Charles made a mock toast. "She's quite the hostess, and she adores having an earl as her guest. Why would I spurn her hospitality?"
"You're like a leech on a thigh. Why impose on the Grays? Why not simply travel to the family seat? There are plenty of caves in which to hide."
"My creditors are all searching there."
Charles sighed. It was a fine state of affairs when a peer of the realm, one of the premier citizens in the land, a man who regularly dined with kings, couldn't show his face on his own property.
The bill collectors were circling, eager to pounce like wolves on carrion. His debt was so vast that not even his title could protect him. There were too many people, wanting too much that he didn't have. They were going for the throat!
T imagine if you went home," Jordan taunted, "the crofters would turn you in for the reward. I hear it's grown extremely large."
"There's no such thing as loyalty anymore," Charles complained.
"Not for the likes of you," Jordan said, and abruptly switched subjects. "I'm not about to marry." "Really?" "Really."
Jordan was unflappable, not giving a hint of the truth, but Charles knew what it was: Jordan was contemplating marriage to a rich girl—the definitive word being rich—and Charles was intrigued by the news.
A bit of cash always made a female more attractive, and as soon as he'd learned what Jordan was about, he'd resolved that he should see the child for himself. Jordan might be broke, but that didn't mean that he should have first chance at an heiress.
Age before beauty, Charles had decided, and he'd headed for Sussex.
"Are you—or are you not—here to investigate a marriage to Miss Penelope Gray?"
Jordan cursed. "How did you find out?"
"I was gambling at White's and was informed over a roll of the dice."
"You were gambling? Who is still stupid enough to take your markers?"
"I'm an earl. They wouldn't dare refuse me."
"They're fools."
"Yes, they are, but they owe me for my patronage, and if I hadn't been wagering, I'd never have delved to the bottom of your intentions. I have to tell you, Jordan, it's a hell of a way for a father to keep track of his son and heir. I shouldn't have to have strangers apprising me of your business."
"You're claiming I should notify you? Why? So that you can poke your nose in and muck it up?"
"My arrival here is purely benevolent."
Jordan scoffed. "You haven't a generous bone in your body. You were born a mercenary, and you'll be one till the day you die."
"That's as may be," Charles concurred, not seeing any reason to contradict the obvious, "but I've been married five times and—"
"Six."
"What?"
"You've been married six times." "Has it been that many?"
"Have the decency to honor your many children by remembering how many wives there were!"
Charles reflected for a moment, counting. "Yes, I suppose it has been six."
"And you drove each of them to an early grave."
"I can't help it if I choose women with weak constitutions."
"They're all hale and fit till they wed you. Then they drop like flies."
"As I was saying," Charles cut in, declining to quarrel, "I've had a good deal of experience with the marital condition, and I felt you could use my advice."
"Your . .. your advice?" Jordan appeared apoplectic.
"I can guide you, and hopefully, keep you from making some of the same mistakes I made."
"That is hilarious, Charles. Absolutely hilarious." He took another swig of brandy, then started out.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm off to warn the housekeeper to hide the silver."
Charles watched him depart, wondering why Jordan had to be so nasty. He and Jordan were always at odds, and he couldn't figure out where Jordan had obtained his moral leanings. Certainly not from Charles! It had to have come from his mother's side of the family.
He heard Jordan in the hall, talking with Charles's mistress, Anne, who was referred to as Mrs. Smythe but who had never been married.
"Are you positive I'm his son?" Jordan asked her. "Is there any possibility I might have been switched at birth?" '
Anne laughed. "You look too much like him to be anybody else."
Jordan walked on, and Anne entered the parlor. On seeing her, Charles smiled. She'd been with him for nearly twenty years. At age forty, she was still slender and shapely, but her brown hair was streaked with gray, her astute brown eyes creased with lines. Yet he didn't care about the changes.
She was the only constant in his chaotic life, the last true-blue person in the entire country. She'd stayed with him through thick and thin, through marriage and heartbreak, through feast and famine, and for her loyalty he would always keep and protect her.
"Jordan is angry that I came," he pouted as she sat on the sofa with him.
T told you he would be." "He's an ingrate."
"He's a grown man. He doesn't want you here." Charles huffed with indignation. "A son needs his father when there are vital decisions to be made." "He doubts you'll be helpful." "I shall prove him wrong." "I'm sure you shall."
"A fellow has to be cautious when he weds— especially when the bride has so much money. All that cash can blind a man to what's important."
"Yes, it can.".
"I must guarantee that he's considered all the angles before he proceeds." Charles nodded, having convinced himself he was doing the right thing. "He'll be thankful in the end."
Jordan would have benefit of Charles's shrewd counsel. And if—by chance—Penelope Gray determined that she didn't like Jordan, or if she should set her cap for someone else, someone who needed her fortune more than Jordan ever could, that was hardly Charles's fault.
Yes, everything would work out fine.
Lavinia stared in the mirror, swabbing rouge across her cheek. As she rose to go down and have a brandy with Lord Kettering, she tamped down her excitement and avarice.
Kettering was handsome and virile, with Jordan's same blue eyes and dark hair, though Kettering's was peppered with silver. He had to be fabulously rich, too.
Though older than she would have preferred, he was incredibly attractive in every way, and she was enthralled.
Why should Penelope have all the luck? Why should Penelope be the one to marry into the aristocracy?
It had been Lavinia's dream, but Fate had tricked her. Now, with Kettering's arrival, Lavinia had an opportunity to rectify the past and secure the future.
