CHAPTER 6 #2
“If you must, then do. However, I would rather not kill you over a pleasure so long ago enjoyed, fond though the memory might be.”
Kniveton lunged. Gareth ducked. Kniveton’s fist landed on the jaw of a man in the crowd who had turned to watch the show.
Ives grabbed Kniveton, set him back, and gestured to his friends. “He is foxed, and will be grateful tomorrow if you remove him now. He does not want to duel with this one. Bastard he may be, but he can shoot a button off a man’s coat without ripping the wool it decorates.”
The two of them restrained Kniveton, and pulled him away.
Ives’s mouth and forehead frowned, but his eyes twinkled. “You did have to describe the lady’s finest talent.”
“If she were my wife, I would want to know so I got my fair share.”
The crowd dispersed. Lance walked to them. “What did Kniveton want?”
“To see you swing,” Ives said.
“I can’t blame him. I did fuck his wife. She really likes to s—”
“Yes, we know,” Ives said.
Lance wandered away, toward the hazard table.
Ives looked at Gareth. “Damn, all this talk of the lady’s predilections has me hard as an iron rod. Did you lie to draw the fire, or am I the only brother who did not get his fair share, as you put it?”
Gareth shrugged, and followed Lance.
* * *
Eva handed her shopping basket to the footman, who set it aside.
Then she followed him into a pretty drawing room decorated in the incongruous styles of the two women who lived in this fine house.
Jeweled tones mixed with pastels, and paisleys with florals.
Pretty landscapes decorated the walls, right next to somewhat odd images reminiscent of Mr. Blake’s illustrations.
The sisters Neville received her from their respective perches.
Ophelia sat in a diminutive upholstered rose-hued chair.
Light from the window turned her blond hair into a haze, making it look like the pale ethereal seed head of a dandelion waiting for a strong breeze or breath.
Jasmine lounged on a divan, her long curls following the same hills and valleys as her shapeless silk robe.
They had sent a letter yesterday, inviting her to call on them. They never had before. She assumed they wanted to discuss the same topic she had broached outside Mr. Duran’s shop, only in the privacy of their home.
Tea was served. Eva sipped slowly, enjoying the luxury. She never drank tea. Good tea was far too expensive, and cheap tea tasted like the adulterated bad bargain it was.
“We are so happy you have called,” Ophelia said. “We would have called on you, but your sister said you prefer if people do not.”
“As if we care how many chairs there are,” Jasmine intoned. “Life is what it is. There is no shame in a woman’s poverty, especially since it is almost never that woman’s fault.”
“How understanding of you,” Eva said. “All the same, Rebecca thinks it would prove awkward to ask guests to stand the whole time.”
“She is correct on that, Jasmine. You must admit it.”
Jasmine nodded, grudgingly.
“As for why we would have called,” Ophelia continued. “One reason would be to know you better. We have often commented that it was too bad you never came with Rebecca, so we could make your better acquaintance. While your brother was ill, it was understandable, of course, but since then—”
“You should be out and about more, and not only to shop,” Jasmine interrupted. “You never attend assemblies or stroll along the lake. You took on some habits while you cared for him that you should endeavor to break now that your year of mourning is over.”
“I do not think Miss Russell needs our advice, sister.” Ophelia subtly rolled her eyes in Eva’s direction. “Even if she may understand it is only your good heart that causes you to offer it.”
Eva just smiled.
“We also wanted to speak to you about something else,” Ophelia said.
“Since you spoke so frankly with us the other day on the lane, we assumed you would not mind our doing the same in turn,” Jasmine inserted.
“I can hardly object, as you so neatly point out. Pray tell, what do you feel obligated to say?”
“I hope you know that we speak and act as friends,” Ophelia said.
“Of course. With good hearts, as you said.”
Jasmine righted herself on the divan. Her exotic robe made her appear like some foreign oracle. “We have friends in London. Old friends. Good friends. We wrote to them, to learn what we could about him.”
“Him?”
“Mr. Fitzallen. Gareth Fizallen,” Ophelia said. “Did you know he is the bastard of the Duke of Aylesbury? The third duke, of course.”
“His mother was the butler’s daughter. Aylesbury made her his mistress. Kept her for years. Decades. Until he died,” Jasmine said.
