Beware of Virtuous Women (11 page)

Jack rubbed the wineglass between his hands. "And then what, Cluny? What do I do with her then?"

Cluny laughed, his large stomach moving up and down. "Well, hell's bells, boyo, how should I know?"

Jack got to his feet and came out from behind the desk. "I don't know why I even listen to you, considering that the last time I did we were in Badajoz and I ended up explaining to the major about how three local chickens had unexpectedly impaled themselves on a stick over our campfire."

"And hanged right then you'd have been for stealing, if I wasn't smart enough to offer the man one fat hen for himself," Cluny said with a smile and a wink. "I never did figure out how you got jumped up to lieutenant while I stayed just a lowly foot soldier, when it's obvious I'm smarter than you by half."

Smiling at the memory, Jack held out a hand to his friend, to help him to his feet. "It's almost seven. Come on, Cluny, I've had an extra place set for you. Phelps's note this afternoon said he and Eccles will be bringing three guests with them. I'm hoping that means Phelps's wife and sister, and Chelfham himself. I'd value your impressions of them all."

"Don't need to see them to do that," Cluny said, allowing Jack to help him out of the deep leather couch. "Two fools and their keeper. You already know who to watch. You just don't know who's watching you."

Jack had nothing to say to that, so he simply left his study, stopping in the hallway to check his reflection in the glass and be momentarily pleased with the jacket he'd had tailored for himself at Weston's. Just like a real gentleman, which he supposedly was, from birth, if not from inclination, experience and, for a long time, the size of his pocketbook.

He passed a pair of maids in the hallway, both of them moving quickly with their heads down as they walked toward the dining room. He smiled, knowing his Portland Square mansion had been a veritable hive of industry all day, and every surface sparkled and shone as it had never done before in his memory. Eleanor had said something right to the staff. But, as he was beginning to understand, it was very difficult to say
no
to Eleanor Becket. Small, quiet,
determined
Eleanor Becket.

And there she was, already in the Drawing Room, sitting on a backless carved wooden chair he last remembered seeing in the Breakfast Room. "Good evening, wife," he said as he strolled across the room, then bowed over her hand.

Eleanor waited for him to turn her hand, tease at her palm with his tongue, but his lips had barely skimmed the back of her hand before he released her. "It's nearly seven," she said as he crossed to the drinks table, holding up a decanter of wine. "Thank you, no. I'm too nervous, and need to keep my wits about me."

Jack poured some of the wine in a glass and took it to her. "All the more reason for this," he told her. "You look delightful, by the way. Red very much becomes you."

"Thank you," Eleanor said, accepting the glass as well as the compliment. Then she smiled, and there was new life sparkling in her eyes. "I thought it would be interesting to match Mr. Phelps's waistcoat."

Jack laughed, inwardly amazed. 'That's the spirit. As long as we're here, in the middle of this, we may as well enjoy ourselves. As Cluny would say, good on you, Eleanor."

"Then I thank both you and Cluny." Eleanor could feel heat and color rising into her cheeks. She'd had a long, stern talk with herself, reminded herself of both her stated mission and her private hopes, and had decided that displays of maidenly missishness were a thing of the past. Weakness was dangerous, as was too much thinking. Thinking about how handsome Jack looked in his evening clothes was most dangerous of all.

Jack looked about the room, at the sparkling mirrors and gleaming silver. "I'm not in residence often, Eleanor. I hadn't realized how lax the staff had become. If our meal is half as fine we should impress our guests all hollow."

"I just spoke with Mrs. Hendersen and Mrs. Ryan in the kitchens and, although they were not precisely delighted with my appearance there, I'm happy to say that everything is running along quite smoothly. We can only hope our guests are on time, as Mrs. Ryan very much dislikes allowing her poached salmon to sit."

"It usually stands?" Jack asked, hoping to put a smile on Eleanor's face, that was looking rather pale and pinched once more. "Relax, Eleanor. You'll be a marvelous hostess here, just as you are at Becket Hall. Do you suppose that place will fall into rack and ruin without you there to make friendly, unannounced visits to the kitchens?"

"You give me too much credit." Eleanor's features relaxed in a small smile. "But, again, thank you. I'm so nervous."

