers to sign concerning their aunt’s estate, but they can wait. Gwen has convinced Miss Kane to participate in the Season a bit, rather than returning home to wait there for her sister’s arrival from those relatives.”

  One of the other gentlemen nearby quipped, “I hope those kinfolks have harder heads than Lady Augusta.”

  Not even Strickland thought that was funny, remembering Lady Augusta with a surprising degree of fondness. Maybe the old clutchpurse had left Strickland something in her will, too. Changing the subject, the baron said, “I didn’t know the chits were on terms with the Chansford side of their family. The old marquess swore he’d never recognize Ellis Kane or any of his brood.”

  “But the current Marquess of Chaston is the girls’ uncle,” Stony offered, lest anyone look too closely at his Banbury tale. “Perhaps he’s had a change of heart.”

  “Or he sees a way to get hold of the younger gal’s fortune. She’s not even twenty yet, is she?”

  Stony said, “I do not believe so, no.”

  “Well, Chaston would still be a better guardian for the chit than any of the Kane relatives. Smugglers, the lot of them. Lady Augusta swore that’s where the brass to found the bank came from. Hell, if the girl went off visiting any of them, she’d come back sounding like a Billingsgate fishwife.”

  Or a pirate’s parrot.

  Stony checked his watch again. This time he rapped it on the table to get the blasted thing working.

  Then Lord Aldershott shot the cat, casting his accounts on Stony’s silver epergne.

  *

  Things were not much better in the drawing room.

  First, Lady Valentina truly knew nothing about Isabelle. She was a few years older than Isabelle, more established in London society, and had a different circle of acquaintances than any Lady Augusta would encourage.

  “No, I am sorry I cannot be of more assistance,” Lady Val said, checking her hair for loose pins, after taking a place beside Ellianne on a sofa. “But why do you want to know your sister’s friends? Young girls are all ninnyhammers,” she said, as if Ellianne were in her dotage.

  “I was hoping to plan a small gathering for when she returned,” Ellianne explained. “Her trip could not have been pleasant, with Aunt Augusta’s funeral and all, and I wished to give Isabelle a bit of gaiety before we left for home. There is not much room in the Sloane Street house, however, so I wanted to invite Isabelle’s closest acquaintances. And mine, of course,” she added, lest Lady Valentina thought Ellianne was rejecting her overtures of friendship. The younger woman was a frothy confection of fashion, snobbery, and pleasure-seeking; in other words, a typical London miss. She was still a lively, good-natured companion, it seemed, whose biggest concern was how many of her own dearest friends could fit into St. George’s for her wedding. So far, it sounded to Ellianne as if half of London would be invited.

  After giving Ellianne a thorough description of the wedding plans, from the gown she would wear to the flowers she would carry, Lady Valentina
floated over toward the pianoforte, tuned for the occasion, and started to play a popular song.

  Gwen’s cousin’s wife and her sister, Mrs. Collins, took up the vacated seats near Ellianne, beginning to quiz her about her connection to the Wellstones.

  Ellianne looked around for her hostess, but Gwen and the duchess had their heads together at the opposite end of the room. Ellianne would give a month’s income to know what those two charming connivers were up to, but she could not intrude. Lady Aldershott and another woman Ellianne had met earlier but had not spoken with since were examining a collection of Staffordshire dogs on the mantel. The last two female guests, also mere names to Ellianne so far, must be visiting the ladies’ retiring rooms. No one was going to interrupt this rude inquisition.

  Ellianne raised her chin. Stony would have recognized the sign of proud determination, but Mrs. Collins chose not to.

  “Dear Gwen is always bear-leading some unfortunate girl or other,” the widow was saying. “Never tell me you have no respectable female relative of your own? Of course there was the unpleasantness concerning Lady Augusta, wasn’t there?”

  Ellianne made the vaguest of comments.

  “I am surprised a woman with your advantages does not hire herself a wellborn companion.”