“Such arrangements are not uncommon among the nobility,” Eva said, lest the sisters think she was so provincial as to be shocked by the revelations. “Nor is a man responsible for his own birth, I think you will agree.”
Jasmine looked at her sister meaningfully. Ophelia appeared chagrined.
“I told you,” Jasmine said. “See how she defends him.”
“Only because I, too, strive to have a good heart,” Eva said.
Jasmine speared her with a knowing glare. “See here. Your sister said he called at your house. Brought a little gift. Erasmus says he has asked about your brother’s illness and other things related to your family’s history.”
“Other things,” Ophelia echoed quietly.
“So we wrote to our friends to see what he was.”
“And learned he was a bastard. I already knew that. He told me at once. It should not matter to anyone, but perhaps my heart is too good if I think so.”
Jasmine threw up her hands. “Tell her, Ophelia. Perhaps she will hear it better if it comes from you.”
“Tell me what?”
Ophelia looked pained. “We do not expect you to care that he is a bastard. However, it is his character that gave us pause. It is not the best. He has a reputation that we thought you should know about, lest you . . . that is, so he does not . . .”
“Seduce and abandon,” Jasmine boomed. “Tell lies, take advantage, and bring shame upon your family.”
Her voice rang through the drawing room. Eva looked to be sure the windows were closed.
“He is reputed to be very wicked,” Ophelia said. “Most skilled in his seductions. Wives, widows, women of maturity like yourself—”
“Mostly wives,” Jasmine said. “But our friends say he considers any female over twenty-three fair game, and some suspect he has even deflowered innocent girls.” She lowered her voice, as if confiding a secret.
“We are told that he employs certain exotic techniques that leave women enthralled, even addled, and unable to give him up. Some of the highest-born ladies, names you would know, have sought to keep him closer than is wise. As a young man right out of university he had a long affair with one lady, who herself has a reputation for romantic excess. The relationship became notorious. She kept him like a pet and spent a small fortune on him.”
“Perhaps she corrupted him,” Ophelia offered. “His current character would not be his fault, then. Not entirely.”
“Oh, sister, sister, sister. You will always look for excuses for the wicked. It does you no credit.”
“That is not true. You always see the worst and I do not, that is all.”
Eva cleared her throat to draw their attention, before she witnessed a long exchange of bickering.
“I am grateful, of course, that you chose to share this with me. I need to reassure you that Mr. Fitzallen has no such interest in me. I am the last woman to turn such a man’s head, even for a few hours.
I think we can all agree that while he may someday be wicked with a lady in Langdon’s End, it will not be me. ”
They both looked at her in a peculiar way. Then at each other. Then at her.
“It goes without saying that we are not concerned about you,” Jasmine said.
“It is Rebecca whom we fear will attract his wickedness.”
Of course. They worried for beautiful Rebecca. It was me he almost kissed. He gave that little gift to me. I am the one he might seduce and abandon. She came close to saying it. Shouting it. Except she knew the sisters were correct. She was in no danger. None at all.
On reflection—much reflection—she had concluded she had been mistaken and he had not almost kissed her. For one thing, from the sound of things, Gareth did not almost kiss women. Far from it.
“You are so good to be concerned for my sister. I am truly touched. If it gives you any peace, let me say that he barely looked at her when he visited.”
“That is a common strategy of such men. The question is whether she looked at him,” Jasmine said.
“How could she not? Of course she was impressed. He is very handsome. However, after he left, I asked her what she thought of him. Her response will amuse you. She said he was beautiful, but old.”
“He can’t be more than thirty years,” Ophelia said. “Perhaps even a few years younger.”
“To a girl her age, thirty is ancient. It was when I was eighteen.” Rebecca’s dismissal of Gareth as too old had been a mixed blessing. While she was glad Rebecca would not form a tendre for him, finding her sister a husband would be much harder if she persisted in thinking thirty years was old.
Ophelia looked relieved. Jasmine appeared half-appeased.
“You must keep an eye on her, all the same,” Jasmine said.
“Who knows what wily plans he might have. He has no fortune, so if the worst happens she will hardly be better off if he does the right thing, which his reputation suggests he will not. Other than a modest income from the duke, and that pile of stone he now calls Albany Lodge, he has nothing. As a bastard, he never will.”
Eva stood. “I will be very cautious and make sure Rebecca does not get enthralled or addled, I promise. Now, I must return to her. I have been gone overlong.”