Jack pulled over a chair and sat down beside her. "Yes, I'd noticed that." He took her hand in his, lightly squeezed her cold fingers. "Believe me, none of them is worth your worry. They'll arrive, we'll talk inanely about nothing as I pour drinks for everyone. We'll be called to dinner by Treacle—see, I've remembered his name, at least. And if Mrs. Ryan—another remembered name for which I congratulate myself even if you don't—if Mrs. Ryan happens to have served up green peas we'll get to see Eccles try to balance a half dozen at a time on his knife while Phelps asks us all to lay odds he won't be able to slide them in his mouth without at least one falling off onto the tabletop."

Eleanor giggled, actually giggled. "You're making that up. Nobody does things like that."

"Really? Eccles does, I've seen him do it," Jack said, pleased with Eleanor's reaction to his banter. "After dinner, you ladies will come back here, where you will
listen
as the ladies fill the silence, and the gentlemen and I will retire to the card table set up in the breakfast room, where I will proceed to fleece said gentlemen like sheep on the Marsh."

Eleanor's smile felt more natural now. "You really intend to fleece them?"

"Absolutely. Chelfham will have come here because Phelps has told him what an easy mark I am. Nothing like breeding discontent among your enemies. Besides, I'm down more than three thousand pounds and it's time to get that money back, no matter whose pocket it was in last."

"We want them to turn on each other? Why?"

"Not turn on each other, Eleanor, not precisely. Just not be quite.. .happy with each other.
Divide et impera."

"Divide and rule," Eleanor translated easily, a woman who may have read extensively but had yet to discover the oft-written admonishments to young ladies that they were, by and large, to behave in front of gentlemen as if they had no more learning than a watering pot.

Jack looked at her in open admiration. "You know Latin?"

Eleanor shrugged. "Not precisely. There is a slim book of Latin proverbs, I believe you'd call them, in our library at home. Machiavelli was fond of quoting that particular maxim, as I recall. Papa agrees, in theory, but much prefers
Actus non facit reum, nisi mens sit rea."

Jack pondered those words for a few moments, as his days with his cousin's Latin tutor were far behind him. "The act is not criminal unless the intent is criminal?"

"Yes, exactly. It's an ancient legal maxim, but one that eases Papa's soul whenever he begins to question himself."

"Because he tells himself he's helping the people of Romney Marsh, while not pocketing a penny for himself."

Eleanor studied the contents of her glass, amazed to see that half of those contents were gone. "Jacko lives by that maxim as well," she heard herself say as she turned to place the wineglass on the small table beside her. "And he sleeps very well."

"You don't like him, do you?" Jack asked, suddenly very curious about Ainsley Becket's best friend.

"We.. .understand each other. He's a man who thinks simply, and acts impassively," Eleanor answered, tempted to lift the glass to her lips once more before she could blurt out
I liked him more when I knew him less.
She lifted her head, looked toward the open doors to the foyer. "Wasn't that the knocker downstairs? They're here, aren't they?"

Jack stored away what Eleanor had just said, and the way she'd looked when she'd said it, not knowing what the devil any of it meant. 'Treacle will deal with their wraps, then show them up, announce them." He squeezed her hand. "Listen to me, Eleanor. This is
your
house. You are the gracious hostess, but you are also in charge, understand? Deal from those strengths."

Eleanor returned the squeeze of his hand. "I'm truly terrified about meeting these people, Jack."

Jack leaned in, lifted her chin with his bent index finger, smiled into her huge, heartbreakingly beautiful brown eyes. "Then don't think about them. Think about this instead."

He pressed his mouth to hers. Lightly, but at least marginally insistent; withdrawing for less than the space of one heartbeat, then slanting his lips against hers again, sliding his tongue over her soft, full bottom lip before he sat back, looked at her.

Damn Cluny and his ideas.

Eleanor's eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted, as if in anticipation of what would come next. Jack knew what he
wanted
to have come next, but the idea of nailing shut the doors to the drawing room, keeping their unlovely guests out so that he could further explore his swift, unexpected reaction to what had just happened wasn't possible.

