Duel of Hearts (2 page)

H
aving delivered her still-irate abigail to the solicitous ministrations of Mrs. Crome, the Coles' elderly housekeeper, Leah Cole was in the process of stripping her kid gloves from her hands while still in the wide marble-floored foyer when she noted the door ajar to her father's study. A quick glance at the ornate clock on the mantel of the entry fireplace revealed it to be but a few minutes past three o'clock, a highly suspect time for Jeptha Cole to be at home. But then he'd been a trifle pulled lately, something he chose to deny vehemently when taxed with it. He worked hard to earn her bread, he'd retorted, and was therefore entitled to be tired on occasion. She knew instinctively he was hiding something beneath that gruff exterior he affected, and it worried her.

“Papa?” she inquired tentatively as she pushed the door wider. “Is anything amiss?”

“Here now,” he growled from the depths of his large leather chair, “can a man not take his ease one afternoon without having to answer for it? Damme, Leah, but if you think to coddle me, you are wide of the mark, girl!” His expression softened almost immediately even if his voice did not. “Do not be standing there with that injured look—it won't fadge, for one thing—and come tell your papa what you have been doing.” As she moved forward, he patted a chair beside him, nodding. “That's the ticket, my love.”

“Do not be thinking to fob me off by changing the subject, Papa,” she murmured, leaning to plant a kiss on his balding head. “My day is like any other, unlike yours, for you are so seldom at home before 'tis dark.”

“Cannot a man come home to see his dearest treasure?” he demanded.

“Since you are known to terrorize every female in this house but me, Papa, I collect you are attempting to turn me up sweet. It will not happen, you know,” she added with a wry twist to her mouth. “I have not forgotten that just this morning I was the bane of your life.”

“Never said it.”

“You did. And if you will not send for Dr. Fournier, I shall.”

“Damned Frenchie!” he snorted.

“Well, he
did
improve your gout,” she reminded him.

“And starved me to death to do it! No mutton or pork or beef, he says! Humph! A man cannot live on birds, I tell you, Leah,” he muttered with feeling. “And he took away my port.”

“Not entirely, Papa.”

“One glass—only this full.” Indicating less than two inches with his thumb and forefinger, he shook his head. “Scarce enough to wet m' throat, and not enough to bother with.”

“Fiddle. Do not think I do not know you have been cheating on it.” She confronted him with a glint of amusement in her gray eyes, adding, “Your secret is out, I fear, for when I offered poor Mr. Crofton a glass, he nearly choked on it. It was but colored water, Papa.”

“I suppose you found the other.”

“And poured it out.”

“Managing female,” he growled.

“Now, do you send for Dr. Fournier, or do I?”

He eyed her with disfavor for a moment and then looked away. “I have already consulted him, if you must pry,” he admitted grudgingly.

She stared for a moment, scarcely crediting her ears, for she could not remember his ever willingly seeking out a physician. His gout had taken him to such a pass that he could scarce support his ample frame with a cane to walk, and yet it had fallen to her to summon a doctor, and it had taken threats and tears to make him civil to the little Frenchman. Hiding her shock as best she could, she managed, “And?”

“And he told me to rest an hour or two each afternoon, if you must know everything. I ain't as young as I once was. There—you have the tale now, so leave me be on the matter.” His eyes suddenly noted the dirt on her walking dress and the tear in the skirt. “Seems to me, miss, that it should be me taking you to task—what the devil happened to you?”

“A young paperskull thought himself a great whip and lost control of his horses,” she answered blithely. “Had it not been for the handsome but somewhat odious Lord Lyndon, Annie and I should have been run down on the street—an ignominious end for two females gone to look for a novel, don't you think?”

“Your levity ill becomes you,” he grumbled testily, and then his manner changed abruptly. “Lyndon? Lyndon—where have I heard the name before?” he mused. “Young fellow?”

“Yes, and he is possessed of the most abominable manners, if the truth were told, Papa. Just when I was about to thank him profusely for saving our lives, he …well, there is no delicate way to put it, I suppose—he
inspected
me! He looked at me as though I were some sort of Cyprian!”

“Daresay you mistook the matter then,” her father said. “Can't have—you don't look like one. Not that I know any,” he added hastily, “but I know there ain't a man living as would mistake you for one of them—there ain't.”

“But he did. He was positively bold, Papa,” she said indignantly. “Most men when you meet them look at your face first, but not Lord Lyndon.”

“Lyndon.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and tried to place the name. “Viscount Lyndon, you say?”

“To be precise, I did not mention it, but yes, I believe he said he was a viscount.”

“Ah, I remember now—poor fellow lost his fortune last week when the
Windward
sank, as I heard it. Old family, too—a pity. Well, if he was behavin' peculiar-like, who could blame him, I ask you? Mind's still probably befuddled by the loss.”

