Chapter Two

Jeremy pulled up his horse, a big bay gelding, in the middle of a field allowed to go to seed, and looked around, frowning. The Stanton estate in Berkshire was in particularly bad shape. He had been working on it with the estate agent he had hired, having found the one who had worked for his father to be dishonest, and he thought they were making progress. Crops had been planted; his father’s blooded and expensive horseflesh sold, which had brought in some needed money. Now there was evidence of recovery, though it had been a wet spring so far and the crops weren’t growing as they should. The land never let one down. It was always there, solid and real. To part with any of it would nearly kill him.

His horse shifted under him, and, with a subtle pressure from his knees, Jeremy rode on. He was at peace here, content. He could breathe in the country. In town he felt smothered, hemmed in. There everything seemed to bore him lately. He was restless; he needed constantly to be moving, seeking out new sights, new experiences. New women. Never before had Jeremy been a rake, but, since selling out of the army he had had more than his fair share of women, never staying with one very long. It wasn’t that he lacked morals, or even purpose. Every time he began an affaire it was with a sense of excitement, that perhaps this one would bring him the peace and contentment he found so elusive. As each liaison progressed, however, the excitement would wear off, and he would find himself in another entanglement. The woman he had once thought beautiful, perfect, would now seem vain, silly, or grasping. The prettiest would be marred by hitherto unnoticed flaws; her conversation would be meaningless, or center on marriage. Jeremy would feel trapped. Only with Thea could he breathe freely.

He was between affaires now; oddly enough, no one had caught his eye. Nor had he found anyone suitable for a bride. Nearly two weeks had passed since he had decided to marry, and still he was no closer to solving his problems. This late in the season, most of the eligible young ladies already had offers. Those who didn’t, Jeremy had found, were too insipid and silly to be borne, even for a fortune. If Thea had agreed to his impulsive proposal, everything would be settled by now. Odd he’d proposed to her, when it had been the farthest thing from his mind; odder still that, for one mad moment, he’d hoped she would accept. That she hadn’t had come as both a disappointment, and a relief. He didn’t want to lose Thea’s friendship. That did nothing to solve his other problems, though. What he was going to do, he didn’t know, but he’d have to decide something soon.

Riding back to the manor house, he swung off his mount and went inside. It was late. He would have to change quickly if he were to be in time to dine with his neighbors, the Powells, whose lands marched with his. A good family, that, Jeremy thought, changing into well-tailored black pantaloons and evening coat with the help of his valet, and carefully tying his neckcloth. Not aristocracy, but their pedigree was long, and the estate, large. Mrs. Powell was something of a trial, true; her family had been in trade, and sometimes her origin showed. It didn’t hurt, however, to keep on good terms with one’s neighbors. Looking at his reflection, Jeremy sighed. What would he do if he had to sell his estates?

A little while later he walked into the Powells’ drawing room. “My lord, how wonderful to see you again,” Mrs. Powell gushed, bustling forward to greet him and holding her hand out to be kissed. She was a stout woman, dressed rather unfortunately in purple satin that strained at the seams, and she had used too much scent. There was nothing else to be done; hesitating so briefly it was hardly noticeable, Jeremy bent his head. Mrs. Powell simpered, an odd reaction for a woman her age. “I told Mr. Powell that life would be quite exciting with you here again.”

Jeremy shook hands with Mr. Powell and then, smiling, sat on the sofa beside her, flipping the tails of his coat back. “Oh?” he said, rather at a loss for words. Mrs. Powell usually had that effect on him.

“Oh, yes, my lord, we have been very dull lately. That is a very fine coat. You didn’t have it made in the country, I’ll wager.”

“No, I had it from Weston.”

“Of course. He charged a pretty penny, I’ll be bound. Really, my lord, the price of things nowadays, and the way our tenants complain—”

“My love, I’m sure his lordship doesn’t want to hear about our tenants,” Mr. Powell said.

Mrs. Powell fixed him with a basilisk stare. “Ungrateful wretches, if they only knew what their upkeep costs us! But there, my lord, I’ll wager Mr. Powell is in the right of it. You don’t wish to hear this. But I do resent their lack of gratitude, that I do. I’m sure you’ve had the same problem.”

“Not really.” Jeremy shifted restlessly, crossing his legs. “I understand your daughter will be making her comeout next year.”

“Yes, we thought to keep her to ourselves for one more year. I cannot imagine where she is. She knew you were coming, my lord.”

“Here I am, Mama,” a soft voice said from the doorway, and a vision in golden ringlets and white muslin curtsied. “My lord, I am sorry for being late.”

