The Diamond Key, page 4
“A baby brother or sister.” Torrie could not get over it. She jumped up and urged her mother to take her place on the chaise. “Of course you must rest, and naturally you would want to be home at the Hall. Papa will be in alt.” Then the excitement drained from her face as her mother studied the fringe on her shawl. “You do not intend to tell him, do you?”
“Not yet. I cannot. You know how he would wrap me in cotton wool. You are doing it already. And he would insist on coming with me to Dubron.”
“As well he should. We will all go, of course.”
“No. That is why I shall not tell him until the summer. You and he must stay in London and find you a suitable husband.”
“Oh, Mama, what is a husband to your new baby? I can always find an eligible parti in Yorkshire.”
“What, among your father’s tenant farmers? Those are fine men, I am sure, but they cannot offer you the life you are used to living. And I refuse to have you dwindle into a perpetual aunt, like Lady Ann.”
Thoughts of turning into a replica of her acerbic aunt did not appeal to Torrie, either. “Then next year. I’ll meet the perfect man next year.”
“When I shall be less able to escort you to town. No, you needs must wed this year, and before the ton discovers my condition. Think, darling, if I have a son, you will no longer be such an heiress.”
“Fustian. I have Grandfather’s fortune.”
“But not your papa’s greater wealth.”
“Fine, then I will have fewer fortune hunters dangling after me.”
“You will have fewer gentlemen from which to make your choice. Poorer men can make good husbands, but they would never dare approach you if they cannot keep you in style. No decent man would, at any rate.”
Torrie could see the sense in her mother’s reasoning. “Still, I would rather be with you!”
“Bringing your beaux along with you? Filling the house with lovesick swains who are not in your league? No, dearest. I want the peace and quiet of my gardens. I thought to hold your children in my arms next, not a babe of my own. I wish time simply to relish the notion. You and your father will do fine here for a few months. And your aunt is wise in the way of the world. She can guide you in choosing a mate.”
“Aunt Ann thinks all men are philanderers or fortune hunters or fools.”
“Good. That will balance your father seeing them all as prospective sons-in-law.”
* * *
Chapter 6
So Torrie wrote the note to Lord Ingall, asking him to call in the morning. She wanted to thank him, she told herself and Mallen, when she asked the butler to see her message delivered that evening. Of course, she did. The man had saved her life. But she wanted to take a good look at him, too. She recalled dark hair and skin, but that may have been the soot and smoke. She recalled a hard chest and a firm, muscular grip, and that could not have been buckram wadding. She recalled feeling safe and protected—and that she could not have felt in a rake’s arms.
So was Lord Ingall a hero or a hell-raiser? Was he the best man to have in a crisis, or the worst to have as a life’s companion—or both? She could forgive his history for, as her father had said, the past was past, and years had separated the viscount from a hey-go-mad youth. She could tolerate his ostracism from the haute monde, if her father’s efforts at getting a pardon from the prince did not remove the blot on Ingall’s name. With the viscount’s reputed wealth, he would be accepted in any other social circles, and Torrie enjoyed country life. She thought she might enjoy travel, too, if his business or sheer wanderlust took him abroad again, so that was no strike against his lordship, either. But his mistresses ... Ah, his mistresses.
Concubines, odalisques, dockside doxies—the journeying peer must have seen them all, and known them all. Could he be content with one woman, one wife, one partner? Torrie could accept no less. What if she grew to love him? Would she have to watch him spread his affections among the demi-monde, or among her own acquaintances, with other noblemen’s wives? That would be a living hell, indeed. She had seen ladies of the ton pretend their husbands were not driving by in the park with painted women. She had seen those same ladies slip away from dances to meet their lovers in dark corners. She had pitied them all, and had sworn not to follow their examples.
A marriage without a deep and abiding love appeared to be her fate, but Torrie would not enter into a union without mutual trust and respect, which meant honoring one’s marriage vows. Her mother was right: Torrie could not wed a womanizer.
