Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
“ D on’t just stand there looking like a smacked bottom, Clarkson,” said Lucius, tugging at his cravat more vigorously than its starch could withstand. “If you insist on staying when I’ve given you clear instructions to depart, you might as well make yourself useful.” He surveyed his reflection in the mirror, taking in the results of his efforts to achieve formal evening attire without Clarkson’s assistance. Topcoat on, black as midnight and exquisitely cut. Shirt collar turned out, cravat tied in a passable barrel knot. His trousers were so beautifully tailored that it would have been difficult for any man to make them look slovenly. Lucius pushed away the memory of the sum he’d carelessly thrown to his tailor on his return to London. Heaven forbid the heir to Whitby Manor should be seen in England with the same waistcoat he’d worn in Milan.
Overall, his appearance was passable. Perhaps not to his valet’s professional satisfaction, but that would swiftly cease to matter once Clarkson was dismissed for lack of money to pay his wages.
Lucius arched an eyebrow at the fussy little man, who was biting the inside of his cheek in distress. “Go on, then. Tell me where I’ve gone wrong.”
Clarkson flexed his fingers, but a glare from Lucius prevented him from reaching out to repair the damage himself. “Your right cuff, sir. It has not been fastened.”
Lucius glanced down. Drat. He’d made a brief attempt at it with his left hand but had abandoned it in frustration. Did anyone really notice such a thing as a loose cuff?
He took up the discarded cuff link – gold, diamond-studded – and began wrestling with it again, his temper souring. In the mirror, Clarkson’s mouth opened, wavered, and closed again.
“What else?” Lucius asked.
Clarkson cocked his head to one side, choosing his words with caution. “The waistcoat, sir. It’s not what I would have picked out for an important dinner.”
Lucius frowned at himself. The waistcoat seemed perfectly serviceable to him. “It’s a waistcoat, Clarkson. It has all its buttons, a hole for my head, and two for my arms. It performs every task required of it. What has it done to offend you?”
Clarkson shook his head, apparently lost for a suitable way to address his master’s poor education on the subject of couture , and took out another waistcoat from the wardrobe. “The white Marcella, sir, lends an aura of elegance that is much more suited to entertaining guests one wishes to impress.”
“Rubbish! No gentleman has ever impressed me with his waistcoat.” Not that it had stopped Lucius giving Clarkson free rein to stuff his wardrobe with as many fine examples of the tailor’s art as money could buy. He ran his eyes over the neat hangers of patterned silk in the wardrobe and let out an involuntary groan.
Clarkson took the waistcoat off the hanger and presented it to Lucius, unperturbed. “No gentleman would notice, perhaps. But there are ladies present this evening.”
Now it made sense. Lucius sighed and pressed his fingers to his forehead in a vain attempt to smooth out the wince of embarrassment. His father’s obsequious idea of welcoming Lady Isobel as though she were the Queen herself had been bad enough to start with. But now that every gossiping servant in the building had seen the way the girl shook his hand…
What on earth had induced her to do that? Isobel Balfour was supposed to be shy. Quiet. Mousy, even. She’d been that way before he left England. She’d even been the same this past Season in London, he was sure of it.
So who was this golden-haired coquette, and why was she plaguing Lucius with her attentions now? The last thing he needed was a woman’s hopes to throw in the gutter along with his family fortune.
As an act of charity, he allowed Clarkson to fasten him into the white waistcoat. The one with the aura of elegance.
At least he’d be able to give the man a glowing reference before he was cast off to find a new position. Clarkson had somehow made Lucius’s name as a man of impeccable taste, despite Lucius’s utter indifference to his own appearance. In many ways, he’d be lost without the fussy little valet.
Ah, well. Another harsh lesson lying in wait for his future, impoverished self.
“Lady Isobel is merely visiting my sisters, Clarkson,” he said, batting the valet away in favour of fumbling pridefully with his right cuff link. Lady Isobel is bait in my father’s foolish trap. “I’ve no desire to impress her. To tell you the truth, I’d rather she hadn’t come at all.”