“Ah, child, there you are,” Mrs. Powell said, as Jeremy rose. “My lord, may I present my daughter, Evadne.”

Evadne curtsied again, and Jeremy, for once in his life, stood absolutely still. Good lord, she had grown! The last time he’d seen her, she had been running around in pinafores and pigtails. Now she was a beauty, pretty, petite, an heiress, and, to all appearances, docile. All, in fact, that he claimed he wanted in a bride. “Miss Powell,” he said, finally, taking her hand as she rose. Here was the answer to his problems. He wondered why he didn’t feel happier.

 

It was late. Most people in the quiet Berkshire countryside were abed, their houses in darkness. Tomorrow would be another day of work, and people needed their sleep. Not everyone could rest, however. In her room, Miss Evadne Powell, just recently turned ten and eight and impatient to begin her life, sat up in bed, hugging her knees.

“Just think, Fluffy!” she said to the huge brindled cat stretched out on the eiderdown. “I am getting married! And to a viscount. I shall be a lady!” The light of the single taper glinted off her pale golden curls and made her blue eyes seem even larger. “Lady Stanton,” she murmured. “The Viscountess Stanton. I shall wear a coronet and be presented at court. Oh, my!” She hugged herself with joy, and the cat raised his head to look at her through slitted eyes. Then, with a sigh, he lay down again.

Evadne, lost in dreams of the future, sighed, too. Just last week she had had no idea of what was to come, and yet now it all seemed inevitable. She’d always known she would marry well. To marry a viscount, though, was special. When she had learned that Lord Stanton was in the neighborhood and had been invited to dinner, she’d come downstairs wearing her best frock, the sprigged muslin that was rather daringly cut. That had won her a sharp look from Mama, but Stanton, bowing over her hand, had looked at her with warm approval. Well, of course he would, she was the prettiest girl in the neighborhood, and every boy was in love with her. Stanton, however, was a man, not a boy, and thus more of a challenge. Then and there, she had determined that she would have him.

From that moment, events took on a momentum of their own. She had met Stanton again at church, and when she was in the village shopping he had stopped to talk with her. She was not really surprised when, several days later, Stanton came out to her in the rose garden and told her that her father had given him permission to pay his addresses to her. Sensing that something of the sort was coming, she had worn her most charming chip straw bonnet, and she made certain to look up at him through her long eyelashes as he spoke. She had also widened her eyes when he at last proposed, and made her voice breathless in reply, having learned that men found both actions appealing. He had smiled at her and bent his head toward her, so that she had thought he was going to kiss her, but at that moment Mama had come into the rose garden. Evadne was still feeling cross with her for the interruption.

“Lady Stanton, Fluffy,” she said. “I shall be the leading lady of the neighborhood! Of course, he’s old.” She frowned. “And so dark, almost like a gypsy. But I shan’t mind that, because he is so much more sophisticated than any of the boys around here. We shall look quite well together, I think.” She smiled, smugly, knowing quite well that Stanton’s darkness would set off her own pink and gold looks. “I shall go to London and wear satin and diamonds, Fluffy. Oh, I am going to be a fine lady!”

With that she jumped out of bed and waltzed about the room in the arms of an imaginary partner. “And I shall have all London at my feet, and lots of admirers, and I won’t have to listen to Mama anymore!”

“Evadne!” The voice came from just beyond the bedroom door, stern and imperious, and at the sound of it Evadne scrambled back into bed.

“Yes, Mama?”

Mrs. Powell, her hair in curling papers, looked in at the door. “Whatever are you doing?”

“Nothing, Mama.”

“I should hope not. Go to sleep, now. We’ve a busy day tomorrow if we’re to get you outfitted in time for London. You don’t want the Viscount to be ashamed of you because of your clothes! And a pretty penny they’ll cost, too.”

“Yes, Mama,” Evadne called back, lying stiffly until the door closed and the footsteps moved away. At last she blew out the candle and in the darkness stared up toward the ceiling. “No, Fluffy,” she said, her voice soft and determined. “I won’t listen to Mama anymore.” And with that she at last fell asleep, with visions of the future shining in her mind.

 

Late evening. A hush lay over the card room in Watier’s, the exclusive gentlemen’s club where the gambling stakes were always high, save for the slap of pasteboard onto green baize as the cards were dealt. The lighted candles threw illumination on a group of men seated around a table, intent on their game of macao. For the most part they were older men, dedicated gamesters all, for whom the turn of the card sometimes meant a fortune won, or lost.