Yet she needed to marry more than ever, and quickly. She had vowed to do so, for one thing, and her father could join Mama in Yorkshire as soon as a betrothal was announced, for another. For a third reason, if she needed one, the talk of babies had made Torrie envious of her own mother. She wanted a tiny infant of her own to hold, not a baby sibling.
She had, however, already asked Wynn Ingram, Lord Ingall, to marry her. The viscount would not hold her to the offer, Papa had said, made in extremis as it was. But he had saved her life....
* * * *
The agency the earl had recommended was very efficient. Wynn had a new valet bringing his morning chocolate. This one’s name was Clemson and he came with high recommendations, and a higher salary than any of the others. His hand was steady shaving Wynn, and he had a good eye for selecting an ensemble suitable for calling on an earl’s daughter. Unfortunately, and unforgivably, he threw a bottle of cologne at Homer. He swore it was an accident, that the dog’s barking had made him lose his grip on the bottle, but his aim seemed too good for a bit of carelessness. The dog had a cut above his eye, and Wynn had no valet, again.
“Thunderation!” he cursed. “Now I have to tie the blasted neckcloth myself.” For half his years abroad, Wynn had not worn a neck piece at all. Starch and white linen were as rare, and as useless, in the wilderness as they were in the jungle or onboard a merchant vessel. A knotted kerchief had sufficed. For the other half, he’d had someone to wrap the wretched things. He could tie a double half hitch in the dark, he could weave snow-shoes out of vines and twigs, but he could fly to the moon before he tied a proper Waterfall or a trone d’amour. And he was calling on an earl’s daughter.
“Here,” he said, handing a fresh length to his so-far unhelpful assistant, “you tie it.”
“Me?” Barrogi answered. “I am no valletto.”
“Well, I can’t and Homer won’t. That leaves you.”
Barrogi held up swollen-jointed fingers that had ended his pickpocketing profession years ago. His own neck was bare except for a dirty cord that held a gem-studded cross, the provenance of which Wynn was always reluctant to ask. “Just make a knot and slip it over your head, padrone, like a noose,” the older man suggested now. “You look like you are going to face the hangman anyway, no?”
Maybe he’d go visit Rosie first, Wynn considered. After all, her impending motherhood was one of the reasons he had returned to England at all. He’d sent a bank draft, but he had been putting off a personal visit, guessing it would turn entirely too personal. Rosie Peters was certain to know how to tie a man’s neckcloth, though, having untied so many in her illustrious career. Somehow he doubted that Rosie would be as eager to help if she knew his ultimate destination. She’d rather put a ring through his nose than a bow around his neck.
Lady Lynbrook might or might not know how to fashion a gentleman’s cravat. Lord knew the baron’s widow did not know how to balance a bank account. Wynn had sent Bette another check, but he knew he would have to go visit her soon, too, once he’d girded himself against her tears and tantrums, say in another six years.
Then there was always Marissa, his sister-in-law. Wynn doubted the haughty female could see a man’s neckcloth, she held her own nose so high in the air. Furthermore, if he appeared at her house—his house— in his undress, she’d thrust her cousin into his arms, cry compromise, and see him wed before sunset. Most likely she had a special license just awaiting his call. He’d call on Beelzebub first.
Or the earl’s daughter. Wynn had to admit Lady Torrie seemed the best of the lot, if a trifle attics-to-let. That was understandable, he told himself, after her close brush with the afterlife. She would be a perfectly behaved young miss today, he was certain, as boring as beef broth and as stiff as ... as the blasted starched linen he was trying to wrap around his throat.
She had not seemed stiff at all in his arms yesterday, he recalled. She’d felt just right, in fact. He wondered if she was as pretty as they said, or if she had her mother’s red hair. Lud, he had to go, simply to make sure she suffered no ill effects from the fire, and that there had been no other attempts on her life. No, he’d let Barrogi question her maid and the other servants about that while he did the pretty in the drawing room, damn it.
