A Lady's Guide to Ruin (14 page)

As Captain Harken, a stocky man with the distinct gait of a sailor, muttered a restrained greeting, the pup slipped from her arms. She squeaked as he tumbled to the ground and immediately launched himself in the direction of the other dogs. Between Phoebe's hounds and the locals, there were a full seven bulky animals. They swarmed him in an instant, except for the leashed hound, who only looked on with an air of haughty superiority. Joan dove into the fray. She shoved aside huffing, furry bodies until she uncovered the pup, writhing on his back with a look of bliss on his face and three noses jammed in various places on his body.

“Lancelot. Kay. Away from there,” Phoebe said. Her two leggy hounds immediately trotted to her side, though not without a wistful glance toward the scrum.

The other dogs pressed in past Joan, pleased at the opportunity to inspect the newcomer. The little pup's yips were of pleasure and excitement, not pain, and all tails were wagging, so Joan threw up her hands and backed out. She found Martin standing behind her, as if he'd been about to leap to her rescue.

“You could have been bitten,” he said crossly.

“You have uniformly the sweetest dogs I have ever met,” she said. “They spend too much time with Elinor. I can't imagine how you even get them to go after foxes.”

“He doesn't,” Lord Farleigh said. “Can't abide foxhunting. It's why he'll never succeed in politics. Can't take a man who doesn't hunt seriously.”

“I hunt,” Martin protested.

“Pheasants,” Lord Farleigh said. “Nothing . . . furry.” Joan laughed. Lord Farleigh grinned. “I was going to apologize for arriving so unreasonably early, but I see that it is providence that led us here. Miss Hargrove clearly has need of an education regarding her cousin's failings. And it is an area of special interest to me, as he spent all of his school years being far more successful at everything than I. Quite infuriating.”

“I look forward to the broadening of my mind,” Joan said, and only then realized that she had left Daphne somewhere in that dark storage room. Her chance at a lasting first impression was blown. “L-lord Farleigh,” she added, as if a stutter could make up for her boldness.

He didn't seem to notice the stutter. Lord Grey had, though, and gave her a look of sudden, if fleeting, interest. Lord Grey hunted, yes. Soft, helpless things. Maybe it was better if she did not play Daphne too well in his presence.

“My brother did indeed mean to apologize,” Lady
Phoebe declared. “It is unforgiveable of us. We did send a note ahead, but I do believe we overtook it. There was no room at the inn we stopped at, you see, and we decided to press on, as Colin objected to being laid out in a manger like little lord Jesus. I did suggest to him that his role was more likely to be that of the ass—” She halted, throwing a look at her chaperone. The woman met it, steel against Phoebe's spark. The spark fizzled. “That is to say, we are most grateful for your hospitality, and most sorry to have put you out in any way.”

“It is no trouble,” Elinor said.

“Though I am afraid you have caught us midmeal,” Martin added. “My staff and I can see to your things, your servants, and yourselves, if you might allow the ladies to finish their repast.” He gave a sweeping look at Joan's frame. She resisted the urge to wrap herself in her arms to hide her twig-like figure. Though it was already filling out, and she did enjoy seeing his pleasure at watching her eat. Hopefully he would slack off the courses before she was the size of Mrs. Tuck.

Another round of hands pressed and words exchanged, and Elinor and Joan peeled themselves away from the crowd. The pup tumbled free of the pack and hurried after, looking much ruffled and extremely pleased with himself. “I'm glad you made friends,” Joan murmured into his ruff when she had scooped him up.

*   *   *

The meal was done, and men and women gathered in their respective rooms. The men to drink and talk, the women to merely talk. The pup and the stately hound came with
them, and curled at their mistresses' feet, each looking at the other with a kind of pity.

Your mistress smells cheap
, Joan imagined the larger one saying.

Your mistress smells boring
, the pup would reply.

“He is an
interesting
dog,” Lady Phoebe was saying. She had fetched a pair of spectacles from somewhere in her bodice as soon as the men were gone. They perched on the end of her nose, looking as if they might leap off at any moment. The pup chose that moment to lick his underparts with great enthusiasm.

