Barbara Metzger (12 page)

“My
brother
could ruin her chances, miss, while it is permissible for you to dress up in boys’ clothing? My presence in the house could upset your grandfather, but your presence at a mill couldn’t? Do you know what could have happened to you out there today? Some of those men were so foxed, they were beyond manners or morals; some of them never had either to start. How would your ailing grandfather have felt when your raped and ravished body was brought home? You tell me what your precious sister would have done then, Miss High-and-Mighty, if she is too good to associate with a mere second son?”

So much for firm but gentle. Sydney was ashen, trembling. Forrest felt like the lowest blackguard on earth. He pushed her into a seat and found a decanter on a side table. He sniffed and then poured a tiny amount into one of the glasses. “Here,” he offered, putting it into her hand. “I am sorry for speaking so harshly. It’s just that I tend to get a little protective of those I feel responsible for. I was concerned for you, that’s all.”

Sydney stood to her full five feet three inches. Her voice was flat, nearly expressionless when she said, “Yes, I see. I’ll go get you the money.”

“Money? What does money have to do with anything?”

“The money I owe you. The thousand pounds. I’ll just go get it from Willy and then I will not be in your debt and you need not feel responsible for me any longer. I was so excited when they first came home, I forgot all about the winnings.”

The viscount poured more brandy into her glass, up to the brim this time, and held it out. “There are no winnings. The bout went five extra rounds and was declared a draw. No winner. No payoff.”

Sydney took the glass and drank down the whole thing. Then she coughed and sputtered and turned an odd shade. Seasick green did not look attractive next to the jonquil gown. The viscount pounded her back and shouted at her to breathe, damn it.

“If you kill me,” she gasped when she could, “then you’ll never get your money back.”

“Hang the money, Mischief, it might be worth it anyway.” Then he smiled and touched her cheek as lightly as a butterfly’s touch. “I’m sorry.”

“But it’s true, about the money? We didn’t win anything?”

“Unless you were clever enough to bet on Wally by the round, or how long he would last.”

“Of course not,” she answered indignantly. “That would have been disloyal.” Then she sighed. “At least we didn’t lose any. I can pay you back that part of the sum now anyway.”

“Dash it, Sydney, forget about the money. I know it’s hard, but try for once to believe me: I am a viscount, not a moneylender.”

She finally smiled, showing those dimples that flashed in his dreams. “And I am a lady, but here you’ve proof that I’m a shameless hoyden. So we are neither what we seem and we are both trying to fool the ton.”

Gads, she still did not believe him! A man may as well talk to the wall as reason with a woman! “No matter what you think, I do not need the money.”

She was still smiling. “Of course you do. Then you can wash your hands of me and my problems, and I can make sure neither you nor your brother comes near us again.”

If her goosish sister found Brennan half as attractive as Sydney was finding the viscount, despite knowing his rakehell ways, Winifred was in deep trouble. These Mainwarings were disturbing creatures.

Forrest could feel the heat rising again. He didn’t know about Bren, but he did not like being made to feel unwelcome somewhere he hadn’t wanted to be in the first place! “Devil take it, will you leave my brother out of this!”

“Of course, if you promise to keep him away from Winnie.”

“I’ll do my damnedest to warn him away from this lunatic asylum, madam, but I shan’t mandate my brother’s social life. And let me tell you a few other home truths. I herewith do not care about your reputation. If you do not, why should I? Furthermore, I no longer consider you any kind of responsibility of mine, and I pity the poor man whose concern you do become. His best chance at sanity would be to beat you regularly. And finally, for the last time, I do not want the bloody money!”

Sydney refilled the glass and handed it to him. “You really should not get so excited, you know,” she said sweetly. “I believe that’s what brought on Grandfather’s last seizure. And don’t worry, I’ll still be able to repay you by the end of the Season.”

Forrest took a deep swallow. He should get up and leave, he really should. Better, he should hold that tapestry cushion over her pixie face. Instead he asked, “Just as an observer, mind, not that I intend to get involved, but how do you expect to come into funds? Are you planning another boxing match? Frankly, Mischief, I don’t think you have the stomach to watch another, thank goodness.”