Perhaps he should tell the earl of his suspicions. Wynn remembered the man’s exuberant greeting, though, and his toast, and hoped Lord Duchamp would be at his club or Parliament or anyplace but home. Wynn could put a flea in the butler’s ear. Having to face Lady Duchamp, Lady Victoria, and the crow-like aunt was enough for any man.
Botheration.
He grabbed up another length of fabric, the last untried, unwrinkled one, and quickly, with firm and practiced movements, knotted it around his neck. Triple Crown? Hell, the finished product did not even resemble a tiara.
“What do you call that?” Barrogi asked from the door.
“The beaver pelt bundler. It is sure to become all the rage.” Wynn studied himself in the pier glass, then shook his head. He would have to do.
“Do not forget the flowers,” Barrogi called after him as he left.
Wynn turned. “Flowers?”
“Si, females like that kind of thing.”
The last thing Wynn wanted was for Lady Victoria to see him as a suitor, but he had not been raised in a pigsty, and knew he ought to bring a token to show his regard. “What kind of flowers?”
Barrogi shrugged his shoulders. “Something that smells pretty. You know, in case your dog ...”
“The dog is not—”
Homer was at his feet, wagging his tail. “Right,” Wynn told him. “This is all your fault. You can carry the blasted bouquet.”
* * * *
The butler was not on duty when Wynn arrived at Duchamp House. A bewigged footman was. He took one look at the soaking dog—there had been ducks to chase in the Serpentine—and the spattered gentleman, and tried to shut the door in their faces. “The family is not receiving.”
All of Grosvenor Square could have heard Wynn’s sigh of relief. He handed the servant the bouquet of violets the flower girl in the park assured him were every girl’s favorite, and drew out his card.
“Oh, you are that gentleman. They’ve been awaiting you, my lord. This way, sir. May I take your, ah ...”
Wynn did not wear a hat or carry a walking stick. His ruined gloves had been left in the park.
“... your dog?”
Homer was already inside, though, already trotting toward the parlor where he’d been treated like visiting royalty yesterday. Wynn took a deep breath and followed.
The butler looked up from where he had been arranging the tea things and nodded his approval when the footman showed Wynn in. Neither the earl nor his countess were present, but the room still seemed full, to Wynn. Lady Ann’s lips curved up at the corners, and she set aside her needlework to offer him her fingers to salute, but Lady Victoria beamed.
She was as beautiful as rumor had said. Dressed now in pink silk with a matching ribbon threaded through her red-gold hair, she was a confection. She was perfection. There really had been a diamond under yesterday’s ashes. Her smile was as brilliant as any gem—as it slid past Wynn to rest on his dog.
“Homer!” she called, inviting the dog, damp as he was, to join her on the sofa, closer to the plate of biscuits.
Lady Ann cleared her throat.
“And Lord Ingall.”
The earl’s daughter finally looked up at him. Wynn could see that her eyes were the blue of tropical waters and her lips— No. He studied the hand she offered him, instead. Gracefully formed, it was, with long fingers and skin that felt like— No. He kissed the air the polite two inches above her hand and dropped it, like a burning— No.
He sat and accepted a cup of tea. And a macaroon. And a small slice of poppy seed cake. Lady Ann went back to her needlework.
Wynn inquired about Lady Victoria’s health.
She hoped his was as good.
He asked about her parents.
She asked about Homer’s.
He thanked her for another macaroon.
She thanked him for the violets, her favorites.
He commented on the weather.
She wondered about storms, on his recent crossing to England.
If the talk got any smaller, Homer would be leading the conversation. The events of the day before, and the marriage proposal, lay between them like a sleeping dragon they feared to awaken. The dragon was not going to fly away, though, not without burning a hole through Lady Duchamp’s Aubusson carpet.
“I think Homer would enjoy seeing our gardens,” Lady Victoria finally suggested, nodding toward the French doors leading to a rear terrace. “And I could do with some fresh air. Will you accompany me, Lord Ingall?”
He looked over at Lady Ann, hoping she would throw a lifeline to a drowning man, but she said, “No, I am content right here. You two go along. I can watch from inside.”