Clarkson smiled – a knowing, winking sort of smile that made Lucius’s heart sink. “Of course, sir.” He picked up a cut glass bottle from the dressing table. “A splash of cologne, perhaps?”
Ah, yes. The olfactory exoticism of cinnamon, oakmoss and Sicilian lemons, all for the low price of twice-his-father’s-remaining-wealth a drop. Did cologne expire? Lucius had never needed to think about it before. Now, he pictured his future self in tattered clothing in some draughty garret, gingerly uncorking the crystal flask for a whiff of his lost luxuries.
He doubted anyone would want to buy a half-finished bottle of cologne. “Why not,” he said, allowing Clarkson to apply it in measured dabs to his wrists and neck.
That was one task he’d never take on himself. Paupers didn’t waste their pennies on beautiful scents.
“All done,” said Clarkson, taking a step back to admire his and Lucius’s joint handiwork. “And may I say, regardless of whether you wish to impress the lady, sir –”
“You may not say it, Clarkson,” said Lucius. Irritation – not with his fanciful valet, but with his own miserable circumstances – sharpened his tongue more than the man deserved. “In fact, from this point onwards you may refrain from making any remarks of the kind.” He strode past the valet, ignoring Clarkson’s reddening cheeks, and went for his bedroom door. “I can assure you that there is no woman on earth whose notice I wish to escape more than – Lady Isobel !”
The angry force of his arm swung the door fully open, leaving no doubt whatsoever as to the identity of the person standing in the corridor.
The person dressed in a fetching shade of deep rose, the like of which he’d never seen on the slender form of Lady Isobel Balfour before. The person whose rumpled hair of the morning had been coiffed into shimmering perfection, two mirrored curls trailing down to graze her collarbone. The person whose eyes met his, sharp and knowing and totally at odds with the exclamation of surprise that fell from her lips.
“Do excuse me, Mr Whitby!” Lady Isobel took a step back and curtseyed. “It has been so long since I visited the house. I must have got turned about on my way down to dinner.” She pressed a hand to her chest, her feigned horror not even slightly convincing. “Would you be kind enough to escort me down?”
She was the picture of innocence. A picture with every detail sketched by an expert hand – sapphire eyes wide, cheeks flushed the same delicate pink as her dress, thick lashes lowering modestly in the heat of his glare – and all a complete fabrication. Isobel Balfour had visited Whitby Manor often enough to know the way from the guest wing to the dining room. She also, clearly, knew where to find Lucius’s bedroom.
Before he could muster a response, she’d laid a hand on his arm. A repeat of the intimate, possessive gesture she’d used that morning in front of the entire blasted household. Lucius didn’t dare glance back at Clarkson’s expression. He didn’t have to, anyway. He knew his valet well enough to picture the gleeful wink.
Besides, what could he do? Cast her off and leave her to wander the corridors alone? Plead a pressing need to top up his cologne before he made his entrance downstairs?
“Escorting you would be my pleasure,” he said, his clipped tone making it perfectly clear that he meant the exact opposite. Lady Isobel simply smiled.
“That will be all, Clarkson,” Lucius growled. The door closed behind him with a slow, reluctant creak. The valet would have to conjure up the details of the unexpected tête-a-tête in his own imagination.
And that was for the best. Whatever fantastical ideas Lucius’s parents had put into the poor girl’s head, it was now time to end them.
“My lady,” he said, marching her down the corridor at a pace rapid enough to dispel any notion that he wanted to extend their time together, “I don’t know what nonsense my mother has told you, but I cannot allow this imprudence any longer.”
“Imprudence?” Isobel slowed her walk, her hand nearly drifting from his arm, and Lucius instinctively slowed, too, to let her keep it in place, before he realised what he was doing.
He glared pointedly at the white glove perched on his sleeve. Isobel’s eyes followed his, and she smiled. “My goodness. Do you think I am such an innocent that I need a chaperone’s permission to take a gentleman’s arm?” She let him go, raising both hands in surrender, and stepped back, putting some distance between them. Lucius breathed a little easier, though he suspected it was a mistake to drop his guard. The effect of Isobel’s pink-clad frame was only enhanced now that he could take her full form in at a glance.