He watched as Eleanor opened her eyes wide, then blinked, looked at him, raised a hand to her mouth. He forced a smile. "I'm now supposed to tell you that our guests will be announced at any moment, and you're supposed to respond
what guests?
At least that was my plan. Did it work?"

"Until you pointed out your strategy, yes, I truly think it did," Eleanor told him in all honesty and not a little disappointment. "I suppose you might have slapped me just as easily in your effort to calm me, so I'll thank you for the kiss."

"You're welcome," he said, and Eleanor's stomach did one last small flip as those marvelous slashes appeared in his lean cheeks and the sun-squint lines around his eyes made him look momentarily mischievous, not at all dangerous.

But then, as he stood up, those amused green eyes turned hard and unreadable, and Eleanor sensed the leashed power of the man. Where his kiss had done nothing but transfer her anxieties from one subject to another, Jack's confident, intelligent look at this moment worked where the kiss had failed.

And, for the first time, she realized how like Ainsley Becket this man was. What she admired in Ainsley Becket she admired in Jack Eastwood. More than admired in Jack Eastwood. No wonder her papa trusted Jack. He must look at the man and see himself, once again young, once again with the world before him, not tragically behind him.

Eleanor would have liked time alone to think about this, think about her reactions, even her motivations for feeling toward Jack as she did, but Treacle was standing just inside the doors now, announcing their guests.

First to enter the room,
sweep
into it, actually, was the Earl of Chelfham and his countess.

And nothing. Nothing happened.

Eleanor looked at the man without a flicker of recognition, with no immediate feeling of kinship. Instead, she found herself rather amused, for the man had the appearance of an overdressed peacock, his blue coat cut of some nearly iridescent material, his neckline and sleeve cuffs dripping lace, his spotted waistcoat spanned by at least three golden chains hanging heavy with beribboned fobs. He carried a large white lace-edged handkerchief he was actually holding up to his nose, as if leery of encountering a stench.

And he was short. And more than faintly plump. The top of his head shone in the light from the chandeliers, his only hair in an overlong half circle of fringe bordering his bald pate.

He was a cartoon figure, resembling drawings she'd seen when Morgan brought them from London, telling everyone that the drawings were exaggerated, but sometimes not so much so, for London was fairly thick with posturing idiots.

The woman on his arm, however, was gorgeous. Taller than her husband by a good three inches, her height accentuated by the tall feathers in her hair, and younger than he by more than two score years, she was a blond angel with huge blue eyes that matched the color of her fashionable gown.

The only thing marring her perfection was the look of utter boredom and disdain on her beautiful face.

As Jack went to meet his guests, Eleanor sat primly, her hands in her lap, and watched as a man entered the drawing room alone, ahead of one other couple.

Sir Gilbert Eccles, obviously, the bachelor of the group. He was tall, reed thin, and had somehow missed out on a chin somewhere along the line, poor fellow, while being overly blessed in the area of his Adam's apple. He had the nervous air of one who hopes to please, even if no one is looking his way. Eleanor tried to imagine the man attempting to balance peas on his knife, and found that easy to do.

And there was no mistaking Harris Phelps. He was the only other gentleman to enter the room, for one, and in looks he much resembled his sister, tall and blond, although the feminine features had not transferred well to the man, who looked more weak than handsome. He was wearing a bright scarlet silk waistcoat under his dark blue superfine, so that he looked like a more nattily turned-out Bow Street Runner, those gentlemen often referred to as Robin Redbreasts.

Phelps had gone directly to Jack, leaving his small, somewhat pudgy wife to stand just inside the doorway, looking rather lost.

Eleanor remained seated when Jack brought their guests over to be introduced, and she felt she did very well, lifting her hand for each man to take in turn, and only feeling slightly nauseous when the earl bowed over her fingertips while positively leering at her before his eyes narrowed and he turned away from her, his interest obviously not engaged.

Lady Chelfham then sat down in the very middle of the blue-on-blue striped satin couch nearest Eleanor, spreading her skirts around her so that Miranda Phelps had no choice but to take up her own seat on the facing couch.

This left Eleanor, sitting on her uncomfortable bench positioned at the end of the low table that divided the couches, squarely in between the two women.