“No, I won’t let Wally take any more challenges. It was his idea, you know. He and Willy have ambitions of their own, to open up an inn if they can just earn enough for the down payment. They’re not actually footmen.”

“Really? I thought you embraced all your servants.”

Even in her naiveté Sydney could recognize his lordship’s sarcasm as jealousy. She giggled to think this rogue and rake was jealous of her, Sydney Lattimore, who hadn’t even had a comeout Season in town. Then again, maybe she giggled because of the unaccustomed brandy.

“Mrs. Minch was my mother’s nanny,” she explained. “She came to us as housekeeper after Mr. Minch died, so I have known the twins forever, almost like cousins. When I decided to come to London, they wouldn’t think of being left behind, so here we all are, trying to better ourselves. Now we’ll have to try something else. But don’t worry, I have another plan.” The viscount had another drink.

Chapter 12

Beaux and Bonbons

Winnie was a Toast. It was official, announced in the
on dit
columns. She was the darling of the
belle monde.
Her beauty was unsurpassed, according to the papers, her manners all that was pleasing. She was sweet and well-spoken, suitably if not grandly connected. The meager dowry was unfortunate, but no matter; she had the most famous footmen in London!

In a few days after the fight, when Willy and Wally were able to accompany the Lattimore sisters on their rounds, they were instantly recognized. What other set of twins was tall, blond, and battered?

Aunt Harriet confirmed the fact to a few of her cronies, which meant that all of London knew within hours that the pretty Lattimore chit employed prizefighters as footmen. Instead of redounding to Winnie’s discredit, however, as Lady Windham intended, the situation was deemed irregular but not improper by those at the highest ranks of the polite world, some of whose husbands had made a tidy bundle at the match. Winnie was an overnight sensation, especially when she blushingly declined any knowledge of the match.

“Oh, no,” she told her admirers, a hint of moisture on her lashes like morning dewdrops. “I ... I couldn’t bear to think of anyone getting hurt, you know, so they did not tell me about it until the next day.”

Such tender emotions could only raise her stock with the doyennes of society. Vouchers for Almacks were promised. Winnie’s success was guaranteed.

Sydney still preferred walks in the park, making sure she was accompanied by Annemarie, to making those tedious morning visits. She still preferred to stay home with the general, reading and concocting plans, rather than wait endless hours outside another crush just to curtsy to her hostess, dance once or twice with some spotty clothhead Aunt Harriet dragged over to her, then wait another hour for the carriage.

Sydney’s position was equivocal at best. She was not formally out, she was not as beautiful as her sister, she did not have the extensive wardrobe that Winnie did—and she was terrified that she might do or say something to ruin Winnie’s chances. So the ton saw her, when they saw her at all, as a shy, retiring sort of girl, content to stay at home.

These days, home was as crowded as the average rout. Sporting gentlemen came, ostensibly to call on Winnie, but more likely to pass a few minutes with Willy or Wally when they opened the door and took the visitors’ hats and gloves. These gents did not much care which twin greeted them—they could not tell the difference anyway—they just wanted to be the first to know if another bout was scheduled. A coin pressed into the footman’s hand should guarantee inside knowledge, or a bit of boxing wisdom.

The Tulip set came to Park Lane, at first just to be seen where the fashion was. They came back when they realized what an adornment Miss Lattimore would be on their arms, her golden beauty surely a reflection of their good taste. They wrote odes to her eyebrows and filled the rooms with bouquets, tipping the footman to make sure their offering took precedence.

Military gentlemen arrived in droves to pay their respects to the general’s granddaughters. Or to hear a recounting of the match.

The Minch brothers were going to make their down payment one way or another.

With such a wealth of easy pickings, the vultures soon came too: every mama with a marriageable daughter found her way to the Lattimores’ teas. The mothers catalogued the gentlemen for future reference; the debs blushed and giggled over the least glimpse of Willy or Wally.

The Dowager Countess Windham was the worst harpy of the lot, in Sydney’s estimation. Aunt Harriet made sure Trixie was on view in the Lattimores’ parlor every afternoon, displaying the family wealth in gems and laces for all the eligibles, and just in case Lord Mayne came to call. Everyone knew of his extraordinary affiliation with the footmen at Islington; they were waiting to see if the elusive viscount expanded the association here in London.