“He did not appear befuddled in the least,” she retorted. “His manners were offensive.”

“But you were civil to him?”

“Of course I was civil to him! I was all that was polite.”

“Related to the Davenham dukes, I think.”

“I should not doubt it—he appeared arrogant enough to be related to Prinny himself.”

But Jeptha Cole was no longer listening as he continued to muse aloud, “Aye, the fellow tried his hand at cargo speculation, as I remember, and was in a fair way to turning a handsome profit until this. Can't be a bad lad if he's got a good head on his shoulders. What'd you say he looked like?”

“Actually, I did not really note him,” she said, hoping to end the discussion.

“Thought you said he was handsome,” he persisted.

“Well, I suppose he is, but his manner of looking at me can only be described as offensive in the extreme.”

“He cannot be above twenty-five or so, I'd think.”

“Papa, I have no wish to discuss Lord Lyndon.”

“Tut—can't a man be curious when his daughter tells him she met a fine buck of the
ton
? It ain't as if you was still a chit in the schoolroom, after all.”

“Papa …” she said warningly. “If you want the truth of it, I also met the Earl of Rotherfield, and he did not look at me in such a way. Indeed, I liked him the better of the two,” she added, knowing full well she would probably never see either of them again.

“Rotherfield!” he snorted. “Now I know you do not know what you are about, for even I know he ain't good
ton,
missy!” For a moment he appeared distracted, and then his expression brightened. “Oh, as you was saying, you went to Hookham's. Yes, yes, well …uh, anything else of note happen to you today?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.

“Nothing.”

“Madame Cecile come today?”

“Yes, though I cannot think how you managed it,” she admitted. “After all, 'tis her busiest season, and I can scarce be a credit to her.”

“ 'Twas money, Leah—money will gain you anything. I had but to dangle my purse in front of her to discover she is as greedy as anyone and more greedy than most. ‘Rig out m'girl like a lady,' I told her, and when she allowed as how she was busy, I said I expected to pay the pretty for her services.”

Leah sighed, seeing where he was leading her again. “Papa, 'tis foolish to think clothes will make me a lady. No matter how much you wish it, I shall never grace the reception rooms at Almack's, nor will I ever be presented at court. And you must not think I mind it, for I do not. I am not of that world, Papa,” she added gently.

“Because I am a Cit.” He sighed heavily and nodded. “Aye, I can buy and sell most of the bucks in London, and I am still naught but a Cit to 'em, I suppose.” His eyes traveled to the portrait of a lovely blond woman who seemed to be looking down on them with love in her eyes. “But I promised her—I promised Marianna you would have your due, puss—and so I shall.”

“But I don't
want
to be a lady! Can you not understand that? Papa, I am what I was born—I am a Cit. Do you think I aspire to routs and balls and masquerades and … and whatever else they do?” Her voice gained an impassioned intensity as she paced before him. “It is an empty life, Papa. I watch the ladies come and go from Hookham's almost every week, and as far as I can tell, they are but decorations for rich men's houses.” Pausing to collect her argument, she sought the means to explain how she felt about the Quality. “Just yesterday I saw the most pitiful climbing boy—his master was whipping him because he would not climb a chimney that was on fire. Do you think any of the fine ladies stopped? Of course they did not! Do you think they even felt sorry for the child? Well, they passed him as though he did not exist! And if I were to even attempt to enter such a world, they would ignore my existence also.”

“Where is the boy now?” he asked suspiciously.

“Monsieur Lebeau is teaching him to work in the kitchen, and he appears to be a clever child. Perhaps you would see he is apprenticed in an easier trade.” And in the face of his resigned sigh, she defended what she'd done. “Well, he could not stay with that awful man, after all, and I bought him.”

“Leah … Leah. Your heart's too soft, girl.”

“Papa, there ought to be laws against such things! How can a country that bans slavery allow indentures for small children?”

“There is a law, but it is seldom enforced,” he retorted. “Too many fancy lords have narrow chimneys themselves, and without the boys, how would they clean 'em?” Catching her thoroughly disgusted expression, he relented enough to mollify her. “All right, all right—mayhap I can find a place for the boy at the dock, but do not expect me to do it until the India Company's ships come in.”

“Thank you, Papa,” she murmured demurely.

“Sly puss, ain't you? Ought to bend down and let me box your ears, you know. You are just like your mother, God rest her soul. But I'll tell you what I used to tell her: it ain't the gentle fellows who make fortunes in this world. Old Jeptha didn't get rich by being weak, and don't you forget it.”

“Yes, Papa,” she responded dutifully, despite having heard the speech more times than she dared count.

“Yes … well, did that man-milliner of a dance master come today?” he asked, remembering where they'd been before he'd heard of the chimney sweep. “And can you waltz yet, or am I paying him for nothing?”

“Master Jennings tells me that I am quite his best pupil.”