Leaning back comfortably in his chair, Roger DeVilliers held his cards negligently, looking almost bored. A bottle of burgundy stood on the stand next to his left elbow, and though occasionally he took a sip, the hand that held his cards was rock steady. His eyes were heavy-lidded, making him look sleepy, but an astute observer would notice the brightness that appeared from time to time as he surveyed his opponents. Roger was neither sleepy, nor any the worse for drink. He could not afford to be; it was his fortune riding on the cards tonight.

“Mine, I believe,” the gentleman sitting across the table said quietly, and laid his hand down. Roger stared at it for a moment without expression and then tossed his cards down. From a pocket he withdrew a notebook, and carelessly scribbled on a piece of paper his name, and the amount he had lost: three thousand pounds.

“I shall pay a call on you tomorrow.” He pushed the paper toward the victor, and rose. “A good thing I was not playing deep,” he added, and walked out.

Once in the hall, though, his expression hardened. Damn! He had been certain the cards would go his way. He could ill afford to lose three pounds, let alone three thousand, but he was a gentleman. No matter what else was said of him, he always paid his debts of honor. His other creditors would simply have to whistle for their money.

Shrugging into the greatcoat the cloakroom attendant held for him, he headed for the door. There was nothing the least bit poverty-stricken about his appearance; his coat was flawlessly cut, his neckcloth meticulously tied, his luxuriant dark hair lay in carefully-styled waves, one lock curling carelessly over his forehead. Only he knew how desperate his situation was, the mounting debts, the estate that, nearly drained dry, no longer supported him. He needed a great deal of money to restore his fortunes. Once he had almost had it, he thought, and his face hardened at the memory.

A man came in just as Roger was leaving. “I say, DeVilliers,” he said. “Not leaving so early?”

Roger stopped and looked down at the other man’s hand, clutching at his sleeve. He was short and rotund, with a bulbous nose that attested to a great deal of wine already consumed this evening. “No, Kinsdale,” he said, smiling, though his eyes remained watchful. “I find the play here rather boring this evening.”

“Pity. I hoped to engage you in a hand of piquet. Next time, I hope?”

Roger nodded. “Indeed,” he said, and turned to leave.

“By the by, have you heard about Stanton?”

Roger stopped on the threshold and turned, ignoring the porter who held the door open. “No. What of him?”

“He’s said to be engaged, old man.” Baron Kinsdale smiled. “Not to anyone you know this time?”

Roger’s lips set in a hard straight line. “No. Nobody I know, old man.” He laid ironic stress on the last two words, all the time holding Kinsdale’s eyes with his own. “If you will excuse me?”

“Of course,” Kinsdale muttered, and turned away, relieved now that those dark eyes were no longer on him. God, it had been a mistake to bait the man in such a way; the thin scar running down DeVilliers’s lean cheek, rumored to have been obtained in a duel, attested to his danger. Kinsdale felt distinctly lucky to have escaped with his skin whole.

Outside Roger stood at the bottom of the steps, breathing deeply of the soot-scented air and composing himself. At last he set off down the street, dotted in brightish spots from gas-lighted lamps, his eyes constantly alert for footpads lurking in the fog, his ears straining for any sound. Should anyone be foolhardy enough to tangle with him, he would soon learn that the walking stick Roger carried concealed a sword, operated by a hidden spring, and that he was a very good swordsman, indeed. It was something he wished bloody Jeremy Vernon, Viscount Stanton, could learn. Were it not for Stanton, he would not be in such straits now.

Roger’s grip on the sword stick tightened, as if he indeed faced his enemy on the dueling ground. He nearly had, all those years ago, and the thought of what had happened instead still made him clench with anger. Long had he wanted revenge for the wrong done him, and now he just might be able to have it. Stanton’s engagement had given Roger an idea. How satisfying it would be, to serve him the same trick he had once served Roger.

Grinning, Roger used his stick to cock his hat at a jaunty angle, and walked on, contemplating sweet vengeance.

 

Jeremy swung up the stairs to his house after a session of boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s saloon the following afternoon. Life was rather pleasant. With his decision made, his future was set. He didn’t love Evadne; he doubted he ever would. She was, however, all he could wish for in a bride. While his friends were amazed by his decision and the ton gossiped, he went on his way, able, at last, to pay off his father’s creditors, able, at last, to relax. He had yet to see Thea since his return from the country; somehow, their paths hadn’t crossed, nor had he visited her. He wasn’t certain why. Doubtless, though, he’d see her soon. He would tell her about Evadne’s mannerisms, the way she batted her eyes and lisped, and would at last be able to laugh about them. Thea would probably be the only one who would see the humor in them. Deuce take it, but he missed her. He would have to make an effort to see her soon.