How should she know? Winifred asked in confusion when pumped for information by Aunt Harriet. She never met the man. He was most likely just another eccentric they were better off not knowing, Sydney added, firmly believing her own words.

The viscount did not call, neither did his brother.

“I don’t understand,” Winnie fretted. “He said he would call the next day.”

Sydney understood perfectly. She’d ordered the general’s man Griffith, standing in for the footmen right after the fight, to deny Lord Mainwaring the house. By the time Wally and Willy were back tending the door, Sydney had turned her sister’s mind against the good-looking makebait.

“He most likely heard about your tiny dowry. A man like that cannot afford a poor wife, so he wouldn’t waste his time.”

“Do ... do you mean he’s a fortune hunter?” Winnie clutched a tiny scrap of lace to her cheek. “I knew he was a second son, but ...” Sarah Siddons could not have portrayed Virtue Distressed better.

“I have it on the best of authorities”—his own brother, though she wouldn’t tell Winnie—”that his character is unsteady. I know for a fact that his closest associates are of low morals. And,” she intoned, “there is gambling.” As in leprosy. “Think of the hand-to-mouth existence his unfortunate wife would lead, after he went through all other money, of course.”

“Oh, the poor thing,” Winnie wept. The next time Lord Brennan Mainwaring did call, he was cheerfully admitted by Willy, who would have done anything for Lord Mayne or his younger brother. Winnie turned her back on him and let some fop in yellow Cossack trousers read a poem to her rosebud lips. Brennan left, and did not come back.

There was one other worry furrowing Winnie’s brow, to Sydney’s horror. “Stop that, you’ll make wrinkles! Worrying is my job!”

“But Lord Scoville doesn’t like all the attention we’re getting, Sydney. He doesn’t think it’s proper.”

“Oh, pooh, he just wants you all to himself. Besides, there will be something else to steal the public eye next week. Some debutante will run off with a junior officer, or some basket-scrambler will lose his fortune at the baize tables. As long as our names aren’t mentioned in either instance,” she warned, not so subtly, “Scoville will get over his pet.”

“He thinks we should dismiss the twins.”

“Why, that prosy, top-lofty bore. How dare he—that is, I’m sure he didn’t realize we consider the Minches as family.”

“Oh, yes, he did. He doesn’t think that’s proper either. ‘Ladies should not become overfamiliar with the servants,’ he says.”

Sydney hoped the pompous windbag became over-familiar with Willy’s fist one day, but for now he was their best paddle to row them out of River Tick.

* * * *

Everyone in London seemed to know the way to their door, including a past visitor to Little Dedham. Mrs. Ott was not actually an acquaintance, being more a relation to the vicar’s wife’s dead brother, who used to visit there. The girls must have been too young then, but Mrs. Ott recalled meeting the general once or twice. If the general recalled the rather plump woman in darkest crepe, he did not say.

Mrs. Ott was calling, she told Sydney, because Mrs. Vicar Asquith had written that her dear friends were coming to town, and could Bella help make them feel more at home. So there she was, bringing a plum cake, just like folks did in the country.

Sydney would have been suspicious of anyone trying to scrape up a connection like that, but Mrs. Ott did not seem to want anything more from the family than their friendship. She had no daughter to marry off, no son to introduce. She did not wish introductions or invitations, for she went out seldom, still being in mourning.

“Dear Lady Bedford keeps urging me to attend one of her dos, but I cannot enjoy myself knowing my dear Major Ott is no longer with me.” Mrs. Ott had to stifle a sob in her handkerchief. “I am a poor army widow like your dear mama,” she told Sydney with another sniffle for the departed. “That is, I ain’t poor. My husband had other income than his regular pay.” Paddy O’Toole certainly had.

So Sydney welcomed the quaint grieving widow even if she could not quite recall Mrs. Asquith’s mention of a relation in London, and Mrs. Ott’s speech was broader than she was used to. But those were country manners, she excused, and they were not altogether unwelcome after the starchy
grandes dames
of London. Besides, the plum cake was delicious.

“Oh, that’s just a hobby of mine, don’t you know. For when Monshure Pierre has his half days off. Here, try another piece, dearie, and why don’t you call me Bella? I can tell we’re going to be friends. You just call on me whenever you need anything.”