She could watch him sink, Wynn despaired.
* * *
Chapter 7
Catching up her paisley shawl against the spring chill, Torrie led her guest out the glass doors and down the terraced steps to the walled-in garden. The season was too young for many early blooms, but the greening shrubbery made a pleasing venue for a quiet talk. The dog immediately ran off to investigate the hidden corners of the garden, and the viscount looked as if he wished he could disappear, too. Well, this was not going to be an easy conversation for her, either, Torrie thought.
She pointed to a nearby bench and his lordship nodded. He did not take her arm as most gentlemen would, but he was a palpable presence at her side. If there was one thing she remembered most about the fire’s aftermath, it was the sure, solid comfort of this man. She’d felt safe with him, as though nothing more could harm her, not while he was near. She still felt protected, despite all that she had learned about her rescuer. Whatever else he might be, she would wager her fortune that Wynn Ingram, Lord Ingall, would never knowingly harm a woman, or raise his hand against anyone weaker than him.
He did not look like a rake. In fact the viscount looked like an interesting, attractive gentleman, somewhat out of the ordinary mold. While they were having that torturous tea with Aunt Ann, Torrie had taken stock of this man she might marry. His clothing was made of expensive fabrics, if not tailored to the height of current styles. The cut and colors were conservative, except for his neckcloth, which was tied in a knot she could not recognize. Torrie liked that, a man who did not follow fashion’s dictates but set his own mode. He had dark hair that was less combed in the Windswept than actually tousled by the day’s slight breeze. She liked that, too, both the lack of oily pomatum and the lack of artifice. His skin was indeed as dark as she recalled, from the sun and not the smoke, then.
He looked like he could be at home aboard ship or in tropical climes—or riding a Thoroughbred cross country. He would have been an outright Adonis, she decided, if his nose were less prominent. According to her father, that nose ran in the Ingram family. The previous viscount, an undersecretary in some cabinet post, had a regular beak, according to Papa, one that matched the eagle on their family crest. He’d died a year ago, but Torrie did not recall meeting him at all the come-out balls, musicales, and theater parties she had attended. She would have remembered the current viscount. This Lord Ingall, Torrie knew, would turn every woman’s head.
He did not have the eyes of a rake. She had expected a hardened libertine, a ruthless trader, a man drawn to violence to have dark eyes, cold, glittering ones, or pale, reptilian orbs. Lord Ingall’s eyes were a lovely green, almost the color of the moss that grew on the nearby dolphin fountain, but a more vibrant shade, with tiny orange and gold specks dancing in them.
He did not act like a rake. In fact, he kept his distance, instead of trying to touch her with any excuse, or brush against her. He sat as far away from her on the stone bench as possible without falling off the end. Torrie enjoyed not being crowded, for once. She had air to breathe, air pleasantly scented with the faintest trace of lemon and spices from his cologne.
He did not talk like a rake, with innuendo and false flattery. No Spanish coin for this wealthy gentleman.
None of which, of course, proved he was not a rake. Torrie sighed. After three Seasons of being pursued by every well-born, would-be seducer, she thought she could recognize one of their ilk. Lord Ingall did not match any of her notions, so how was she to know? She sighed again.
“Are you certain you are well enough to be out walking?” he immediately asked. “Your lungs might still be suffering ill effects.”
“No, I am fine, truly. My foot shows the only lasting damage, and that is minor.” She raised her hem slightly, so he could see the bandage on her ankle. She did not mean to be flirtatious, but was curious as to his reaction.
He looked dismayed, not dissolute. “Dash it all, I am sorry.”
She let her skirt drop to its proper length. “Why should you be sorry? You did not cause that shelf to collapse.”
“No, but I should have been there faster, or been more gentle moving the fallen debris.”
“Nonsense. You could as easily have been a moment later—a moment too late. The entire building could have collapsed around me. You were there, right on time, though, the answer to my prayers. That is why I proposed we marry.”
There. She’d said it. Out in the open.