“Lord Fenbrook says he's purebred,” Joan said doubtfully. Most of the dogs she'd known growing up had heritage so muddled even they seemed confused, but there was something singularly ridiculous about this pup, she had to admit.

Phoebe pursed her lips. “He does seem rather . . . lopsided.”

“He was a gift from Lord Fenbrook?” Kitty asked. They all jumped a little. She had hardly said anything since the introductions, and sat on the furthest corner of the sofa, her knees canted away from them. Elinor had been watching her with barely concealed concern. “You two must be close, then.”

“It is more accurate to say that Lord Fenbrook is generous, Lady Grey,” Joan said. This was not a situation training had prepared her for. She made a point of avoiding groups of women. Men were ever so much easier to distract.

“Kitty, please. I shall never grow used to being Lady Grey,” Kitty said. She'd clearly meant the comment to be light, self-deprecating. Instead, it was wounded.

Joan glanced at Elinor, whose gaze said
she did not used to be like this
. It seemed to her that the main difference between a lord's wife and the women Joan associated with was the lack of visible bruises. The rest was all too familiar.

“I have been trying to put together how exactly you are related,” Phoebe said, frowning. “His—father's brother's daughter?”

Joan froze. She'd asked Elinor. She'd memorized this. But names and dates and marriages were suddenly jumbled in her head.

“Rather more distant than that,” Elinor said smoothly. “Daphne's father is the son of our grandfather's half brother.”

“One of sixteen such children,” Joan added, seizing onto the one fact that had managed to lodge in her distracted mind.

Elinor nodded. “Our mothers were dear friends as children, actually, or we may never have encountered one another. I don't believe I've met more than one or two of your uncles and aunts, Daphne.”

“Sixteen. Goodness.” Phoebe spread a hand over her stomach, as if imagining all sixteen growing in her womb at once. “I think I would stop after an even dozen, don't you?”

Joan had always thought it would be easy to avoid having children, but she was beginning to understand the temptation more keenly. Not with regards to the children, of course, but certainly the preceding act. “Do you have children yet, Kitty?” Joan asked. Children were a safer subject than Martin.

“Not yet,” Kitty said. Her hand darted toward her own midsection, but she didn't quite touch it. “Soon,” she said. “I think.”

“Oh, Kitty,” Elinor breathed. “That's wonderful.”

“It is,” Kitty said. Her eyes shone, and her tone was reverent. “I haven't told anyone yet. Not Colin, or Roger. Please don't.”

“Oh, don't fret,” Elinor said drily. “We are quite adept at keeping secrets around here.”

Phoebe perked up with interest, but Kitty only nodded absently. Seeing no further explanation forthcoming, Phoebe swerved back to Joan. “He seems quite taken with you.”

“Who do you mean?” Joan asked. Her mouth was dry. She'd expected to defend against elegant questioning from Lady Grey, not this cheerful interrogation.

“Lord Fenbrook, obviously,” Phoebe said. “You would be doing me such a favor if you married him. I do not so much mind being foisted off on suitors, but my mother is so very single-minded. I should at least like some variety.” She scratched idly between her hound's ears. It tipped back its long muzzle and shut its eyes, a look of perfect bliss on its face. The pup began chewing on Joan's boot.

“Er,” Joan said. “I'm afraid I would be a poor match for an earl. I'm only a vicar's daughter. From Swansea,” Joan said.

“Oh, not
originally
,” Phoebe insisted.

Joan cast Elinor a helpless glance. Elinor turned a calculating look on Phoebe. “We had thought Daphne might have the chance at a Season, this year or next,” she said. “You should share some of your stories. I'm afraid mine are woefully out of date.”

It was an arrow well aimed. Joan relaxed as Phoebe launched into an intricate series of anecdotes. Some involved familiar names, and she amused herself imagining
what her former marks would think if she debuted at one of their balls. Given that she made a point to leave them with much to lose if they went after her—reputation, after all, was everything for men like them, and blackmail surprisingly easy—she doubted any would have the courage to call her out.

