Chapter Five

 

 

He was no better looking in the light of day than by candlelight, but unfortunately he still appealed to her just as much. She was speechless.

“Miss Lambert,” he said. “May I come in? You did say you entertain on Thursdays?”

She silently stood back and then bustled past him, leading the way into her drawing room. He followed and glanced appreciatively around, and then frowned.

“Somehow I expected Prinny and Maria and Caroline to have pride of place in your drawing room, Miss Lambert. Silk cushions, bowls of cream.” He paused. “Diamond collars.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your cats,” he said, gazing at her thoughtfully as he strolled the perimeter of the room, touching a Rouen jardinière that held a jade plant, and then stopping to admire a wood piece on a gilt stand. “What is this?” he asked, reaching out and tracing the carving.

“It is a carved finial from a pew in a Norman church that was torn down many years ago in my home village. I rescued it. They were going to use it for firewood.”

He touched it lightly. “Lovely carving. How many would think of making it such an interesting object of statuary?” He straightened and gazed at her again.

She shrugged.

“So where are they?”

“What?”

“Where are Prinny et al.?”

“Oh. Dead.”

“All of them?”

Ariadne snapped back to her senses. “Nonexistent, merely. I was having fun with you the other night, my lord. My own little joke. I have no cats. I dislike them.”

“Really? I rather like cats. They generally have impeccable taste in humans, and they are smart and calculating. I like intelligent beasts. And intelligent humans.”

She was not going to ask him to sit down, nor would she give him tea. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him as he stalked the room. It was no wonder he liked cats; he was very much like them, prowling and stopping to evaluate objects, touching her favorite brass bowl and a Waterford crystal decanter. What was he doing here? What was his purpose?

He walked toward her desk by the window and she tensed; had she left the note from Dorsey out? She could not remember and could not see from her viewpoint by the door. But he merely glanced at the desk and then strolled to the window.

“You have a lovely view here,” he said, staring out the window. “I own some property in Chelsea, but I have not yet developed it. Your house gives me the impetus I have been needing.”

“What do you mean, my lord?” Reluctantly, she moved from the door and joined him at the window.

“I like your house very much. It is modern. Airy. I live in a convoluted medieval horror in the heart of the old city; this is much more to my liking.”

“I am overjoyed that you approve,” she said.

His gaze swung to meet hers, and she was caught once again by the intelligence gleaming in his dark eyes.

“Sarcasm. I like that in a woman.”

“Do you indeed?”

“Yes. Don’t suppose you would care to sell me your house?”

“No,” she snapped. “Lord Ingram, what do you want?” She was sorry the moment the words came out of her mouth. People seldom rattled her equilibrium, but Ingram was successful whenever he tried. It was irritating. She bit her lip. How could she descend back into the idiocy she had been trying to feign without Ingram becoming suspicious?

The gleam died and his eyes became flat, unreadable. “I want to know why you are encouraging Dorsey.”

She wanted to tell him that was none of his business. She wanted to ask him why he cared. But neither of those responses would further her aims. She simpered and widened her eyes in a counterfeit of coquetry. “Mr. Dorsey is a very handsome man, do you not think so?”

“Oh, he is that. Is that the beginning and end of your attraction to him?”

She gritted her teeth. “Need there be more?”

His expression inscrutable, he said, “I suppose not. I should take my leave, Miss Lambert. I was curious about your house. Now that I have seen it, I am curious about you. But common courtesy dictates I take my leave.”

“I am surprised you are bound by the laws of courtesy, even the common variety,” she snapped.

He grinned, that unexpectedly attractive expression she had surprised him into before. “I cannot help but think that there is more to you than I have yet discovered, Miss Lambert.”

“I think you will find I am exactly what I appear to be, Lord Ingram.”

“If I knew what that was, I would know how to think of you,” he answered. He bowed. “I will leave you to . . . whatever you were about to do.”

 

* * *

 

Friday was dull and rainy, but by afternoon the weather had cleared and Ariadne stood staring into her wardrobe, nervously fretting over her clothing. It was a problem, dressing to appear like a fatuous fool. Her taste in garb was simple. She liked good fabrics, now that she had the money to indulge that taste, and clean lines. She had no illusions about her figure; she was thin and angular, and would not stoop to cotton wadding to amplify what nature had seen fit to deny. Nor would any amount of lace compensate.

But for this evening she must appear to be a fool convinced that she was about to embark on a romantic adventure. How had she been drawn into this ridiculous undertaking? When Olivia had first approached her, with the tale of Dorsey’s predation on a dear friend, her fertile mind had unfortunately been tickled by the idea of setting a trap, but she had not at first thought the bait would be herself, until her friend had pointed out how perfect she was to play the part. Ariadne had admitted that she was relatively unknown to those of the ton, so her intelligence or lack thereof would be unascertained, and she had enough truth in her tale to make the story ring true.

She had, indeed, tended an ailing aunt for many years, and been left her fortune. That she had done it out of love and gratitude, not need, was not an issue that needed to be canvassed. The simple fact was, she was now what she called wealthy, in that she had been able to purchase this house and devote herself to her work. Never again would she need to find employment or scrape to get by.

And so it made a perfect story. Olivia had pointed out that when they were both girls at school Ariadne had been inordinately fond of amateur theatrics. What she did not say but both knew was that she was also of a “certain age” and unmarried, and, most people would assume, desperate; added to all that, she was plain. The only thing left to ask was, could she play the part of a wealthy idiot?

She had made up her mind to try. She was not, however, willing to invest the kind of money it would take to buy an entire wardrobe of ugly clothing befitting that character, so she must make do with what she had and find a way to dress it up.

She reached into her wardrobe and pulled out her least favorite dress. As the fool she wanted to appear, she must alter the gown somewhat, and she needed the help of someone with abominable taste. “Dolly!” she shouted, leaning out the door and staring down the hall. “Come at once and tell me what to wear!”

 

* * *

 

Ingram strolled the entrance to Vauxhall, wondering if he had misread the note on the desk in Miss Lambert’s elegant drawing room. He had only had a second or two to peruse it, scanning it and committing it to memory in a way he did not truly understand, but had employed on previous occasions. It was almost as if his eyes recorded a visual record of the note for him to read at his convenience. But it was not a perfect skill. It could have been a future Friday to which the note referred.

But logic told him it would be soon, for men of Dorsey’s stamp did not pursue their objects in a leisurely fashion. He would not put it off to a future Friday, and so it must be this day.

He scanned the crowd and his senses sharpened as the familiar silhouette of Miss Ariadne Lambert emerged from the crowd. Familiar and yet different somehow. He watched her for a moment, taking in the hideous confection of mint green overdressed with blond lace that she wore. Why would she choose that gown, of all possible colors? Green made her look sallow, washing out her coloring.

And there was indeed something different in her silhouette . . . something . . . Lord, she had padded her bosom! He rolled his eyes. She must be an idiot if she thought Dorsey or any man would not notice the difference immediately and attribute it to cotton wadding. She was alone, and he was about to join her, to make sure Dorsey did not achieve his object that night, when a better idea occurred to him. Miss Lambert would never be satisfied until she learned the truth of Dorsey’s character. So let her find out the truth. And he would be there to soften the blow, and make sure she did not lose her reputation. Then he would work out the puzzle of Miss Ariadne Lambert, who appeared at times so sharp and intelligent and then descended so rapidly into idiocy.

He slipped behind a taller, broader figure and entered Vauxhall with a group of ladies and gentlemen.