The Courtship (windham) Page 8

  A man would do that—leap in conversation from mistresses to hunting trophies and be oblivious to the non sequitur, or maybe not even grasp that there might be one. “It’s a skunk. Perhaps he purchased it from somebody who’s hunted in the New World.”

  The animal was probably very pretty when alive. Lush black and white fur ended in a graceful plume of a tail, and yet in death, the beast’s eyes bore the same blank stare as every other prize in the room.

  “Well, I’m off to hunt a bride or perhaps some sport more entertaining than dodging Lady Morrisette’s overtures.” He paused by the door and regarded Esther for a moment. “You’re too decent for a gathering like this. I’m surprised Aunt and Uncle let you attend.”

  “I’m nominally under Lady Pott’s wing, when she’s awake. You’d best be going lest somebody remark our tête-à-tête, but I truly wish you’d limit yourself to farthing points.” Esther wished as well she could tell her numbskull cousin she’d been “permitted” to attend mostly to keep an eye on him.

  Michael pursed his lips in a sulky pout. “Schoolboys play for farthing points.”

  When the door clicked softly closed behind him, Esther informed the hare, the skunk, the stag’s head, and a four-foot-long silver-and-black snake twined around a limb above the mantel, “Even schoolboys know their debts of honor must be paid.”

  And Esther knew that Lady Morrisette had endless tasks waiting, and yet, this dusty, ghoulish closet-shrine to idle masculinity was probably the closest thing to a refuge Esther might find. She took a seat on a worn leather hassock and tried to absorb that Percy Windham had made passionate love with her, tucked her up in bed—left her there—and gone off a few hours later to disport with not one but two beautiful mistresses.

  Her parents’ marriage had been a love match, but Esther knew such unions were unusual in the better families—the titled families.

  The world certainly expected her to be celibate, but what right had she to expect Percival would be celibate?

  “Every right,” she assured the skunk. For the duration of one brief house party, he might have at least limited his attentions to her. She remained on her hassock, mentally lecturing herself for treasuring memories that clearly were of no moment to her lover.

  The feel of his hands in her hair.

  The sound of his voice in the darkness.

  The feel of his body joined carefully and intimately with hers…

  “Miss Himmelfarb.” Sir Jasper had opened the door so quietly, he was inside the room and had the door closed again before Esther noticed him standing under the stag. “Of all the ladies to find being private with the impecunious Mr. Adelman.”

  Esther remained seated. If the only rank she could assert was that of lady, then assert it, she would. “Is he impecunious, or unlucky in his choice of games?”

  “Touché, my lady.” He slouched closer, the dusty light making his face powder appear another artifact of zoological preservation. “Though it appears I’m the one in luck at the moment. I don’t hear Lady Zephora whining for her tea, and the word at breakfast was that the Lords Windham had gone off to revive themselves with some sophisticated sport in Town. Quimbey is out shooting hares, and here you are”—he came to a halt beside Esther’s hassock, which had the disagreeable result of putting his falls at her nose level—“all by yourself, at your leisure at last.”

  His fingers brushed her chin, a hint of threat in his touch. Esther tried hard not to move, not to flinch. He wasn’t hurting her; he wasn’t even groping her.

  But he was insulting her. For all Percival Windham might at that very moment be bathing with both of his mistresses, Lord Percy had not offered Esther insult, nor had he taken liberties beyond what she’d willingly shared.

  Esther batted Sir Jasper’s hand aside so stoutly, she had the gratification of seeing surprise on his face as she rose, brushed past him, and left him to the company of creatures already dead, stuffed, mounted, and gathering dust.

  * * *

  Five years of making war on colonials had impressed upon Sir Jasper several important lessons—lessons not taught on the hallowed playing fields of Eton.

  First, what counted was neither who had better form, nor who charmed the spectators, nor who looked better on a horse. What counted in any contest was who won.

  Second, marching about in straight lines, forming up into squares, and keeping a bright red uniform spotless was so much lunacy when the enemy soldiers respected no rules, could melt into the woods like wraiths, and used any weapon at hand to advance their cause.