  The cousin tittered, and Ellianne wondered if Mrs. Collins were applying for the position. Ellianne would rather take a boa constrictor into her house than this biddy. “My aunt Lavinia, Mrs. Goudge, is companion enough. Aunt Lally does not care for social gatherings, but Lady Wellstone has been kind enough to include me in some of her plans, such as shopping excursions, morning calls, and the theater.”

  Mrs. Collins fumed. Gwen had never invited her anywhere before this, and she was by way of being a relative. Well, a connection, anyway, by marriage. Speaking of marriage, the widow meant to enter that happy state again as soon as she found someone to pay off her bills. Living in shabby rooms on a pittance of an annuity, Mrs. Collins had ambitions far beyond her expectations. She’d been hoping to move into Wellstone House with her relatives, but they were putting up at a hotel. There was no room, and no invitation, even if she wished to put up with her beastly, bratty nieces and nephews.

  There was still Wellstone himself. Everyone knew he was below hatches, playing the Fancy Fred to lonely ladies, but so what? He had this house, the pile in the country, the title, and a respected place in society. Mrs. Collins did not care how the viscount earned his keep, just that he share it. Besides, a gentleman who made his way from boudoir to boudoir could not be particular about his wife’s little flirtations. Her first husband had been, and deuced unpleasant he had been about it, too, until he collapsed of a heart seizure in the middle of a jealous rage. Wellstone was young and fit and handsome, and Mrs. Collins would not mind in the least sharing his bed, at least until she had provided him with an heir. Which happy event, she knew, had better take place sooner rather than later, for while a gentleman could wait until middle age to start his nursery, a woman could not.

  So Mrs. Collins had dressed with care this evening in her finest gown: a dark blue satin with scalloped hem and matching scalloped neckline, set off with her diamonds. Not even her sister knew the stones were paste. She was elegantly fashionable, she told herself, without looking fast. She did not want to give Wellstone the wrong idea, for she could find the other kind of offer on every street corner. No, she wanted a wedding band, not a bauble when he tired of her.

  She had not given Wellstone the wrong impression. She had not given him any impression whatsoever. The man had eyes for no one but this mushroom, this banker’s daughter. Next to her black silk, Mrs. Collins’s dark blue satin might have been a servant’s uniform, for all he noticed. Granted Miss Kane was dramatic looking, worth a fortune, and on good terms with the viscount’s stepmother. So? She was no real lady, had no idea how to go on in the polite world, and who wanted red-haired children anyway?

  Mrs. Collins waited until she could hear the men’s footsteps and laughter in the hall. Then she gestured toward the pianoforte. “Such a lovely touch to an evening, musical entertainment and good conversation, don’t you think?” At Ellianne’s nod, she went on: “Lady Valentina must be growing weary of playing by now. Why do you not take her place, Miss Kane?”

  Ellianne smiled. “I am afraid I have no skills on the pianoforte whatsoever.”

  “Another instrument, perhaps?”

  “No, I am afraid not, to my sorrow, and that of numerous musical instructors. They did try, I swear.”

  “Then perhaps you might sing. I am sure we can convince Lady Valentina to accompany you. Such a talented, accommodating young lady.”

  Now Ellianne had to laugh. “I assure you, my singing would be no pleasure for anyone in the room. In fact, Gwen’s guests would all leave before the tea tray was brought in.”

  “Oh, my,” Mrs. Collins said, louder than before, “I thought all young women had some drawing room skills.”

  Gwen and the duchess were hurrying over, to reach Ellianne’s side before the gentlemen entered. Before they arrived, Ellianne stood. She was enough taller than Mrs. Collins that she could look down on the slightly older woman, to note the few gray hairs her tweezer had missed. She pointedly touched the ruby on her chest, which glowed as it ought, not like the dull jewels around Mrs. Collins’s neck. “I am afraid I was never one for useless pastimes. And before you ask, no, I am no needlewoman. I leave that to my aunt. I do not compose poetry, nor do I dabble in watercolors. I have never tried knotting a reticule, but I would likely make a mare’s nest of that, too.”

  “Ah, you must be a reader then. A bluestocking.”

  “No, I read what interests me, nothing more. I am sure you are far more accomplished than I, Mrs. Collins.”