“Do not be using that tone with me, miss! I know you think it an old man's fancy, but I'll see you a fine lady yet—I will. It stands to reason that if every fellow you meet makes a cake of himself, then there's a fancy lord somewheres as would want you.” He met her eyes defiantly and nodded emphatically. “There ain't a man alive that don't admire you if he knows you, Leah.”

“I'd sooner be a spinster, Papa, than be married for my money,” she declared flatly. “And I warn you that you will not persuade me to marry any old fool just because he has a title.”

“No, no—of course not. Did I say I wished for an old fool?” he retorted. “Silly chit! I am looking for a real out-and-outer for my girl, I can tell you!”

“You relieve my mind then,” she answered sweetly.

“There is no out-and-outer who would have a Cit. No, we shall go on as we have always done, I think, and I will be a comfort to you in your dotage.” Reaching to pat his head affectionately, she relented enough to allow, “But it is a harmless enough amusement for you, I suppose.”

He sat quiet still for a long time after she left him, wondering where it all would end. He could leave her rich beyond her furthest imaginings, but somehow that was not enough. No, he had to see her settled very soon for his peace of mind. Finally he sighed heavily and raised his head to stare at his dead wife's portrait again, and the girl looked down, smiling at him as she had in his youth. If only Leah could have known her mother, then she would understand how much it meant to him to make her a lady in title as well as manners. Idly he wondered if Marianna would look the same when he saw her again—if somehow they would be as young lovers once more in eternity. It seemed to him that her portrait beckoned him even now.

“Well, Marianna,” he said softly, “what say you—shall I inquire as to what sort of man this Lyndon is?” For a moment he thought he could read her answer in her painted eyes. “Aye, damme if I won't do it.”

T
he glowing rows of yellow gaslights illuminated St. James Street, inviting Tony to enjoy a gentleman's evening of social entertainment. Having missed his friends Gil and Hugh earlier, he set his glossy top hat at a rakish angle, retrieved his brass-handled walking stick from the floorboard of his curricle, and waved his groom on with the admonition to return precisely at three in the morning, before he set off whistling softly in the direction of White's. Already the windows of the gaming establishments that lined St. James were warm with light, beckoning the elite who had money in their pockets.

After exchanging a few words of greeting with Raggett, the proprietor of White's, Tony handed his hat and stick to Piggles (Mr. Pigg, actually) and made his way through the carpeted salons toward the games in back. As he passed, fellow members of the club looked up from baize-covered tables to hail him.

“Hallo—thought to see you earlier, Tony,” Gil Renfield greeted him without looking up. “Got the devil's own luck tonight,” he murmured as he cast the dice again, to the appreciative whistle of Hugh Rivington. Raking in the pile of notes, he straightened and nodded. “Gentlemen, I leave you to Hugh—may he be kinder on your purses.”

“Not me,” Rivington responded. “My pockets are to let until quarter day, and even if they were not, my stomach rumbles for food. Hallo, Tony,” he added, rising. “Missed you at Boodle's earlier. Do you sup or play tonight?”

“Both.”

“Did you give my regards to the duchess?” Hugh asked curiously. “Can't think why you humor the old girl myself—she don't like me above half. Daresay it's because she's
your
great-aunt by blood and mine only by marriage. Got no expectations of her, you know.”

“Aunt Hester will take her blunt to perdition with her before she parts with it,” Tony responded, grinning. “But as long as she keeps her oars out of my water, I rub along tolerably with her.”

“Called you to book, eh?” Gil cut in. “Thought she would when I read the
Gazette
—told Hugh there'd be the devil to pay when she saw it.”

“She cannot abide anything that loses money,” Rivington observed dryly. “I've not a doubt but she read a rare peal over you.”

“She did.” Unwilling to discuss his fortune or supposed lack of it with anyone, Tony changed the subject abruptly. “Tell me something,” he asked casually, “either of you ever hear of a Leah Cole?”

Hugh furrowed his brow for a moment, then shook his head. “Don't think so. Why?”

“Gil?”

“Not that I recall—who is she?”

“The fairest Cyprian of them all, by the looks of it. I cannot remember ever having seen a lovelier creature,” Tony declared solemnly. “I mean to have her.”

“You want to enter it in the books? Three to five that Lyndon mounts—what's her name … Leah Cole?—that Lyndon mounts Leah Cole for his next mistress?” Hugh asked Gil.

“You must think me a veritable babe,” Gil retorted. “A man'd be a fool to bet against it, and well you know it. If she's female, Tony'll have her set up snug in a week.”

“Your confidence reassures me, but I'd as lief not have it bandied about,” he warned Hugh. “I have a distinct aversion to being the latest
on-dit,
thank you. I am not, however, against supper,” he added, his disclosure about Leah Cole at an end.

“Egad—there's Rotherfield!” Gil hissed.