  Third, a baronet’s succession was as important to the baronet as a duke’s might be to the duke.

  With those verities in mind, Sir Jasper waited in the conservatory at teatime, knowing it to be Mr. Michael Adelman’s favorite place to avoid company.

  “Are you considering a career in botany, Mr. Adelman?”

  The younger fellow startled as Sir Jasper emerged from behind a thriving stand of some enormous cane plant.

  “Sir Jasper. I enjoy the quiet here. I assume you do as well, so I’ll leave you to it.”

  Not so fast, pup. “Before you scamper off to the charms of our fair companions, might I enquire as to when you’ll be redeeming your vowels?”

  Mr. Adelman was dark haired, handsome by any standard, and smooth cheeked. Not a scar to be seen on his physiognomy, which Sir Jasper told himself he did not hold against the fellow. That such a one should be welcome to share closets and whispered confidences with Esther Windham, however, was not to be borne.

  Adelman drew himself up, though he was no taller than Sir Jasper. “One doesn’t typically carry large sums about to social gatherings, sir.”

  “Precisely.” Sir Jasper withdrew a gold watch and flipped it open. “But when said entertainments are of several weeks duration, one can certainly send to his man of business for a bank draft.” He glanced up from the watch, flicking it shut and dropping it back into his pocket. “You do have a man of business?”

  Adelman positively flushed with indignation. “Had I known you were so precipitous in collecting social debts, I would have already notified him.” Adelman brushed back the skirt of his coat and hooked a thumb in his waistcoat pocket, a lovely pose—casual, cocky, and designed to flaunt excellent tailoring. “Do you rule out the possibility that I will regain my losses?”

  “Indeed, I do.” Sir Jasper offered his snuffbox, an elegant accessory of gold and onyx. “The play to be had in such genteel surrounds has palled. Name a date, Mr. Adelman, and I’ll have my man of business attend yours at the location of your choice.”

  Adelman had no natural talent for dissembling. This was what made him a bad card player, but also what caused Sir Jasper an unwanted stirring of pity. Dueling was good sport when a man was a crack shot, but Adelman was only a couple of years down from university, a plain mister, and apparently of some value to Esther Himmelfarb.

  While resistance from a worthy female was all part of the game, her outright antipathy would be a nuisance under intimate circumstances.

  “I will offer you a compromise, Mr. Adelman. Either produce the coin you owe me by the first of the week, or I will appropriate from you something I consider to be of equal or greater value.”

  Sir Jasper whiffed a pinch of snuff into his left nostril, while Adelman looked away.

  “The first of the week is too soon.”

  “The first of the week is three days from now. You have all the time in the world to procure the means. I would, however, advise you to avoid the gambling offered by our hostess.”

  “I am not unlucky—” Adelman puffed up like a peacock.

  “No, you are unaware, which can be remedied. The ladies cheat, you see, and the gentlemen—your charming self included—overimbibe, and thus the odds are not at all what you think they are. I bid you a pleasant day and will expect remuneration within seventy-two hours.”

  Sir Jasper sauntered off, content with the exchange. Watching Adelman fidget away the next two days, then h
are away at the crack of dawn three mornings hence, would be entertaining—and God knew entertainment was in short supply at this gathering—and it would leave Esther Himmelfarb without her preferred swain.

  All in all, a productive little chat.

  * * *

  His Grace the Duke of Quimbey was tall, rangy, had kind blue eyes, a nice laugh, and was not one for standing on ceremony. That he was twice Charlotte’s age was of no moment. No unmarried duke was too old, too stout, too much given to the company of opera dancers, or even too impoverished for an ambitious, well-dowered girl to discount as a marital prospect.

  As Charlotte let herself into the small chamber under the eaves, she assured herself Quimbey was also not too enamored of Esther Himmelfarb. His Grace had attached himself to the lady’s side since the Windham menfolk had departed the day before, and no amount of flirting, teasing, or scheming had dislodged him.

  “But one well-placed billet-doux ought to shine a very different light on the perfect Miss Esther Himmelfarb.”

