Eddleton's mouth opened and closed wordlessly several times before he managed to sputter, “But my name is George.”
“Oh! How deplorably dull and unimaginative of your parents.”
He blinked in surprise. “May I remind you George happens to be the Christian name of our king?”
“And I can't imagine why anyone would want to share a name with a halfwit or his pudgy son. Besides, George is far too ordinary to stick in my head. Every other titled gent in London is called George these days! Bertram suits you, so Bertram you shall be.” Leticia flashed a toothsome smile. “Sit down, Bertie. You're wobbling a bit.”
Eddleton sank into the other wing chair and said the first bland pleasantry that came to his mind. “You're looking fit. I trust you're well.”
If he bored her with polite tedium, perhaps she'd leave sooner.
“Coming out of mourning will do that for a body,” she said, spreading her bright yellow skirt across the red leather to good effect.
Lady Darvish's smart ensemble must have come in on the latest boat from Paris. The baroness was well moneyed and, if Eddleton were being honest, he'd have to admit he found her surprisingly easy on his eyes for a woman of her age. The high-waisted fashion of the day suited her. She was attractive in a long-toothed, too-thin-for-comfort sort of way.
“I'm ever so glad to be wearing color again,” she said. "Unrelieved black is rarely becoming to anyone and that pale lavender makes even the hardiest miss appear lifeless.”
“My condolences on your loss.”
Lady Darvish had buried four husbands. Burying one husband might be chalked up to bad luck. Eddleton thought burying four smacked of skullduggery.
“Water under the bridge,” she said with a wave of her ringed hand. “Bert was never the robust sort.”
“Bert? Your husband's name was Bert?”
“I called all my husbands Bertram. It kept things uncomplicated.”
So, the rumors were true. Lady Darvish, the Black Widow of Wembley Street, was on the prowl once again. Eddleton had no desire to be Bert Number Five.
“LadyDar—”
“Leticia,” she corrected.
“Leticia,” he repeated. Bugger him, if the woman didn't dimple almost prettily when he said her name. “I confess myself at a loss as to the point of your visit today. Of course, we know each other in the most oblique manner, but you and I rarely move in the same circles—”
“Ah, but we do have acquaintances in common,” she all but purred. “And my particular friend Lady Martin-Featherwight assures me that, unlike my dear departed Bert, you are the robust sort.”
He stifled a groan. His ill-considered affair with the wealthy matron was coming back to bite him on the arse. The lady had been very generous, but it was the hardest work he'd ever done with his breeches round his ankles.
“Um, Lady—I mean, Leticia, well, I...” He groped for the right words as a drowning man might clutch at flotsam. “I'm to be married.”
There! He'd grasped a promising straw.
“Oh, I know,” she said brightly, leaning forward to pat his knee. “And I wish you much joy, Bert. Marriage is a wonderful thing. I loved all my husbands, you know. In my way.”'
“Then, what...”
Leticia giggled like a much younger woman. “Oh, this is the fun part. Don't you just love the chase?”
His brow furrowed in puzzlement.
“Don't be coy, my dear,” she said. “Your impending nuptials needn't impinge upon us. I'm sure we can come to a mutually satisfactory arrangement.”
“Good God! I believe you are offering me carte blanche.” Eddleton reached for indignation and found a shred still buried deep in his soul. He sheltered behind it like an invisible shield as he stood. “Madam, you have mistaken me for another sort of man altogether. I must ask you to leave.”
Her smile faded. “Very well, if that's the way you want it.” Lady Darvish rose and strode to the doorway. Then she stopped and looked back at him, a feline smile lifting her lips. “But we aren't finished yet, Bert. You are a young man in a great deal of debt.”
“My financial state is none of your concern.”
“That's where you're wrong,” she said, with an arch of her painted brow. “You see, I bought your vowels. All of them.”
Eddleton felt himself blanch white as paper. His creditors had sold his IOUs to Lady Darvish.
“You owe me a considerable sum. A staggering sum, actually. I imagine that's something you'd rather your future father-in-law not discover,” Leticia said, as she adjusted her bonnet, making sure the dead pigeon faced forward. “But don't fret, dearie. One way or another, we'll work out a repayment plan. I expect I'll see you at Lord Hartwell's ball tonight. Everyone who's anyone will be there. I'll save a waltz for you. Perhaps several of them. Good day, Bert.”
Eddleton sank back into his chair. He never thought he'd envy a dead man, but he was sick with resentment toward the four already-dead Berts.
He might even trade places with the pigeon.
Chapter Six
Night fell over the city, a heavy black mantle. The few stars that managed to pierce the gloom glittered like shards of glass, hard-edged and cold. Ian Michael was still wearing the footman's powder blue knee breeches and frock coat when he helped Tom Peckham hitch up the beautifully matched ebony mares to Lord Somerville's elegant brougham. In the yellow light of the lantern, Tom cast a sideways glance at Ian.
“Where's Charlie?”
“I'm filling in for him,” Ian said. “He's a touch under the weather.”