After being married to Horatio for so long, after delaying Robert with various lies, she'd become an expert at coaxing and cajoling. Before the month was out, her own wedding plans would be progressing.
Penelope dawdled on the verandah, peeking through the window into the parlor. She could see Lord Kettering on the sofa with Mrs. Smythe.
When she was through, Charles Prescott wouldn't know what had hit him.
She sauntered to the stairs and started down.
Penelope snickered. If Anne Smythe were a Mrs., Penelope would eat her bonnet!
She didn't know Mrs. Smythe's true role, but she suspected her to be a fallen woman, parading around as a respectable lady; yet her position didn't matter. Mrs. Smythe was insignificant, and would have no part in how affairs played out.
Kettering was terribly old, but he was an earl! And he was a widower! He had to be fabulously rich, too. Not penniless like his son. Why should she settle for a mere viscount when the earl, himself, was present and available? With the title of countess as the ultimate prize, she would willingly pay any price to win it.
Surely, such an ancient, horrid man would be intrigued by the attentions of a fetching, young maiden. Surely, such a man could be flattered into doing all sorts of things he oughtn't.
The prospects for immediate gain were staggering. She smiled and strolled into the house.
Chapter Five
“What are you doing in my room?" "I missed you at supper." Jordan sipped on a brandy and studied Margaret Gray. He'd suffered through an interminable meal with his father and the Gray family, though not Margaret, and her absence had eaten away at him. Obviously, she was avoiding him, and he'd wondered where she'd gone, but hadn't dared inquire as to her whereabouts.
With his father's appearance and subsequent charming of Lavinia and Penelope, Jordan was teeming with an ire and frustration that couldn't be squelched. He'd longed to spend some time with Margaret, so he'd wrongly barged into her bedchamber, once again, but after waiting for her for hours, he was incredibly angry.
She'd intrigued him against his will, and he blamed her for his enticement. He had a task to complete, one that didn't and couldn't include her, and he hated having her as a distraction. Yet, he couldn't stop thinking about her and the innocent kiss they'd shared in the woods.
Was she thinking of it, too? Had she wasted a single second pondering him and the chemistry that drew them together? Though it was absurd, he was dying to know the answer.
She wasn't happy to see him—not that he cared— and she scowled, trying to embarrass him into leaving, but she didn't realize that he was beyond outrage or shame. He'd stay till he was ready to go.
"My door was locked," she pointed out. "Any sane person would have recognized that it indicates I don't wish to be disturbed."
He held out the key so she could grasp how easily he'd gained entrance. "Any sane person would, but as I previously explained, no one has ever accused me of being overly rational."
"How could anyone have a better opinion when you constantly prove that you're deranged?"
He approached, liking how she stood her ground. She was fearful, but curious, too, and captivated by the sensations that flared whenever he was near.
"Where have you been?" he asked.
"If I thought it was any of your business—which I don't—I'd tell you that I was at my school, preparing lessons for tomorrow."
"I heard that you work for a living." He sounded snide and snobbish, and she took the comment for the slur it was.
"You're here to marry an heiress, yet you have the audacity to condemn me for employment? What gall! At least, I have the satisfaction of deserving what I earn. When you're paying your bills with Penelope's money, how will your pride stand it?"
She stomped to the wardrobe, stuffed her cloak and bonnet inside, and slammed the door. He walked over and trapped her in the circle of his arms.
"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm being an ass."
"Yes, you are."
"I didn't mean to insult you."
"Of course, you did."
She struggled, but when he wouldn't release her, she gave up the fight and slumped against him.
"You could get a job, yourself," she grumpily said. "It wouldn't kill you."
"A job!" He was aghast at the notion. "What would I do?"
"You seem like an educated fellow. You could be a clerk or a gentleman's secretary. Not everyone has to reside in a mansion with dozens of servants and fine wine at every meal. You could lower your standards."
He sighed. If he did as she'd suggested, what would become of his siblings?
His aggravation at Charles surged anew. He didn't want to be anybody's savior, and he detested being put in a position where so many others were relying on him. He recalled Johnny and Tim, Charles's ten-year-old twin sons, whom Jordan had met occasionally. He'd once visited the house where Charles had effectively abandoned them, only to discover that there was no food in the larder, no clothes that still fit them in the dresser drawers, and no tutors had been engaged in over a year.
"I have many brothers and sisters who need my assistance," he stated. "I'm afraid they'd starve on a clerk's salary."
"Why can't your parents look after them?"
"My mother passed away when I was a babe, and my father is ... is ..." He shrugged, unable to account for Charles. "He can't care for them."
"Well, re-enlist in the army. Isn't that what you're good at? It's rumored that you're some sort of. .. of ... hero."
She muttered the word hero as if it were an epithet, and he chuckled miserably. By volunteering for every dangerous foray, he'd done his best to die in the army, but no matter how fervently he'd tried, he hadn't perished. He'd arrived home in London, hale and healthy and facing financial chaos, but he'd had his fill of death and destruction, and he wouldn't return to the war. Not that he'd reveal as much to Margaret Gray. Let her assume what she would.
"I was a lousy soldier," he lied.
"I'm sure that's not true. I'm sure you're proficient at whatever you attempt. You just require a shove in the right direction."
"And how about you?" He was eager to steer the conversation away from him and his problems. She was much more interesting. "I've been informed that you're an excellent teacher."
She was suspicious, as if she couldn't conceive of anyone saying something positive about her. "Who told you that?"