An aura of elegance , indeed. Perhaps Clarkson felt the same way about waistcoats as Lucius felt about rose silk and knowing smiles.
He busied himself straightening out his cuffs, which were already, thanks to the valet’s guidance, pristine. “There are several layers of distinction between innocent and coquette , my lady. You have always been closer to the wallflower end of the spectrum than the one which involves waiting uninvited outside a man’s bedroom.” He glanced up to find Isobel’s lips pressed together, hiding something – perhaps a tremor of embarrassment, perhaps a smirk. Her head was tilted sideways, and she had given up the bashful lash flutter in favour of a steady, searching gaze. It sent a warning flicker through his belly, the way a flash of feline eyes in the darkness might warn of danger to primordial man. “I am not blind,” he continued. “You have never behaved this way towards me before. And I am not vain enough to think it was brought on by my personal charms. You’ve never noticed them before. The only explanation is that my mother – heaven help us all – has given you some encouragement to pursue me. And I must save you from further embarrassment by telling you that such pursuit is futile.”
“Is your mother in the habit of sending young women to your bedroom door?” That smile, quick and secret and satirical, flickered across Isobel’s lips. So it was a smirk she had been suppressing, not embarrassment – and his warning hadn’t landed at all. Lucius groaned.
“Lady Isobel,” he said, mustering all his experience of delivering brotherly rebukes, “As a friend – or, rather, as the elder brother of your friends – I must advise you to stop whatever game you are playing. You are not as subtle as you think. Even the servants noticed the way you took my hand this afternoon. You may be enjoying yourself now, but you will not enjoy being the subject of gossip.”
Intrigue sparked in those dangerous eyes. “The servants noticed? Why, that’s perfect.”
“Are you listening to a word I say?”
“I listen to everything, Mr Whitby. It’s a talent of mine.” She shrugged, flexing the fingers of the hand that had lately been resting on his arm, then pressing them to her lips – where, to his chagrin, laughter was threatening to bubble over. “And I can only apologise for the misunderstanding. I suppose I should have warned you in advance.”
“Warned me?”
Now she let the laugh escape, hearty and musical and infuriating. “I thought it would be perfectly clear that I was not really flirting with you. Why on earth would I do that?”
Lucius’s mouth opened, worked around a series of possible answers, and closed again.
“We have known each other a long time,” Isobel continued, “and, as you helpfully reminded me, we have never fallen prey to each other’s charms, such as they are. After all, I am only little Isobel Balfour, the quiet one, the girl who sits in corners listening to music and spends her days at the piano and the harp. You, on the other hand –”
Lucius was several steps behind her. Something about that derisive laugh had brought his thoughts to a halt. “My charms… such as they are?”
“Well, precisely.” Isobel finally bit her amusement down into something that looked horribly like sympathy. “You’re a fashionable gentleman, Mr Whitby. You frequent St James’s Street and the races. You dance through the night at parties. You’ve spent the last few years gallivanting round the Continent.” She forestalled his noise of protest with an airy wave of her hand. “Please don’t think I disapprove of you, for that’s not the case at all. You are everything an eligible eldest son should be. And I am not at all the sort of person who would suit an eligible eldest son. But it’s precisely those unsuitable qualities which made you the perfect choice for…” She glanced from side to side, though they were utterly alone, and lowered her voice to a whisper. “My vengeance.”
Lucius waited a moment, letting her dissection of his character and its potential uses percolate through his astonished ears. Perhaps after a moment’s consideration it would all make sense.
It did not.
“Your… vengeance?”
The light in Isobel’s eyes was no longer the sparkle of amusement. It deepened to a crystalline indigo, like sunlight filtering through the depths of the ocean.
“I was wronged some years ago,” she said. “The man who wronged me is here at Whitby Manor. And I will not let him escape unscathed. Not this time.”
“Lord Randall?”
He’d caught her off guard at last. She deserved it, after the way she’d been speaking to him. But he regretted it a little when her lips parted in distress and she clutched her arms around her chest, fingers digging into her slender shoulders, arms crossed over her heart.
