Кейси Майклс – An Improper Arrangement (страница 8)

No, he wouldn’t. “So what you’re saying, Your Grace, is that you’ve deducted on your own that Miss Neville is…is a—”

“By-blow. Illegitimate love child. Sweet enough, but unfortunately conceived on the wrong side of the blanket. Oh, don’t sit there with your jaw gaping, Sunny. It happens all the time. I’ve seen the world, remember, and I know.”

She’d seen her version of the world; he’d give her that. “That’s an intriguing theory, um, speculation, I suppose. Are you quite certain?”

“I won’t ask you bring me a Bible so that I might swear on it, but yes, really. Or haven’t you noticed her rather unique height and coloring? And then there’s her eyebrows. Those will be exceedingly interesting to a certain party when she first goes into society.”

That put a quick halt to whatever Gabriel was going to say next—although he’d be damned if he knew what that would have been. “Her eyebrows?”

“You can’t say you haven’t noticed them. Lovely on her, quite singular, you’d agree? Strong but not oppressively so. Combined with her height and that raven’s wing black hair, she will certainly stand out among the many pathetically small milk-and-water blonde pusses giggling their way about the Little Season. Although I will have to do something about those freckles.”

“No!” Gabriel realized what he’d done and struggled to save himself. All the duchess needed to think was that he’d seen the freckles, admired them, and she’d be considering a spring wedding. Or would she, considering she’d just pronounced Miss Neville as illegitimate? Then again, the third duke had married his mother’s dresser. From lady’s maid to duchess. Stranger things had happened in the Sinclair family.

To be safe, Gabriel quickly clarified his objection. “That is, she’s a grown woman, Aunt, and it would appear you plan to use her—you and me both—in getting some of our own back on the earl. She’s not our protégé, Aunt. She’s our victim. Your victim. I don’t want any part of it, thank you, even as I know your intentions were good. I mean, the part that included me. Take your revenge if you want, but as of now, I’m no longer involved. I’m sorry.”

Oh, but he was tempted…

“Do strive to control your righteousness, Sunny, as I’m not impressed. Contrary to what you so obviously believe as you climb up on your lofty perch of perfection, the only reason Basil is considering a trip to London is to watch as we take the earl down a peg or two in his cocksure attitude.”

Gabriel felt the noose tightening. “You’ve already told him I’ve agreed to the plan, haven’t you?”

“He wouldn’t allow me to take on such a…such a project on my own, no.”

“And you really think this project of yours will be enough to make him stop thinking about his imminent death until he’s past his birthday?”

She pulled the shawl more closely around her shoulders, managing to look coquettish somehow. “I want my husband back the way he was, in all ways. Miss Neville is not the beginning and the end of my plans, Sunny. I don’t wish to put you to the blush, but I’m much too old to consider taking on a lover, yet I’m also not in my dotage. What with Basil constantly interrupting things to have me measure his pulse until I could no longer feel anything for him save frustration, I had nearly given up hope of being a wife in anything but name. You let me take care of Basil. I just need you to help me boost him out of his doldrums and get him back to business—in every way, if you take my meaning. I’ll take it from there.”

Since the floor didn’t conveniently open up so that he could drop out of sight, Gabriel asked, “And Miss Neville? What happens to her?”

The duchess blinked in confusion. “Why, nothing. You don’t really believe I’d announce her sad circumstances to all and sundry, do you? It’s why the Little Season is so much safer. She’ll be presented, capture someone’s eye—I’ll trust you to vet her suitors—marry fairly well with the dowry your uncle will give her, and that will be that. I only want the earl to see her, to know who she is, and worry himself sick that we also know. I want him to feel as uncomfortable as he made my poor Basil.”

“You’re forgetting something. She’ll recognize him, as well, by name. Harry Neville. Henry Neville? What happens then?”

The duchess sighed. “Yes, she is rather quick. I came to that realization myself. Unfortunately, the ship was halfway to England, dear Thea in tow, by the time that particular revelation struck me. It will have to remain our secret until we’re safely installed in Grosvenor Square and then, so there are no awkward scenes, you shall tell her.”

