A Lady's Ruinous Plan

by Lora Darling

  Eirene swallowed the lump in her throat and blinked rapidly. “Do you intend to honor your end of our agreement, monsieur?”

  “I do.”

  “Then I should have no cause to use this information against you.” They were not the words she should have spoken, but it was too late. To offer words of comfort now would turn them into an empty afterthought.

  He bowed. “I shall await further instructions.” He left without taking his coat.

  Eirene collapsed into her chair and pressed shaking fingers to her throbbing temples. A whirlwind of emotions raged within her. Had she believed for a moment it might help, she would have started a list in order to sort through the cacophony. Instead, she stared at the open study door, then at the forgotten coat. She could not recall the last time she’d felt so shaken or so out of control. Not a single moment of her interview with Monsieur Benoit had gone the way it should have. Things had begun to spiral even before he kissed her.

  She dropped her hands and spread her fingers atop the pile of papers. No. She would not think about that kiss or the way her lips still tingled or how she could still feel the memory of his fingers at the back of her head. No. She would not think of it.

  Nor would she think about the look on the monsieur’s face when he had turned from the fireplace. There had been so much pain etched into his features. If she allowed herself to think about that moment, she would open herself up to another moment best forgotten. A moment she had vowed never to revisit. The moment she had witnessed the death of all her mother’s dreams. The moment her father had walked out on them only to get himself killed in an alley behind a public house. Her mother had never recovered from the loss. Eirene had been fifteen as she stood beside her mother’s grave, clasping her grandfather’s hand. She had vowed that day never to marry, never to play the victim as her mother had.

  Damn the monsieur for bringing it all back.

  A tear streaked down her face, and she swiped it away in anger then reached for a clean sheet of paper. Dipping her pen, she hesitated for only a moment before beginning a list meant to weigh the pros and cons of having chosen Vicomte Benoit—née, Monsieur Cloutier—to see to the all-important, non-reversible task of ruining her for all other men.

  ****

  Adrien slammed into the home he shared with Cyril, nearly flattening the butler behind the front door in the process. His intent was to go straight to his rooms and lose himself in a good bottle of cognac.

  “I take it the interview did not go well?” Cyril stepped out of the front parlor as Adrien stalked past. “Where is your coat? And why is your cravat—”

  “Go to hell, Cyril.” Adrien gained the stairs, taking them three at a time.

  Cyril, despite his lesser stride and fuller girth, dogged his heels all the way to his sitting room. Adrien continued to ignore his friend and headed straight for the liquor tray atop his writing desk. The carafe was full of brandy not cognac.

  “For god’s sake, Adrien, what the hell happened?”

  He rounded on Cyril. “Lady Rowe-Weston offered me a king’s ransom to ruin her. After a bit of negotiating, I accepted. End of story.” He poured a glass of brandy with no intent to drink it. He would never touch the stuff again.

  “Run that by me again.”

  Adrien did not repeat himself.

  Cyril eventually worked it out and managed an opinion. “So I was right about the lady wanting a bit of action before kicking up her toes.”

  “She is a long way from kicking up her toes, I assure you.” Adrien set the brandy down. “Nor does she possess a countenance only a mother could love.”

  “Oh?” Cyril’s entire face transformed into a mask of avid curiosity. “A looker, then?”

  “Not in the traditional sense.” She had freckles, and freckles simply were not considered beautiful among Society’s reigning judges. Those judges could go to hell, in his opinion. Lady Rowe-Weston’s freckles were the most beautiful thing he’d laid eyes on since leaving France.

  Damn her.

  “I’m confused.”

  Adrien glanced at his friend. “I do not care.”

  Cyril frowned. “Let me see if I can work this out on my own then. Lady Rowe-Weston, a nontraditional looker, has offered you a great deal of money to ruin her, and instead of toasting your ridiculously good fortune, you seem ready to do murder.”

  “Very good, Cyril. You always were smarter than you look.”

  Cyril ignored the insult and continued to push. “Is it safe to assume, given your appearance, you have already seen to the task?”

