Isla stared.
Miss Grant stared.
Dido, heavens, barked.
The monkey screeched.
“It’s fine, Thabisa,” the man said, taking the monkey into his arms, as if it were a baby.
Isla blinked, unused to seeing a nurturing gesture from a man. Men seemed to tolerate dogs and horses, but only so they could better reach foxes.
The man’s clothes were disgraceful. They were rumpled and creased, but worst of all was his cravat. It was tied without any attempt at flourish, as if the man were a mere merchant.
Isla rose and descended into a curtsy. The man might lack social graces, but not she.
He bowed and the monkey hugged his neck, as if worried at the man’s sudden downward motion.
Despite herself, Isla smiled.
Lord Tremont was quite unlike any aristocrat Isla had ever encountered. Perhaps this was simply what happened when people’s far-flung relations inherited, but in Isla’s experience, men were too likely to become accustomed to any newfound wealth and success and turn into braggarts.
This man was quiet and despite his handsomeness, which had a habit of bestowing confidence even on the unsuccessful and poor, he seemed uncertain.
“Good afternoon,” the man said. “I’m—er—Lord Tremont.”
“You may want to tell him your name, since he does not appear to know it,” the butler said drily, before leaving the room.
The man’s cheeks were a distinct ruddy color.
“I want your help,” Lord Tremont said, and Isla bit her lip, as if to prevent it from dropping.
He shifted his legs, seeming to sense her displeasure with a speed most men did not grasp. “I mean, I will pay you.”
“You desire to bribe me?” she raised an eyebrow and resisted the urge to raise her lips into a smirk.
“Nonsense,” he said. “I want to hire you.”
She blinked.
There were few reasons why a man might desire to hire a woman, and none of them were good.
Miss Grant sighed noisily, evidently taking it upon herself to notify the viscount of his breach of etiquette.
Her sigh did nothing to halt the man’s obvious discomfort.
“I want you to teach me how to be a viscount,” the man blurted.
Isla blinked. She wasn’t often shocked, but she was now. “You are a viscount.”
“Er—yes.” He looked to his side. “That’s true. I-I just want to be a better one.”
“Because you recently inherited the title?”
The man nodded eagerly. “Yes! That’s it. I’m a novice.”
Isla hid her smile.
“You don’t know anything about being a viscount?”
“I’ve been in the Cape Colony,” he said.
“For how long?”
He hesitated and broke eye contact with her. “Not long.”
“And you want me to teach you etiquette?”
“I believe that’s the term.”
“Why?”
“I—er—don’t know as much as I should about the ways of high society.”
Well.
That much was obvious. No doubt it was a good sign he did not suffer from the overabundance of bravado that assailed most titled men.
Still...
She’d never met a man who seemed concerned about his mastery of etiquette before. Most men would declare themselves too busy for such matters, even though they spent their days in their clubs, as their estate managers made certain their estates ran smoothly, and their housekeepers ascertained everything inside their homes ran smoothly.
“I recently—er—inherited the position,” Lord Tremont said.
“How magnificent,” she murmured, noting the slight pause before ‘inherited’ and the manner in which his gaze tilted to his left.
“I suppose so,” the man said.
“I’m sorry for your recent loss,” she said.
“Er—thank you.” The man tugged at his collar, and she resisted the urge to smile.
“Did you know him well?” she asked.
She already knew the answer. The man didn’t seem to know anything about Lord Tremont.
“No,” he said, before frowning. “I mean, of course. He was my brother. It’s—er—most sad.”
“I won’t help you,” Isla said.
“I see.” The man’s face fell, and Isla found herself averting her gaze. “Perhaps you can recommend someone else who could train me?”
“I am unacquainted with etiquette tutors.”
“I see.”
Some of Isla’s childhood friends had become governesses, but they’d taken on those roles less out of an instinct to impart knowledge to a new generation than out of necessity. There was nothing glamorous about being a governess, and there would be nothing more glamorous about becoming a tutor.
“Why did you come to me?” she asked.
He was silent and shifted his legs. “We met.”
“We were not introduced,” Isla said. “So it doesn’t count.”
“No?”
“You don’t know much at all.”
The man’s face reddened.
Isla turned to Miss Grant. “Can you please go to my room to fetch me my etiquette book?”
“You wish me to leave?” Miss Grant widened her eyes.
“It will only be for a moment,” Isla said reassuringly.
Miss Grant frowned, but then she left.
Isla leaned toward the stranger and lowered her voice. “I don’t think you’re a real viscount at all.”
“I-I inherited,” the man repeated.
Isla narrowed her eyes. She knew the difference between nervousness and secrecy. This man had secrets.
“You wouldn’t be this nervous if that were the case.”
The man swallowed hard. Then he looked at her, his eyes pleading. “Will you tell?”
Isla laughed. Who would she tell? The magistrate? She shook her head. “No. But I think you should leave before my companion returns.”
“Er—yes.” He glanced around the room. “Thabisa! Let’s go.”
The monkey crawled onto his shoulder, and he soon left the room.
IT HAD BEEN RIDICULOUS for him to ask.
Perhaps he had never believed she would actually train him.