  Ellianne would have moved off then, to join Gwen or Lady Valentina, since she could not fly to the door to seek Wellstone’s comforting presence. Before she left, though, the impertinent Mrs. Collins asked, in a tone sure to carry to the rest of the room, and the gentlemen just entering, “But what do you do, then?”

  “What do I do?”

  “Yes, you must do something to fill your days and nights. I am certain you do not do your own cooking and cleaning.”

  Gwen’s cousin’s wife smothered another titter with her hand.

  Ellianne hardly had a moment free between the bank and meetings with her investment counselors, trying to keep up with all the papers they presented for her consideration, trying to stay abreast of the latest news that could affect the local and national economies. If she said she oversaw her investments, however, that she monitored the bank’s workings to guarantee no one would swindle them again, she would be a pariah, a social outcast. Ladies did not lift their fingers to anything heavier than a teacup, certainly not a bank ledger. She was a banker, and proud of it, but tonight she had discovered she also enjoyed being a part of society, being a desirable woman, being her mother’s daughter as well as her father’s.

  Gwen was wringing her handkerchief already. The duchess, usually the most kindhearted of ladies, was scowling. Ellianne raised her chin a notch higher. She was literally looking down her nose at the widow who so obviously wanted Wellstone for herself. “I do have one skill, Mrs. Collins, whether you consider it a ladylike virtue or not. I am good with numbers. Very good. So good, in fact, that I spend hours managing the charitable foundation I have established to aid less fortunate females. We now have a training school, a hospital, and a home for orphans. Perhaps you would wish to contribute? If not, we always need volunteers. But of course you already give a portion of your income and your time to the needy. All ladies do, don’t they?”

  Mrs. Collins turned three shades of purple that did not match her gown, and Gwen let out an audible sigh of relief. She instantly suggested they play a few hands of cards, rather than let the sharp-edged conversation continue.

  Lord Strickland rushed to claim Ellianne as his partner.

  Surprised and disappointed, for he wanted to be the one to eas
e Ellianne’s tension, to tell her that one jealous cat should not destroy her enjoyment of the evening, Stony raised his brow.

  “You heard her,” the baron answered his unspoken question. “The gal is good with numbers. Deuced good, according to her aunt and Lady Augusta’s man of business. Who would you rather have as a card partner? A pretty widgeon who can caterwaul and pound the keys, or one who can count?”

  Stony thought the baron had given up gambling. He must have given up his fears of Miss Kane instead, although he did keep his chair as far from the table as possible. Or perhaps Strickland’s self-imposed rules did not pertain to such low-stakes games as found in a lady’s parlor. Or else he bet only on a sure thing.

  They won. And won. And won.

  Strickland had never been known for his proficiency with the pasteboards; he might not have lost his estate if he’d had half this much card sense. But it was not his mastery, nor even his luck, that kept the baron chortling over the point count. It was his partner who seemed to know every card that had been played and the odds of each other one appearing. The lady could calculate.

  Hell, with Ellianne as a partner, Stony thought, he would not have to be in the escort business. Of course, if he was not in the squiring service, he would not have met this woman who continuously astounded him. A goddess and a cardsharp? Who ever would have thought that, meeting the dowdy, uppity heiress? Not the viscount. He’d thought he knew women. By George, he admitted to himself, he was as stupid as a stone.

  He was not playing. The comte and the duchess were continuing a discussion started during dinner, of which Stony heartily approved. If Her Grace took pity on the Frenchman, then perhaps Stony wouldn’t find the impoverished émigré at his own table so often. With Lord Aldershott resting in the library, the tables would have been uneven if Stony had participated. Instead of making his guests change partners with every hand, Stony volunteered to sit out. He truly did not care for games of chance, which they were, since he lacked Miss Kane’s skill. And if he could not sit at the table with her—or on the couch or the love seat—then he could make certain that Strickland treated her with the proper courtesy, while the dreadful Mrs. Collins kept her distance. He maneuvered the widow into partnering Sir John Thomasford. The greedy and the ghoulish; they were the perfect match.