  “An open collar hardly indicates lovemaking.”

  Cyril threw his hands up in defeat. “Have mercy on me, Adrien. Tell me what the blazes happened between you and the lady.”

  “I kissed her.” What a horribly inadequate way to describe what had actually occurred. He had not merely kissed the lady. He had initiated her. Awakened her. Made her tremble.

  And then he had laid his life in her hands.

  “Since when does kissing put you in such a foul mood?”

  “I also told her exactly who I am. All of it.”

  Cyril stared, then fumbled around for a nearby chair to fall into. “Why did you do that?”

  “Asks the very man who, little more than twenty-four hours ago, beseeched me to have done with the charade. A bit hypocritical of you, mon ami. I thought you would be proud.”

  “I meant for you to tell your friends the truth, not some dried up spinster in need of a—”

  “I would not complete that sentence if I were you, Cyril.”

  Chapter Five

  Dearest Reader,

  It seems a certain dashing Vicomte paid a visit to a certain reclusive lady yesterday. Given what we know of this lady’s vast wealth and what we know to be true of the Vicomte’s talents we must wonder what the meeting entailed. It should be noted, the meeting went on for close to an hour and the Vicomte left the lady’s home in a rather shocking state of dishabille…

  Adrien walked into the breakfast room intent upon apologizing to Cyril for his appalling behavior the previous evening. His friend was not to blame for the disaster that had occurred within Lady Rowe-Weston’s study and had not deserved to be bodily threatened for voicing an opinion. Adrien might not be a true gentleman, but any man worth his salt knew when to admit a wrong.

  Cyril sat at the head of the table, sipping tea and reading the paper. An empty plate sat at his elbow as did untouched cutlery. The sight gave Adrien pause. Had Cyril been too upset to eat, for God’s sake? Perhaps an apology would not be enough. A trip to Adrien’s favorite tailor might be in order.

  Cyril lowered the paper as Adrien entered. “Good morning.” The greeting gave no hint as to Cyril’s mood.

  Adrien decided to jump right in. “I apologize for my ghastly behavior last night, Cyril. My meeting with Lady Rowe-Weston put me in the foulest of moods, and I lashed out at you. Say you forgive me.”

  “Only if you vow not to tear into me again once you’ve had a gander at the gem printed in this morning’s Society pages.” Cyril slid the paper across the table. “Maybe it’d be best if you remain at a distance while reading it.”

  Adrien frowned and picked up the paper to read the ear-marked page. Names had been omitted. Names were always omitted, but one had to be daft, dumb, or dead not to know whom the writer referred to. “Mere de Dieu.”

  “Precisely,” Cyril agreed, though Adrien knew his friend had never taken the time to learn even a single word of French. When in England, speak bloody English, was Cyril’s motto. “Despite your denial when I remarked upon it, it seems as though an open collar does indicate lovemaking.”

  “This writer all but insinuates I whored myself to the lady.”

  Cyril glanced away to pour a fresh cup of tea. “I am more than willing to take your side on the matter, Adrien, but you’ve yet to explain why your collar was undone.”

  “Why should it matter? Either you believe me when I say nothing happened—”


  “You admitted to kissing the lady.”

  Adrien ground his teeth. “Nothing happened beyond a kiss.”

  “Many a young lady’s reputation has been ruined by a mere kiss.” Cyril raised his brows while sipping his tea.

  Adrien wanted to smash the dainty mug over his friend’s oiled curls. “I undid my cravat and collar to atone for removing the woman’s fichu.” He regretted the explanation as soon as the words were out.

  Cyril nearly vibrated with fresh curiosity. “You removed the woman’s fichu? Was it endangering her in some fashion? Surely, you would not have removed it for any other reason, such as to get a better look at her—”

  “The woman was an infuriating viper, Cyril. I removed the bloody length of fabric to rattle her frustrating sense of self composure.”

  “Did it work?”