Perhaps he’d simply desired to see her again.
There’d been something about her... She’d been beautiful, but Adam wouldn’t have called on her simply because of her beauty. Adam could have experienced beauty by gazing at one of the paintings in the Duke of Belmonte’s townhome or simply by gazing at a particularly pleasant field.
There’d been something else about her... Her eyes had sparkled, and he’d desired to know what she was thinking, even if it was at his expense. She’d been poised and elegant. There’d been no creases on her dress, even though he’d managed to wrinkle his attire in only the short distance from the Duke of Belmonte’s townhome to Mrs. Hollins’ apartment.
He ruffled Thabisa’s head, unsure where they would go. “Ready to explore the town again?”
CHAPTER EIGHT
GILES APPEARED WITH the mail, and Isla was momentarily distracted from the visit of the false viscount and his monkey. Miss Grant had never spoken highly of Dido, but now she was paying her extra attention, perhaps appreciative of the fact Dido did not have a habit of furniture climbing.
Giles placed the mail on the table and exited the room.
Miss Grant picked up a cream colored envelope. The scarlet crest seemed to glow, promising adventure and all things wonderful. “This is an invitation.”
“So it appears,” Isla smiled, and her lips felt stiff, as if she’d grown unaccustomed to smiling.
She would need to rectify that. Smiling was one of life’s joys.
“Please open it,” Isla said, and Miss Grant nodded.
Isla’s heart fluttered. She’d been foolish to dismiss Brighton.
She’d been wrong to suppose other women would ostracize her. No d
oubt people were simply slow to host festivities. And why not? Brighton possessed a slower pace of life, to allow people sufficient time to stare at the channel or wander on the Downs when they ventured away from the majestic buildings that lined the shore in a British glory only rivaled by the chalky white cliffs that flanked the town.
“It’s from the Duchess of Vernon,” Miss Grant said, not meeting Isla’s gaze.
Isla’s heart tumbled.
She’d been supposed to be the Duchess of Vernon. She fought to keep her expression composed. Somehow, it had been easier when there was a monkey in the room.
She wasn’t certain she achieved the requisite indifference and she looked away sharply. She didn’t spend enough time contemplating the wall anyway.
“It’s an invitation to tea next week,” Miss Grant said.
“Oh?” Isla’s heartbeat quickened.
The Duchess of Vernon wouldn’t invite her to tea in London. They must be in Brighton. Her town.
She blinked rapidly and forced herself to muse on the merits of striped wallpaper and to ponder the benefits of changing to a narrower or wider stripe.
Isla kept her face indifferent, but her heart leapt and beat ferociously as if a drummer had taken charge inside.
Of all the towns to choose Callum had chosen for his wife and him to be in Brighton?
Isla opened her fan and fanned herself.
Miss Grant looked at her curiously, and Isla despised it. She didn’t want to contemplate what gossip Miss Grant may have heard.
Not that it mattered.
There was plenty of gossip, and all of it was bad.
She mustn’t wallow. That was something other women, less in control of their emotions, might do.
Isla wasn’t like other women.
She was a McIntyre.
Being betrothed when she’d debuted had been useful. She’d been able to enjoy her seasons, more than other women. She’d never become nervous when dancing with a man, deeming the occasion her single chance to impress him with her schooling, and feeling a need to compel him to contemplate marrying her. Other women had been burdened with their parents’ dwindling fortunes. Some fathers had died in the war, and the daughters had been eager to find a new source of income. Having a husband of one’s choosing was preferable to a distant relative controlling the purse not of one’s choosing.
When the war had needed her, Isla had been ready to assist. A certain agency had recognized her relative freedom: her parents were dead, her brother fought overseas, and she was wealthy and titled, the sort of person everyone was happy to include at festivities.
On occasion Wolfe had complained she visited the continent and London too often. He’d considered her frivolous, and she hadn’t been able to tell him that was not the case. He’d approved of her friendship with Mrs. Fitzroy, despite that woman’s genuine silliness, because her husband, Admiral Fitzroy, received frequent adulations. Wolfe assumed Admiral Fitzroy would keep Isla from trouble: he didn’t realize the admiral was her main contact, and he often ushered her into danger for the good of Britain.
Life was more tiresome now the war was over. It had been the victory they’d dreamed of, but what they’d found were returned soldiers begging for food, and crops that failed spectacularly, as if nature had been on the side of Bonaparte all along.
Callum had not liked the transition either. He’d joined Wolfe’s project to build a gaming hell. Isla had been understanding, even though everyone recognized Callum’s work as heroic, and no one knew of Isla’s participation.
She’d even been understanding when Callum had postponed setting a date for their wedding, but when he’d eloped with a woman he barely knew, whose sole advantage seemed to be the fact she was not Isla, Isla had been less understanding. The new duchess was a pale, waifish bluestocking from a poor family.
Then, Isla had been angry.
She wasn’t angry now, but it didn’t matter. Callum was married to his beloved Miss Charlotte Butterworth, and any invitations would go to them, not to Isla.
It didn’t matter that Callum’s bride did not enjoy large gatherings, and it didn’t matter that Isla adored them.
