A Scandalous Proposal (6 page)

She turned her stare on the viscount once more.

“I surrender,” Darby said after a few seconds, smiling apologetically at his friend. “In my defense, she had a one-eye advantage on me. Tell her, Coop, or I'll be forced to squawk like one of Gabe's blasted parrots.”

“Why not? Apparently I'm already standing in a hole of my own making that resembles nothing more than a grave.”

“Cooper! You've never been so dramatic. A hole as deep as a grave? Where do you hear such nonsense? Are you reading poems again? I have warned you against them, again and again. They're all frippery and unrequited love and sad tales of woe no sane person would swallow whole. A thick volume on farming, that's what you need. You've got an estate to run now, you know. Learn to grow a proper turnip, that's what I say. Can't go wrong with turnips.”

“Couldn't have said it better myself, Mrs. Townsend. Turnips, that's the ticket. Commit that to memory, my friend.” Darby retreated to the drinks table, probably to pour a bracing glass of wine.

Coop was hard-pressed not to join him, but he'd ignore the glass and gulp straight from the decanter. His father had known how to handle Minerva. He'd learned to ignore her because, as impossible as it seemed, everyone save her husband and son found her vastly interesting and amusing.

Still, actually
handing
Minerva information she'd do God only knew what with? Coop didn't see how any good could come from that.

The blackmail threat, the chase through the alleyways, Miss Foster. Now this? He looked at the mantel clock and inwardly winced. It was only a few minutes past three? And he still had to run the figurative gauntlet of meeting with Miss Foster a third time. Was there anything else to go wrong for him today?

“And another thing,” Minerva said, finally settling herself in a chair so that the gentlemen could sit, as well. “This Minerva business. That was all well and good before, but I realize the heavy mantle of responsibility now thrust upon me, thanks to your heroics, and believe it only commonsensible for me to once more take up the mantle of...” She sighed. “Mother. Or perhaps Mama?”

“You hate when I call you Mother. You have to be joking.”

“I most certainly am not. Henceforth, at least in public—not that I consider this scamp's presence as anywhere near
public
—you will address me as Mother.”

“The gifts heaped on your shoulders just keep mounting, Coop, you lucky dog. Either that, or this figurative hole you spoke of is growing deeper.”

“Shut up, Darby. All right,
Mother
, since you insist. Now why don't you retire to your chamber, where I'm certain Rose has laid out some sort of refreshment.”

“Perhaps even turnip pie,” Darby said quietly. Too quietly for Minerva to hear, but close enough for Coop to not only hear but be forced to manfully repress a laugh.

Minerva looked from one to the other. “He said something, didn't he? Something amusing. What did he say?”

“Nothing Min—Mother. Darby's mouth moves, but he rarely says anything of importance.”

Minerva smoothed the front of her gown, clearly settling herself in for the duration. “Well, at least we agree on something. Now, shall we travel back to the problem that isn't your problem, because it definitely seemed very much your problem when I arrived? Come on, lads, one of you open your mouth and say something important, because I'm not leaving here until you do.”

“Race you to the door,” Darby whispered, careful not to move his lips. “Unless you can come up with a convincing fib? Because you're wrong about the countess's retirement to her bedchamber, Coop—you need Miss Foster out and about in Society.”

And that, Cooper was to tell himself later, was how Darby helped him dig that lifelong figurative hole even deeper, until he thought he could see a Chinaman's straw hat.

CHAPTER SIX

D
RAT
THE
MAN
, Dany thought, standing in front of the pier glass in the hallway just outside the drawing room, slapping her gloves against her thigh. And drat Mari, so firmly sunk beneath the covers that it would take an expedition to find her.

Does one have one's gloves on before her escort's arrival? Does one appeared gloved and
hatted
and panting like a puppy eager to be put to the leash? Does one race back upstairs, only to descend—gracefully, of course—when the gentleman is announced? Which would be past ridiculous, since that would mean his horses would be left standing while he waited for her to become gloved and hatted and fill the awkward silence with inane chatter such as, “Oh, dear, how the time has flown,” or “Gracious, I had entirely forgotten I'd agreed to drive with you in the park.”

Whopping great help Mari had been, only lamenting, “For the love of heaven, why won't she go away,” when Dany had sat herself on the bed and asked these questions.

So here she stood, still not gloved, although she'd decided the military-type shako might take more than one attempt to settle it jauntily enough over her right eye and finally donned it. Amazingly, with her hands trembling ever so slightly, she managed the perfect level of jaunty in one try.

Did Emmaline ride with her? Did she, hopefully not, plunk herself down on the seat between the baron and her mistress? If he brought an open town carriage, there would be two seats, and she could have the maid facing her—and watching her—for the entire time. And wouldn't that be above all things wonderful, since Emmaline possessed an alarming tendency to giggle.

But no. Young gentlemen didn't favor such equipages. He was bound to show up with some outlandish curricle, or high perch phaeton (and wouldn't climbing up into that be interesting, while attempting to keep her ankles covered and her rump inconspicuous?). What about a tiger? Did the baron have one, some poor, terrified young lad in garish livery, balancing on a small step and hanging on to the back of the curricle for dear life? Did a tiger constitute a chaperone? Why would anyone need a chaperone in the middle of London, surrounded by everyone else in Society who had decided taking the air at Hyde Park was just the jolliest thing anyone could do at this hour?