  “Yes and no.” After tossing the paper onto the table, Adrien stalked to the side table and grabbed a plate. For the first time since relocating to England, he chose sausage and eggs in lieu of a fluffy pastry. Returning to the table, he plunked the plate down and took a seat under Cyril’s watchful gaze. “What?”

  Cyril looked at the plate of food, then at Adrien. “Are you ill?”

  Adrien speared a sausage and took a bite. Hmm. Imagine that. It was quite tasty. He chewed and swallowed, then went for some egg, which proved just as delicious. “This is quite good.”

  Cyril looked at Adrien as though he had just figured out the world was not flat. “Although it thrills me to see you enjoying the taste of fine English fare, too much of it will make those fancy coats of yours too tight.”

  Adrien grunted around another bite of sausage.

  “Speaking of,” Cyril went on, “where is the masterpiece you wore to Lady Rowe-Weston’s?”

  “I told you the woman was vexing, did I not? I was in a high temper when I left and forgot the damned coat.”

  “Should I inquire as to why you had removed it in the first place?”

  “No.” Adrien laid down his fork, having finished the sausage and eggs, and reached for a cup of coffee. Maybe in time, he would give tea a chance, but not today. Today called for strong coffee. “Tell me what to do about that slanderous gossip article, Cyril.”

  “Tell you what to do?” Cyril leaned back in his chair. “There is nothing for you to do. It is gossip. You ignore it like the rake you are and move on. Besides”—he waved a hand in the air—“something else is bound to happen in the next twenty-four hours that will be juicy enough to distract the writer from their current interest in you and Lady Rowe-Weston. Mark my words.”

  ****

  Eirene shook as she laid the paper beside her untouched breakfast. She had read the column three times just to make sure she had not mistaken the writer’s poorly veiled innuendo. Unfortunately, there could be no mistaking the writer’s words. The foul author believed Vicomte Benoit had visited for improper reasons, and now all of London would believe the same. As they sipped their morning tea, coffee, or chocolate, they would raise their brows and speculate as to what, exactly, Benoit had done for the reclusive lady.

  Damn the man for storming out with his clothing askew. Were he a gentleman, he would have known better, but one could not expect a commoner to pay proper attention to manners and appearances.

  “Oh, shut up, Eirene,” she scolded out loud. “Had the man not admitted the truth, you never would have suspected he was anything but what he claimed to be. Besides, it was your stupid, loose tongue that led to his collar being undone. Put the blame where it belongs.”

  “My lady?” Hamish stood in the doorway, eyes wide.

  Drat! “Forget every word you just heard me say, Hamish, or you are fired.”

  “Of course, my lady.” He entered the room with a fresh pot of tea in one hand and a stack of calling cards in the other. “I was unable to determine how your meeting with the vicomte went, so I took it upon myself to assume you might wish to explore more options.” He laid the cards beside the paper. “On the other hand, if the meeting proved successful, you will wish to cancel your other appointments.”

  Eirene stared at the calling cards. The one on top belonged to Viscount Petley. Hamish was correct. She would have to send out cancellation notes to the other four gentlemen she had chosen as possible candidates. “I do believe I will wait a bit before seeing to that task, Hamish.” She met her butler’s inquisitive gaze. “Vicomte Benoit accepted my offer, but I will allow him twenty-four hours to change his mind.”

  Hamish straightened from pouring the tea. “You believe the gentlemen might do so?”

  Before Eirene could respond, there was a knock at the front door. “Whoever it is, send them away, Hamish.”

  “Yes, my lady, I know the drill by now, I believe.” He bowed out of the room to see to his duties, leaving Eirene to contemplate his last question.

  Would Benoit change his mind? The man had been in quite a state when he left. Yes, he had laid his dirty little secret at her feet but would that be enough to bind him? If only he had signed the damn contract. At least then, she would have a signature to show the courts if matters escalated to such a degree. Never mind the signature would have been that of a dead man.

  She grabbed her tea and gave the contents an agitated blow before taking a sip. “Vexing man,” she mumbled around the rim.

  “Speak of the devil and he appears.”