Callum was a duke, and though Isla always considered the daughter of an earl to be of importance, as would most people, she was not a duchess. Callum’s wife outranked her.
If they were in Brighton, her dismal calendar would grow more dismal. This tea would not amend that. Any hostess would choose the company of a duke and duchess over the company of the sister of an earl.
Suddenly, it seemed less clever to not have confided her plan to move here to Wolfe in advance. He might have encouraged Callum to find other accommodation.
“I suppose they want to move here because of its easy access to Guernsey and its convenience to London,” Isla said.
Miss Grant looked at her sharply, and even though Isla seldom blushed, her cheeks heated. She’d been silent for too long. Miss Grant hadn’t needed to know she’d been ruminating the entire time over her ex-fiance’s decision to move to her new town.
She needed to do something.
She needed a distraction, even an impossible one.
It helped if the distraction was in the form of a handsome man, and it would be just fine if she succeeded in thrusting him onto Brighton society. It didn’t matter if the man was not truly a viscount. He was interesting, and there’d been something about him, something vulnerable that had appealed to her.
Everyone else saw Isla poorly, but Lord Tremont had seen her as a source for guidance and help.
She wanted to be that version of herself. She didn’t want to be someone hostesses feared, and others avoided.
“I’m going out,” Isla said abruptly.
“It’s drizzling,” Miss Grant said.
“Then we shall both get wet.”
Miss Grant was silent. They both knew Isla could not parade about the city on her own.
She rose, and they exited the room.
“Giles, we are leaving,” Isla announced.
Giles motioned to another servant to assist them with their coats and boots, and soon Isla rushed outside, conscious of Miss Grant behind her.
“I need to find Lord Tremont,” Isla said.
Miss Grant pressed her lips together. “We don’t have his address.”
“He has a monkey. A man like that can be found.”
“You want me to go up to strangers and ask if they remember a man with a monkey?”
“Why Miss Grant, I do believe you are catching on!”
Miss Grant huffed, but she marched to a fruit seller and spoke with him, gesturing for Lady Isla to follow. Miss Grant asked three more people, as they retraced the viscount’s steps, but finally they found him.
It was him.
The Viscount of Tremont.
She almost grinned. The title was absurd for a man of his kind. How could anyone believe he was a genuine viscount? His nervousness had been palpable.
She glanced at Miss Grant. “I’m just going to speak to the viscount.”
“And you want me to stay on this side of the pavement?” Miss Grant asked resignedly.
“Precisely.”
“My former employers would never have done this.”
“Your former employers were octogenarians. I’m not.”
Miss Grant looked unconvinced at the propriety of Isla’s intended action, but when Isla crossed the street, she did not follow.
THABISA CLAPPED HER hands and started to scramble from the safety of his overcoat, despite the fact the rain was plummeting at a faster rate than before.
“What’s wrong, Thabisa?” he asked.
Laughter sounded. It was soft and warm and lovely.
He raised his gaze.
She was standing before him. She shot him a triumphant look, and dark tendrils peeked beneath her bonnet.
“It’s you,” he said.
“You may call me Lady Isla,” she announced.
“Of course, Lady Isla,” he said immediatel
y.
“I have reconsidered your offer,” Lady Isla said. “You may hire me.”
He widened his eyes. “That is wonderful.”
“It will be expensive,” she warned. “I will require a cut of your new fortune.”
“Very well.”
She smirked. “Good. I suggest you return to my apartment. You may enter through the servants’ entrance. We will commence your lessons immediately.”
“Thank you,” Adam said again, and his heart soared, as if swept up by the region’s sharp wind.
He would have help.
He wouldn’t be the only one with this secret.
He beamed.
She gave him a cool, assessing look. “We’ll have to work on your enthusiasm.”
“You don’t think I’m sufficiently enthusiastic?”
“On the contrary, you possess an overabundance of enthusiasm. Please remember you are a viscount. This is a simple class, equivalent to piano lessons.”
“Very well.” He studied a tree visible to her right. Looking at her might make his eyes gleam and might make him smile.
“You may meet me at my suite in two hours,” Lady Isla said.
“Shouldn’t I walk with you?”
“Secrecy is essential,” Lady Isla said. “You are a man, and I am a woman.”
She was silent, and then flushed, as if realizing a dramatic pause was unnecessary, and it was not vital to remind Adam about her femaleness and all the activities men and women might do together.
“I shall go,” she said. “If anyone asks, I was admiring your monkey. What’s his name?”
“Her name,” Adam said, “is Thabisa.” He raised Thabisa’s hand and waved it. “Let’s say goodbye to the nice lady.”
Thabisa squealed, enjoying the unusual activity, and Lady Isla seemed to bite back a giggle before she turned abruptly and strode toward her companion.
CHAPTER NINE
Isla removed a piece of paper from her desk and dipped her quill into ink. Then she wrote in large letters: How to Train a Viscount.
The words were absurd. Normally a future viscount was trained from birth. Still, the viscount was correct. If someone was knowledgeable about etiquette, it was her. The man displayed a good judgement that would serve him well as a nobleman.
How to Train a Viscount (Wedding Trouble, #4) Page 6