That she never actually held onto the blackmail material was irrelevant. It was the threat, not the reality, that mattered. The reality might have been marginally more effective, but she could never risk Moses and Hugh getting it into their heads that blackmail was actually a workable scheme. They didn't have the brains for it and she had too much affection for her randy little lords and earnest footmen.

Phoebe, she realized, was a fantastic storyteller. Even Kitty could barely contain her laughter. Nor, Joan confirmed by a quick glance at the sofa by the wall, could either of the chaperones. Too soon, it was time for the men to join them. The spectacles vanished back into Phoebe's bodice at the knock on the door, and the tale cut off midword.

“Oh, do go away,” Elinor called. “We were about to find out what happened to Lord Farleigh in the garden.”

“The Carp Incident,” Phoebe intoned, loud enough to hear through the door. It flew open immediately. Lord Farleigh swept in imperiously.

“Not a story for mixed company. Come, gentlemen, help me quell this vicious slander.”

“It's not slander if it's true,” Phoebe protested.

“Then it would not be slander to tell these fine gentlefolk that the night before your grand debut—”

Phoebe leapt up and clapped a hand over her brother's
mouth. “Colin, you swore,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

Kitty sighed. “Everyone gets nervous, Phoebe. You really mustn't let him torture you about it.”

“He swore,” Phoebe said firmly and dropped her hand. Lord Farleigh's eyes were sparkling with mirth. Joan felt a sharp twist in her midsection and found herself entranced with the pattern of the rug. How could these people
like
each other so much? She had balanced Moses against Martin and come up with even odds at a kind brother, but here were
three
siblings who moved about each other with ease and devotion.

A memory came to her then, of a room well lit and laughter welling like this. She'd glimpsed the scene through a window while snow eddied down to soak through her patched stockings. She'd been a tiny thing then, and Moses was with her, holding her hand, putting his thin coat around her shoulders. He'd seen her staring and given her a wink. A second later they were in the alley around back, and he'd heaved her little body up to the second-story window. She shimmied her way in and out in seconds, clutching candlesticks and curios, and two mornings later Moses slipped new shoes on her feet.

How could that be the same brother who had not even turned his head when she'd called his name the day they dragged her away?

The pup, disquieted by the noise, had risen and waddled between various pairs of shoes until he found a foot he liked. He plopped down onto Martin's left boot, bottom on the toe and one rear foot arrayed skyward. Martin looked down at him in amusement. Joan focused on the
two of them, willing the chill of winter to ease from her bones.

“Hullo,” Martin said, and lifted the creature. He held the dog in front of his face, where its tail rotated at roughly the same speed as its tongue flew in and out of its mouth, reaching for Martin's face, which was held wisely just out of reach. “Does he have a name yet?”

“Fox,” Joan said, the idea coming to her in the instant she spoke it.

“That shall be terribly confusing for him,” Martin said.

She managed a wan smile and forced cheer into her voice. “Much like the man who bought him for me, he won't hunt,” Joan said. “He won't have occasion to be confused.”

Martin bopped the dog gently on the nose. Fox sneezed. Martin grimaced. “Ah, well. So much for keeping my face clean.” He set the dog down and fetched out a handkerchief. “But really. My Diana gets herself a hunting hound, and won't hunt with him. It seems a shame.”

“Your Diana?” Lord Farleigh said with some confusion, at the same instant as Lord Grey intoned, “
Your
Diana?”

Joan's breath caught in her throat. Martin seemed stricken for a moment. Then he replied, voice smooth as ever, “Miss Hargrove has proved a crack shot with the bow. As the only instruction she has received is my own, I, of course, claim the credit.” He flopped into a chair near the fireplace and slung one leg over the other. “We can arrange for a demonstration tomorrow, if you are all in the mood to be thoroughly shown up.”

“It was beginner's luck,” Joan said. Her voice quavered.
My Diana.
Fool. As much a fool as she. Anyone could see the way he looked at her. She hoped she had less ardor
burning in her gaze. It was a slim hope, though. The riot in her chest could not be hidden. Not entirely. And Elinor, who mattered most, would not have missed a single glance, a single word. She drew Fox to her as a distraction, and busied herself with finding out which was his favorite spot to be scratched.

All of them, it turned out.