Dany hadn't had time to ask those questions of Mari, although she had tried, even as her sister's maid was none too gently pushing her toward the door.

She'd ask Timmerly, but he'd only smirk at her in that obnoxious way he had, and make her feel twice the fool. Wasn't it bad enough that he'd positioned his smug self at the head of the stairs, pretending not to notice her for the past ten minutes? Honestly, some kind soul should bundle up all the rules of Society in one...

“Blast! Why didn't I think of that sooner?” she asked herself as she turned to the stairs, having remembered the thick tome her sister had handed her, commanding she commit every word to memory. The title, as she recalled, was nearly a small book in itself, and contained such words as
Circumspection
,
Comportment
,
Proper
. Dany had waited until Mari departed the room before kicking the offensive thing beneath the bed-skirts. Her big toe had hurt for three days.

She'd just put her hand on the railing when a footman called up, “Mr. Timmerly, sir, the hero baron has pulled to the curb. Miss shouldn't keep such a fine pair of bays standing.”

“Miss Foster,” the curmudgeonly old family retainer intoned gravely, “if you'll excuse my boldness, the foyer lies the other way.”

“You enjoy this, don't you?” she accused as she headed for the curving staircase leading down to the foyer.

“You might wish to be more gentle with the countess, miss, now that she's in a delicate condition.”

Dany halted with one foot already hovering over the first step, her right hand thankfully clutching the iron railing or she would have pitched face forward to the marble floor below. “My sister is
not
— Dear God, perhaps she is. It would be just like Mari not to know.” She looked at Timmerly. “What do you know?”

“It isn't proper to discuss such things with young ladies.”

Dany's mostly unpleasant day was growing worse by the moment. “It isn't proper for young ladies to plant butlers a facer, either, but if you were to apply to any of my family they would inform you I've never put much stock in
proper
.”

The butler cleared his throat, clearly fighting a blush. “It is sufficient to say that Mrs. Timmerly is certain we'll be welcoming the Cockermouth heir before the king's birthday.”

Dany counted along her top teeth with her tongue until she got to nine (she might be young, but she wasn't entirely stupid). “Oh, that isn't good. That isn't good at all.”

Timmerly straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest. “I beg your pardon!”

“Oh. Sorry. It's the greatest of good news, isn't it? The earl will be over the moon when he returns.”
Unless he believes his wife had taken a lover.
“I'll be going now, not that you care a button what I do. Mustn't keep the horses standing.”

The footman was just opening the door for the baron when Dany went flouncing past him. “You're late,” she told him before he could say the same to her, which the briefest glance at his expression warned her he was about to do. “We've a new problem to discuss.”

“O happy day,” Cooper said, following after her, and then standing back to allow his tiger—really, the livery wasn't so bad—to assist her up onto the seat of an admittedly fine yet sober curricle. No yellow wheels for the baron Townsend, clearly. And the bays were near to extraordinary.

“You've a lovely pair,” she admitted once he'd gone around the equipage and boosted himself onto the seat.

His look was nearly comical. “I beg your pardon?”

“The bays are lovely, perfectly matched,” she expounded further, wondering if the baron had possibly drunk away his afternoon. It wouldn't do well for either of them if she had to explain everything twice. “You haven't been drinking, have you?”

“If I have, clearly not enough. Shall we be off?”

“I suppose so. The sooner we're off, the sooner we're back, which should please you enormously.”

“How well you know me, on such a short acquaintance,” Coop said as he set the curricle in motion, his tiger still standing on the flagway.

“I think you forgot someone,” Dany said, watching as the boy, no more than twelve, headed for the alleyway beside the mansion.

“Harry will go to the servants' entrance and someone will feed him a cake or something. It's all arranged. We've no need of a prepubescent chaperone, Miss Foster. We'll be far from alone in the park.”

“Yes, I'd wondered about that. We'd look rather silly having to speak across my maid, plopped between us, her hands clapped to her ears. I really must read that book.”

“Whatever book it is, yes, please do tend to the task posthaste. I know you're fresh from the country, but hasn't your sister explained anything to you?”

“She's been rather fully employed weeping into her pillow,” Dany said, at the moment not caring what the baron thought of her, or her sister. It was enough that he was here, apparently still willing to play the hero for them. Why, she'd nearly forgotten all about his green eyes. Nearly. “Which brings us to our new problem. The butler's wife believes the countess may be increasing.”

He made an expert but not showy turn into Hyde Park, having executed the tricky maneuver of inserting the curricle into the line of various equipages without muss, fuss or banging wheels with anyone. The man was not flamboyant, not in his speech, his dress, his deportment. He was the unlikeliest hero she'd ever imagined in her daydreams. He was simply a man who stood up when necessary, and did heroic things. Perhaps it was not only his eyes...and blond locks, and strong chin line, and...and all the rest that drew her to him. She'd like to think so, or else that would make her no more than one of the giggling, sighing throng of females who probably chased him everywhere. How he must hate that!