“Good afternoon, Saunders,” he said to his butler as he opened the door. “Is all well?”

“Oh, my lord, such a day we have had,” Saunders said, sounding so agitated that Jeremy stared at him. “Her ladyship said as you were to go right up.”

“Oh?” Jeremy frowned slightly. “Thank you, Saunders,” he said, and turned to the stairs, taking them two at a time. Now what had got his mother into such a pelter? He hoped she hadn’t got into a scrape. He thought he’d impressed upon her their need to cut back. He knew, though, that she’d never had to watch every penny, and probably didn’t even know how. Whatever the problem was, he’d have to fix it, but likely not before she made a scene. Taking a deep breath, he knocked on her door.

Simon, Lady Stanton’s dresser, opened the door to her sitting room, and he went in, to see his mother lying prostrate on the chaise longue, one arm flung dramatically across her eyes and the other dangling down. This was so unusual in his ebullient mother that he crossed the room to her swiftly. “Mother? What is amiss?”

Lady Stanton’s hand flew up and caught his in a strong grip. “Jeremy! Why did you not warn me?” she demanded, staring up at him.

“What is it, Mother?” he asked, pulling over a chair and sitting beside her. “Another scrape?”

“No, it is not another scrape!” She subsided onto the chaise with a groan.

“Mother?” Seriously concerned, he spoke gently. “Won’t you tell me what is wrong? What has upset you so?”

Lady Stanton lowered her arm and looked up at him with her blue eyes, so like his. “Such dreadful people, Jeremy. You might have warned me.”

“Yes, Mother.” He made his voice patient. “Who?”

“Your fiancée, of course. And her mama.”

“The devil you say!” he exclaimed, before he could stop himself. “They are in town?”

“Yes, didn’t I say so?” She looked up at him, her eyes wide, and he wondered vaguely why that expression was so familiar. “They arrived this morning, and nothing would do but that they must pay a call on me! Oh, Jeremy. Must you marry her?”

“But, Mother, you were happy about my engagement. Come, you are tired and upset. Rest, and you will feel better—”

“Do not patronize me!” she said, with the sudden clear-eyed sharpness he always found so disconcerting in her. “You have made a dreadful mistake, Jeremy. You must get out of it.”

“I can’t in all honor cry off, Mother. Besides, I don’t want to.” He clasped his hands loosely between his knees. “I grant you Mrs. Powell is a little hard to take—”

“A little!” She sat up, spluttering with outrage. “She had the nerve, Jeremy, to ask me what I pay in rent for this house! As if I couldn’t afford to own it! And when I wouldn’t answer, she went on to tell me how much they are paying, and how much Miss Powell’s gown cost—and a perfect fright that was, I must say—and even how much they had to tip the postilions who brought them here!”

Jeremy bit his lips to keep from laughing. “I am sorry, Mother. Mrs. Powell does tend to be overly concerned with money.”

“I should say so! But then, what can you expect of someone connected with trade? Oh, Jeremy.” She subsided again with a groan. “I wish to see you married, but not like this.”

“Come, Mother,” he coaxed. “Mrs. Powell might be difficult, but you must agree that Miss Powell is very sweet.”

“Yes, now. Someday she’ll be just like her mother—”

“God forbid,” Jeremy said fervently.

“And she’ll lead you a merry dance.” Her lips pursed. “She flirted, Jeremy. First with her own coachman, and with a footman, and even with Saunders.”

“No!” Jeremy feigned amazement, trying hard to keep his lips straight at the picture that conjured up. “Not Saunders!”

“Laugh if you will, but it isn’t funny. She batted her eyelashes at him. He, poor man, didn’t know where to look! Believe me, Jeremy, I know flirting when I see it.”

“I believe you, Mother.” His mother had been a notorious flirt in her day, and she had lost none of her wiles. “She’ll outgrow it. She’s very young.”

“Yes. She’ll always be too young for you.” She looked at him directly. “You’d do better with an older woman, Jeremy, someone calm enough to settle you down.”

“Mother—”

“I’ve worried about you since you came back from the war. You don’t seem to be able to settle to anything.”

Abruptly Jeremy rose and strode to a window, his hands shoved into his pockets. “I’m all right, Mother.”

“Break the engagement,” she urged. “Miss Powell is wrong for you. I’m sure you could give her reason to cry off.”

Jeremy turned, smiling. “Are you suggesting I should let her jilt me, Mother?”

“Yes. You’d survive it, better than she would. And then you could find someone else.”

“Such as?”

“Such as Althea Jameson.”