  Eirene nearly dropped her tea cup as Benoit spoke from the breakfast room doorway. Believing she had, in some fashion, conjured him from thought, she blinked and waited for him to vanish. He did not. He remained quite solid and a good deal less formal. Today he wore buff, riding trousers, a deep burgundy waistcoat, white shirt and cravat, and an expertly tailored, hunter green coat. The top hat held in his hands was black as were the gloves he had not removed.

  “What did you do to my butler?”

  “Good morning to you, too.”

  Eirene eased her grip on the tea cup, lest it shatter. “Good morning, my lord. Where is Hamish?”

  Hamish would never allow a man to enter her breakfast room unannounced.

  “Your butler is outside cooing at my horse.”

  “You have got to be kidding me?” She left her place at the table and moved to the window. Her breakfast room faced the street, allowing an excellent view of Hamish standing at the curb stroking the white-streaked muzzle of a large, black horse. “Why are there two horses?” A smaller, similarly marked horse stood beside the one receiving her former butler’s attentions.

  “I have come to invite you to go riding. You do ride, I assume?”

  Eirene turned from the window. “Of course I ride, but why would I ride out with you?” Why was he even here? She clearly remembered telling him she would send him further instructions when the time came. The time had not come, therefore, he had no business being in her home, inviting her to do anything.

  He twirled his hat and moved farther into the room. His gaze settled on the damning paper, which lay open beside her place setting. “You saw the article.” It was not a question so Eirene did not respond. He looked her way. “Cyril suggested I act as though nothing untoward has been said.”

  “And that suggestion has led you to my door this morning?” What further proof did she need to confirm her belief that men did not reason the same as women?

  “I thought if we were seen riding out together—”

  “That people would conclude nothing of note transpired between us? Are you mad or simply daft, monsieur?” Eirene left her position at the window to stalk closer to Benoit. He held his ground but had the decency to look uneasy. “If we are seen riding out together, it will be assumed you are courting me, and I assure you, you do not have my permission to court me.”

  He studied her a moment with his unnervingly lovely pewter eyes before responding. “I had believed the assumption you were being courted instead of serviced by me would be preferable, but perhaps the lascivious article helps you to further your plan for ruination. If that is the case
, I humbly apologize for intruding upon your morning.” He bowed and turned to leave.

  Eirene forced her gaping mouth shut. “One moment, monsieur.” He turned back, expression patient. “To make matters perfectly clear, I have no desire to be viewed as being courted or…serviced by you. The grasping gossip writers may think what they wish, but I refuse to give them further cause to write about us until the moment of my plan. I had hoped you would feel the same, but clearly you do not or you would have never arrived at my door in such a bold manner.”

  He visibly clenched his jaw. “Permit me to say, my lady, I concluded last night it was fortuitous of you to avoid marriage, and that belief has been strengthened this morning.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You are too prickly for marriage, and now that I have been in your company during the evening hours and morning, I know it to be your common state. No man would wish to marry such a prickly female.”

  How dare he? “You have no right to stand in judgment of me, my lord.”

  “I’m not judging, merely observing.”

  “Kindly keep your observations to yourself in future.” Her gaze shifted beyond Benoit’s shoulder as Hamish appeared in the doorway. “You are fired, Hamish.”

  The man gaped, then slowly closed his mouth and nodded. “Of course, my lady.”

  “You cannot fire the man for admiring my horse, my lady.”

  Her gaze snapped back to Benoit. “I can do whatever I please within my home in regards to my servants. It is Hamish’s duty to see that miscreants such as yourself do not darken my doorway. He failed, and I am well within my rights to terminate him for said failure of duty.”

  The miscreant moved closer. “And what of me? If I fail to perform my duty to your exacting standards, will I be terminated?”

  “Have you forgotten you declined my offer of payment? You will not be in my employ if you are not paid, monsieur, therefore I will be in no position to terminate you.”

  “I wonder…” He set his hat on the table and reached toward her. She leaned back but failed to avoid the brush of his leather clad index finger along her cheek. “Have you planned and calculated exactly what position you will be in?”