  At the very least, such a note, when made public, would get the girl sent home in disgrace, leaving her betters with a clearer field upon which to pursue and divide up the marital spoils in the final week of the house party. Since appropriating the note from its intended means of delivery, Charlotte had spent a day weighing options and making plans, and those plans, oddly enough, brought her to a chamber so unprepossessing as to rouse a niggling sense of guilt regarding her schemes.

  Esther Himmelfarb’s room was plain to the point of insult. The mirror over the vanity had a small crack near the base, the carpet was frayed where it met the bed skirt, and the single small window was clouded with age and grime. The only point of elegance was a white cat, enthroned on a chair upholstered in faded pink brocade.

  The cat took one look at Charlotte and quit the premises, leaving Charlotte to consider where a letter might lie in plain sight without being immediately noticed—a delicate decision.

  “Why, Miss Pankhurst, what a delight.”

  Sir Jasper lounged in the doorway, for once free of wig and powder. His blue eyes traveled over her figure, up, down, pause, down farther. The expression in them as he sauntered into the room was not kind.

  That expression gave Charlotte a salacious little thrill, truth be known. Sir Jasper’s bearing had the casual elegance of the career soldier, his manners were exquisite, he did not suffer fools, and neither did he cheat at cards or make life difficult for those who did.

  He also had wonderfully muscular thighs.

  “Sir Jasper.”

  He came closer, his gaze thoughtful. “Am I to believe that my good fortune in finding you here results from your desire to spend time with your dear friend, Miss Himmelfarb? When last I saw her, she was instructing Quimbey on the proper approach to fouling another’s ball at croquet. His Grace was listening attentively.”

  Sir Jasper had prowled closer, bringing a faint whiff of roses to Charlotte’s nose. Too late, she realized that she was alone in a bedroom with a single male, and the door barely open behind him.

  “I suppose I’d best go join Miss Himmelfarb at the croquet game.”

  He snatched the letter from Charlotte’s hand so quickly, indignation took a moment to battle its way through her surprise. “Give that back, sir.”

  Sir Jasper stepped away, unfolded the note, and took it over to the little window.

  “‘My dearest and most precious Esther—’ a sincere if unimaginative beginning. ‘After such pleasure as I have known in your company, any parting from you is torture. Rest assured I will return to your tender embrace as soon as I am able. Until we kiss again, my love, you will remain ever uppermost in my thoughts, and I shall remain exclusively and eternally, yours. Percival.’”

  Sir Jasper refolded the note but did not return it, even when Charlotte held out her hand for it. “The signature is not in the same hand, it isn’t even in the same ink.”

  Drat all men with keen eyesight. “It’s close enough.”

  “Windham would not have been stupid enough to sign such a note. No one will believe it’s from him.” Sir Jasper didn’t believe it was from Percy Windham; that much was obvious.

  Charlotte crossed the room and plopped down on the bed. “Some fellow left that note on her sidesaddle. A groom found it and gave it to my maid to leave in Miss Himmelfarb’s room. I chose to assign authorship to Lord Percival, because he’s highborn enough that the scandal won’t matter to him, and enough of a rascal that everyone will believe he’d dally like this. Quimbey is so decent he’d just marry her, and that entirely defeats the point of the exercise.”

  Sir Jasper considered the note again and set it on the vanity. He joined Charlotte on the bed, making the mattress dip to the extent that she fetched up against him, hip to hip. “You are a naughty woman, Miss Pankhurst. I may, to a minor degree, have underestimated you—or possibly your determination in matrimonial matters.”

  He sounded not exactly admiring, but neither was he criticizing her.

  “Miss Himmelfarb has to be got rid of,” Charlotte said, in case the idea was too subtle for the baronet’s masculine brain. “She’s ruining all of our chances, at Quimbey, at Lord Tony, Lord Percival, at you.” The last was an afterthought added at the prodding of feminine intuition.

  Sir Jasper took the bait—he also took Charlotte’s hand. “I do not flatter myself a mere baronet would be worthy of one of your station, my lady, but with a small exercise in forgery—the signature really should match the body of the note, my dear—there’s a way I might be of service to you.”