What Charlie was actually under was a pile of hay. Ian had shelled out tuppence for some gin. A one-penny tot was enough to lay most men low, and Charlie had no head for drink at all. The footman was peacefully snoring off his snootful in the loft above the snug stable.
“Any sign of his lordship?” Ian asked.
Tom shook his head.
“Then maybe Lady Sybil won't be off to the ball.” Ian swatted one of the mares on the rump. She startled, but moved into the traces with an irritated whicker. “Surely milady won't go without proper escort.”
“No chance of that.” Tom jerked his head toward the back door of the manor house. Edward, the other footman, was heading toward them. “Willful as that young lady is, I suspect she figures we're all the escort she needs. Glad she'll be spoken for after this night. Reckon a husband will settle her proper.”
“I doubt it,” Ian said, knowing they were talking about two different young ladies. But Jane and Sybil shared more than a father and a disturbingly similar face. Single-mindedness bred true in the Somerville line on both sides of the blanket.
Ian climbed onto the back rail of the carriage with the other footman. He'd already squared matters with Edward. For a tin of pipe tobacco next payday, Ed had agreed to look the other way no matter what befell this night. Tom mounted the driver's seat and chirruped the team down the snow-clogged alleyway. Once they spilled out into the wider street, he drove the equipage up smartly in front of Somerville House, so her ladyship could trip lightly down the shoveled walk.
Jane appeared, silhouetted in the grand doorway, decked out like a queen. Ian's chest constricted. This was the life she should have had. In a kinder world, she would have known the love and approval of her father without having to go to such ridiculous lengths to earn them.
And Lord Somerville couldn't even bother to show up in time to squire his daughter—his real daughter, so far as his lordship knew—to meet her future husband.
Who's the real bastard in this little play?
“Hope Lord Somerville hasn't met with difficulty getting back into town,” Edward said, as he hopped down to open the door for the approaching lady.
Funny. Ian hoped his lordship was tail-over-teakettle in a ditch someplace. Anything that would explain his absence besides just not giving a damn.
Ian tried not to look directly at Jane as Edward handed her into the brougham. A real footman would keep his eyes in his head instead of ogling the lady, hoping to see a slender wrist or a neatly turned ankle. But Ian's peripheral vision had always been keen. Her lovely face was tight and drawn.
With nerves over what she was about to do? Or disappointment that she wouldn't spend the short drive over to Hartwell House in the company of the man whose carelessness with his seed had given her life? Other than seeing to it that Jane had a roof of sorts over her head, the earl had never troubled himself with his by-blow. Yet Ian knew without being told that if Lord Somerville had been there to escort her, those private moments with her father would have been the highlight of Jane's evening.
His fingers itched to strangle the old bugger for disappointing her.
The brougham lurched forward, the harness bells tinkling a merry tune. His Janie was off to the ball and all Ian could do was hang on to the coach rail and try not to fall off.
Or was it?
“Hold a moment, friend,” Ian said to the other footman. I’ll be right back.”
Gripping the carriage rail, he worked his way along the bouncing rig to the right side door, finding what toeholds he might, swinging by his arms alone when he couldn't locate a resting place for his feet. Then just as they neared a corner, he pulled open the door and swung his body into the moving carriage, feet first.
Jane yelped, but he covered her mouth with his hand.
“Easy, girl. ‘Tis only me,” he said with the same soothing tone he'd use for a spooked mare. “If ye cry out, Tom will stop the carriage and Lady Sybil will be found in a compromising position with a mere stable hand.”
Her eyes widened in the soft carriage lamplight and then she bit his finger as hard as she could.
“Ow!”
She leaned forward and clamped her palm over his mouth. “Guess you don't like being surprised either.” Jane withdrew her hand and crossed her arms. “Now, what are you doing here, Ian?”
“Trying to talk sense into ye while there's still time to stop this foolishness.”
Her mouth set in a firm line. “You know I won't listen.”
“Then I won't talk.”
He pulled her across the narrow space onto his lap. She smelled of rose petals and her cheek was as soft as one beneath his palm.
Her eyes were enormous in the dim light. “Ian, I—”
“Ye don't need to talk either, love.”
He caressed her jawline and lowered his mouth to hers, stopping a finger-width from his goal. Her breath feathered across his lips, warm and sweet. A rough roustabout like him, he knew he didn't deserve her, but he couldn't help himself. He looked into her eyes, hoping to see invitation, fearing he might not, and wondering what he might do if he didn't.
Her eyelids fluttered closed.
There is a God in heaven!
He covered her mouth with his. They'd played at kisses before, teasing and nipping, and all the while, his mind had wandered to what might come next. Should he try to touch her breast? Was she wearing lacy drawers? Was there any chance she'd lay her sweet body down beside him on his little string bed?
This time, the kiss was all he wanted. Some sign that despite all the luxury into which Jane had suddenly been thrust, she still held a place in her heart for him. The wonder of her lips beneath his, her breath filling his lungs, her cunning little tongue tangled up with his, it was enough joy to flood his whole body.