“Really. Increasing what— Oh. Miss Foster, I don't think this is anything you and I should be addressing. I'll correct myself. I
know
it isn't anything we should discuss. But since I have no doubt you'll address it, anyway, is there a problem of...timing?”

“Oh, good. I was wondering how I might gracefully get around that part. Yes, I think so. Probably only Mrs. Timmerly knows for sure, since I believe Mari only just figured everything out today. So you see, my lord, it is now doubly important we seek out this blackmailer and recover her letters. Oliver must never know, can never so much as think he may have been, um...”

“Usurped? I can think of other words, although I'd rather not.”

She refused to blush. “I suppose that's as clear as we need make that, thank you. I felt you should know, since we are working together.”

“We are? I don't believe I've agreed to a partnership of any kind.”

Apparently men could be maddeningly thick. “Do you really have a choice?”

“I don't? Please, enlighten me.”

“Yes, I should. In the interests of fairness, I feel it only fair to add that I don't like you. I may admire you, and even find you somewhat attractive, but I don't like you. You clearly resent that I've come to you for assistance, and you enjoy making me feel uncomfortable.”

“Tit for tat, Miss Foster. I haven't had a comfortable moment since you threw yourself at me in Bond Street.”

“I did not—oh, now you're smiling. I probably should look at you more often.”

“And be in my company far less,” he shot back. “What are you looking at, anyway? Clearly you aren't paying attention to our fellow travelers on this road to nowhere, or you would have commented on something by now. There are many finely feathered birds taking the air today.”

“There are? Oh, goodness—is that man on the large gray actually sporting a parrot on his shoulder? How bizarre.”

“You have no idea, Miss Foster. One day I might tell you a rather amusing tale about the tethered and caged birds still being seen around Mayfair by those not clever enough to have realized the joke. Our feathered friends are no longer in fashion.”

“Yes, you do that.” Dany really didn't much care either way about fashionable or unfashionable birds. “But no, I suppose I'm not really paying attention, am I? I suppose I thought the experience would have more to it than following everyone as they follow everyone else. What is the point, do you know?”

“The point, my fine country miss, is to see. And to be seen. You, for instance, are being seen in the company of the hero of Quatre Bras and a dozen wholly fictitious escapades of derring-do here in London. Even now, people are whispering to their companions. Who is she? Did he rescue her? Is she an heiress? Should we stop and ask, or would the hero take offense at our blatant curiosity? What to do, what to do.”

“That's ridiculous.”

“Most things are, Miss Foster. But remember, this was your idea.”

Dany thought about that for a few moments. “You're right. It was my idea. I thought it would be interesting. I thought I would get to show off my new bonnet, which I couldn't do because I cut my hair and now even this shako had to be stuffed with paper so it didn't fall down over my ears. I used to have tons of it, you know.”

“Paper? Or hair?”

“Hair, of course. I grew it for years, on my mother's orders. Do you have any idea how much trouble hair can be?”

“Not exactly, no. Is it as much trouble as having to stuff your bonnets with paper?”

Dany looked at him and grinned. “The bonnets are temporary. The hair was permanent. Or at least it was. By and large, I think what's left is rather fetching. Certainly different.”

“Ah, yes, different. I believe that relieves me from having to ask why in blue blazes you hacked it all off. The color wasn't enough?”

“You don't care for the color?”

“Over the centuries, man has learned there is no safe answer to that sort of question, so I'll pretend you didn't ask it. Look here, Miss Foster, this is getting us nowhere, and we've much to discuss. For my sins.”

His voice had rather trailed off on his last few words, but Dany heard them. “And what sins did you commit? I know I didn't commit any. Well, at least not connected to the pot my sister is boiling in at the moment. I'm not declaring myself free of failings.”

Cooper exited the park as neatly as he'd entered it, putting the curricle back out on the street. “I hope you won't mind if I don't chivalrously exclaim that you could never be anything less than perfect.”

“And now I'll ignore that. You know, my lord, I believe we're beginning to understand each other.”

He kept his attention on his horses, but she did notice that his right eyebrow elevated in possible surprise. Certainly not in humor. “Does that prospect frighten you as much as it does me?” he asked as he took the bays into a turn down a rather narrow street.

“I don't know. At least neither of us has to waste our time or words in attempting to be polite. Which, you must admit, can only be considered a good thing, because we really don't have time to waste on conventions and silly rules of Society. Oliver will be home in less than a fortnight.”

“I agree on the need for speed. The blackmailer's next communication could arrive at any moment.”

“Yes, which means you need to reconsider the vantage point of my bedchamber. Where are we going? I've no fear you plan to compromise me, but if you have a destination in mind I suggest it not be Portman Square, as we still have much to discuss.”

“More than you could imagine, Miss Foster,” he said, pulling to the curb in front of a rather ancient-looking church stuck between a haberdashery and a tobacco shop. He set the brake and looped the reins around it. “Stay where you are until I come 'round and help you down. I only say that because you haven't read the book yet, whatever book that might be, and shouldn't attempt a descent on your own.”