A ripple of silence traveled before the tall, austerely clad man, and a low murmur followed him. That he was immensely unpopular with the gentlemen of his class never seemed to weigh with the earl. Tony watched him with grudging admiration, an admiration not shared by many members of the
haut ton,
and wondered how it was that he had the courage to show his face. He'd killed not one man, but rather three, and all over someone else's wife, an unpardonable sin, and then to compound his error, he'd returned to England, expecting to go on as though nothing had happened. At first, there'd been a cry to ban him from the clubs, but there were none foolish enough to tell him. It had been decided more or less amongst everyone that the best course of action was simply the cut indirect, although there were those who argued it was as dangerous to ignore him as it was to speak to him.

When he drew even with them, his black eyes met Tony's for a moment. “Your servant, Lyndon,” he murmured in that cold voice of his.

“Hallo, Marcus,” Tony answered easily while Gil and Hugh drew back perceptibly, their distaste for Rotherfield all too plainly written on their faces.

“It surprised me to see you about today. I'd more than half-expected you to take a repairing lease in the country after I read the
Gazette.
But then one cannot always believe what one reads, can one?”

“Not much of it, anyway, and almost none of what one hears,” Tony responded.

“How true. You know there are those who have you three-quarters of the way to Newgate already.”

“I never dignify gossip, Marcus. Did you come to play?”

“Actually, I had thought to observe your game. I do not suppose you have discovered the fair Leah's direction, have you?”

“No, and I would not share it with you if I had. As for my game, 'tis my intent to sup first, but you are welcome to join me later,” Tony offered.

“Not tonight.” With a slight inclination of his black head, Rotherfield moved on, leaving Gil to mutter, “Can't think why they let him in—fellow's as cold as they come. By the looks of it, he'd as lief run a man through as talk to 'im.”

“ 'Tis what he would have you think,” Tony retorted, his eyes still on the earl's back.

“Deuced unpleasant sort, anyway,” Hugh decided. “But then he don't waste his breath talking to me. Wonder why he came if he didn't want to play?”

“To discover if I found La Belle Cole,” Tony guessed.

“Talks to anyone when it suits him—whether they wish for the discourse or not.” Gil shook his head as he turned from contemplating the earl to Tony. “Deuced silly to offer to play him—nobody comes about at his expense, you know.”

“I have played him before.”

“But under different circumstances. Now you cannot afford to lose—gives him the edge, you know,” Hugh observed dryly. “And the man is dangerous when he calls the tune.”

“Thank you, Hugh—I will try to remember that,” Tony muttered sarcastically. “Your belief in me is comforting.”

“It ain't that, Tony—'tis just that you got a hot temper, and I'd hate to see—”

“I know very well what you mean to say, and I'd as lief not hear it. If you think me foolish enough to call him out, you are empty in the cockloft, my friend. Now, do we sample the lobster patties or not?”

Both of them murmured a hasty assent, with Gil attempting the role of peacemaker. “No sense quarreling about what ain't going to happen, is there? I say we eat and hear more about this Cole female.”

Tony let himself into his town house quite late, or early, as the case could be argued, depending on whether the one counting the hour was master or servant. The hall was deserted and the candles in the sconces nearly guttered. Loosening his cravat, he groped his way to his library, where he lit the brace of candles on the table. One of these days, he was going to have to consider gas lighting, he supposed as he sorted through the papers left by his secretary. Usually John Maxwell was a prince when it came to doing almost everything, and Tony hoped for success in his quest. Squinting in the flickering light, he read and discarded half a dozen sheets of paper until he discovered what he looked for—the Scotsman's bold scrawl fairly leapt from the page beneath the heading “Leah Cole.” But as he read further, Tony was destined for disappointment. The usually thorough Max wrote merely:

Crumpling the paper, Tony threw it in a ball across the room to vent his frustration. It was impossible that any female who looked like Leah Cole could be unknown. A girl like that had to have other pursuits besides reading. The image of her floated before him as clearly as if he were seeing her now, and he felt that dryness of mouth he associated with desire. Moving to a sideboard, he poured himself a glass of sherry from a decanter and contemplated his next move. He could not, would not, let Leah Cole elude him. Not even if Rotherfield were interested in her himself.

Finally he took a seat at the table and reached for the inkstand. Leaning close to see in the yellowish light, he dipped his pen and instructed Max:

It would be like looking for a particular grain of sand on a beach, he knew, but he had to find her. And a female like that simply could not disappear without a trace.

Draining his glass, he leaned back in his chair and contemplated the problem. Already there was a faint rosy glow of dawn filtering through the crosspanes, a reminder that he ought to seek his bed. But he was strangely exhilarated at the mere thought of another meeting with the lovely Leah, and he had to admit he'd not felt such a strong and immediate attraction for any beautiful woman before—the feeling was as intense as the first calf-love of his salad days.