“Who shall tell her?”

“Well, you certainly don’t think I’m going to, do you? Otherwise, I will come off looking quite the horrid person, even scheming and conniving, and you wouldn’t do that to me. It has to be that you’re the one who discerned her resemblance to the earl and thought about the similarities of the surname, your sweet but silly aunt never realizing the thing as more than coincidence. Don’t you wonder why he didn’t pick another name when he was mounting Theodora as his mistress? Odd, that, even sloppy.”

Gabriel sat back in his chair, one elbow propped on the arm, his hand squeezing his lower jaw so that he wouldn’t speak until he managed to get himself back under control. He was to sit down Miss Neville and tell her she was a bastard? Wonderful. He’d rather have another half-dozen stuffed lemurs.

“Yes, odd,” he finally managed. “Even sloppy.”

“Yes, but then, some people don’t have the sense they were born with, especially in matters of seduction and such, if you but consider our own prince regent and that Mrs. Fitzherbert of his, and what a mess that might have caused. Why, a simple Smith, or Jones, and we wouldn’t be sitting here, would we, having this conversation.”

Gabriel looked into his empty glass. “I believe I need another drink.”

“Not too much, Sunny. Remember the third duke? Nearly drank himself into the grave. Here, give me a kiss,” she said as she rose, offering her powdery cheek. “I’m off to see Basil again. We’re still discussing a departure date to London. I think two weeks should be enough time, don’t you? Really, Thea isn’t that bad. America’s not precisely backward, but she does need some polish concerning the ways of our less seasoned London gentlemen, who can be rather—well, aggressive in their courtship may be too strong a word. You’ll handle that, won’t you, as I’ll be cudgeling my brain to think up things to occupy Basil’s mind, something other than his absurd notion that he’s about to shuffle off this mortal coil. Yes, of course you will.”

She patted his cheek. “You’re such a good boy, Sunny. You always were my favorite grandnephew.”

“I’m your only grandnephew. I’m your only nephew of any kind,” he said to her departing back as she and her draperies floated out of the room.

Once alone, he looked toward the drinks table and considered his options.

Drink alone and get sloppily drunk so that he either slept on one of the couches or some kind servant found him and hauled him off to bed.

Or search out Rigby so that they could get sloppily drunk together. But if he did that, he’d end up telling his friend about Miss Neville and that wrong sides of the blanket business, about the duchess’s plan. It was bad enough Rigby had already voiced some suspicion about the coincidence of surnames.

Disclosing the circumstances of the young woman’s birth would take him beyond the pale, into the land of the unforgivable. He was already despicable to even consider becoming a part of his aunt’s plan. He was also, he realized with a jolt, fairly well trapped. If Basil refused to go to London and died, it would all be Gabriel’s fault. If Basil went to London and died, he couldn’t be held responsible. For—and in all charity to the woman—an air-witted flutterbudget, the duchess certainly possessed a fine way with backing her men into corners.

Gabriel grabbed up the wine decanter and brought it with him back to his chair. He’d drink alone; it was safer that way.

For the first hour, he attempted to think up ways he could get out of the briars into which his aunt had so neatly dropped him.

For the second hour, with all the concentration an intoxicated man believing he’s still sober can muster, he considered ways to extract himself and substitute Rigby into his aunt’s plans.

But by the time he managed to stagger to his bedchamber he had faced the truth. There was nothing else for it.

When this was all over, honor decreed he would have to marry the eyebrows.

Odd his aunt hadn’t figured that one out…

CHAPTER FOUR

GABRIEL WOKE TO what could reasonably be considered the taste of furry deceased mouse on his tongue, forcing him to stumble to the window embrasure and the tray his valet, Horton, had just placed on the round dining table.

Memory came slowly wandering back into his head, pointing out that said head could be in real danger of bursting open like an overripe melon. The duchess and the eyebrows had compelled him to dive into the bottle. More than one bottle. He hadn’t felt this miserable since the last time he and his trio of friends had gone out on a spree to celebrate…to celebrate…well, it had to have been something leagues more jolly than the reason he now felt as if he’d been ridden hard and put away wet.