  His hand was surprisingly warm, his grasp firm. A baronet was no prize, of course, but that didn’t mean a lady couldn’t enjoy spending some time with him.

  “Close the door, Sir Jasper. If we’re to discuss forgery, then privacy is in order.”

  * * *

  “Why a fellow has to racket about Town for two days, and then hop on his destrier in the teeming rain, ruin his boots, his lungs, and his disposition in a headlong dash for the hinterlands is beyond my feeble powers of divination.” Tony emphasized his harangue with a cough.

  Percival handed off cape and gloves—both sopping wet—to a footman. “Our boots will dry out. I could not leave Miss Himmelfarb here undefended save for Quimbey’s dubious protection any longer than necessary.”

  “Necessary is a relative term.”

  Tony was entitled to grumble. Thrashing their way back to the Morrisette estate on the muddy tracks that passed for the king’s highways had been an ordeal; waiting another day to rejoin his intended would have been torture.

  “Why, my lords!” Hippolyta Morrisette paused in the entrance to the high-ceilinged foyer to join her hands at her breastbone. “Riding about in this weather will give you an ague, and then your dear mother will ring a peal over my head for a certainty—not that we aren’t glad to see you again!”

  There was something sly in her greeting, for all its effusiveness. Percy bowed without taking her hand. “My lady, greetings. If I might be so bold as to ask the whereabouts of Miss Himmelfarb?”

  The gleam in Lady Morrisette’s eye became calculating. “Surely you don’t intend to greet a young lady in all your dirt, my lord?”

  “Yes,” Tony said, an edge to his tone, “he most certainly does. He about killed the horses for that very purpose. Best oblige him, my lady.”

  She glanced from one young lord to the other, and apparently decided to heed Tony’s advice.

  “This way.” She swept toward the back of the house, and Percival followed, Tony bringing up the rear with boots squeaking and squishing.

  The guests were assembled in the largest informal parlor, which was fortunate. It meant as he wound his way through the east wing, Percival had a few moments to organize his thoughts despite the screaming need to see Esther again, to make sure she’d weathered his absence without mischief befalling her.

  The same instincts that had warned Percival when his superiors had sent him off on doomed errands were
urging him to shove Lady Morrisette aside and ransack the house, bellowing Esther’s name until she was again in his arms.

  Which would not do. Her Grace would have an apoplexy if word of such behavior reached her.

  Lady Morrisette paused while a footman opened the parlor doors, and too late, Percival understood the ambush he’d charged into: Her Grace and His Grace sat reading a newspaper at the same table by the window where Esther Himmelfarb had been playing cards more than two weeks ago.

  “Possible hostiles near the window,” Tony muttered, coming up on Percy’s shoulder.

  Nothing possible about it, and yet, there was Esther, embroidering in a corner on a settee, Quimbey sitting beside her and looking entirely too content, while the rest of the room looked askance at the recent arrivals.

  “Look who I found in the foyer!” Lady Morrisette’s cheerful announcement had all heads turning, but where Percival had expected to see welcome in Esther’s eyes, he saw guardedness.

  She said something to Quimbey, who smiled like a man besotted, then went back to her embroidery.

  Percy could not take his eyes off Esther—though she was ignoring him. “My apologies to the company for the state of my attire, but my errands in Town were urgent.”

  The Pankhurst girl rose, as if she’d leave the room or say something, but her gaze went swiveling from Percy to Esther and back to Percy.

  “Percival, what can you be about?” His mother’s tone was dry as dust. “Disgracing yourself and tracking mud all over Lady Morrisette’s carpets. Take your brother and see to your wardrobe.”

  She turned a page of the newspaper laid out before her, paying no more heed to her sons than if they had been footmen caught in an indecorous exchange. His Grace neither followed up with a ducal rebuke nor interceded for his sons—of course.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Grace.” Percival bowed to his mother. “Before I take my leave, I would address Miss Himmelfarb in private.”