She swallowed heavily before responding. “So he has told you everything?” Her head ducked down before he could respond. “Yes, I suppose that makes sense. I was only ever a figure of fun to him. And where’s the fun in humiliating a lady if nobody ever hears about it?”
“I’ve heard nothing from Lord Randall,” said Lucius. “I merely noticed the way he looked at you this morning – and the way you did not look at him.” Isobel’s shoulders stayed high and tense. “Really, I hardly know the man. And I hope you know I wouldn’t allow him to mock a lady in my presence.” He placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it a brief squeeze – an instinctual action, something he would do to comfort any of his sisters. He had probably touched her that way before, once or twice, when they were all younger and a childhood game had wounded her spirits.
He should have known it would feel different now. They were past the age of casual childhood play. She was right about him – the eligible heir – and she was no longer the little girl she’d been when he left England. A friendly touch like that meant something between adults. Something better not to think about, when a broken-hearted woman was using his name and face to wage her own personal romantic warfare.
So he let her shoulder go immediately, shaking out the brief jolt of heat that had run through his fingers. Isobel’s wide eyes raised slowly to his again.
“You want to make him jealous?” Lucius asked.
“I want to make him suffer.”
He almost laughed, but she was deadly serious.
“Does it make me wicked, wanting that?” She whispered the question, but her face was full of determination. He could see there was no point trying to dissuade her.
“I’ve heard far wickeder things from far less worthy people.” He folded his arms across his chest, leaning back against the wall. Better to make clear he would not be touching her again. “Will it make him suffer to see you bat your eyelashes at me? Or does your little game involve my participation, as well?”
“I had hoped I wouldn’t have to persuade you,” she said. “I’ve never seen you shy away from flirtation before.”
Ha. She certainly had a point there. He wondered whether he would have reacted differently to that passionate clutch at his arm in the driveway if his head had not been full of his father’s misdeeds. If he had not been wishing Isobel far, far away from Whitby Manor.
He rubbed a hand across his forehead. She was right to suppose he’d take it all in stride. The Lucius of the recent past, heir to a fortune, had no difficulty accepting women’s admiration. There’d have been no harm in flirting with his sisters’ pretty friend. After all, he had plenty to offer her if things went too far.
Now, he had nothing. And even if her heart was not in the courtship, it was a dangerous game to play.
“I want Lord Randall to regret the loss of me,” Isobel explained, her fingers digging further into her upper arms. If she were not careful, there would be ten red marks left in the skin between the end of her sleeves and the start of her long white gloves. “And, in order for that to happen, he must see me as a person of value. Admired. Desired.”
“Surely you have no difficulty in persuading men to desire you?”
She shrugged up a shoulder and kept it awkwardly raised, defensive. “Well, I – I have never tried.”
He drummed his fingers pensively against the weight of the pocket watch at his breast. That watch ought to fetch twenty pounds, when the time came to sell up.
Unless his father managed to sell Evie, first.
Lucius’s fingers stilled.
Perhaps it was not his father’s scheming that had brought Isobel here with her half-formed schemes of vengeance, but providence itself.
Isobel’s brows drew together. “Is something the matter?”
“Suppose I agreed to it,” he said, as much to himself as to her. “Suppose I took leave of my senses and agreed to court you – publicly. To feign increasingly desperate love. Desire, if you will. Would there really be any harm in it?”
Isobel shook her head slowly, keeping her eyes on him. Her lips pressed into a frown. “No harm that I can see. I can assure you that I am quite immune to true romance.” She gave a little sniff. “Lord Randall has seen to that.” Her eyes narrowed. “What I don’t understand is why you would agree to it now, when only two minutes ago you were lecturing me about the dangers of inciting gossip.”
Because every moment that my father believes I am about to land an heiress is another moment that Evie is free of an unwanted marriage. He cleared his throat. “You haven’t told me the details of Lord Randall’s offence towards you. I’m sure you’ll permit me to keep my own secrets in return.”
“That’s fair.” Some of her sparkle returned, albeit dimmer and more hesitant than the siren’s shimmer she’d been feigning before. “I’ll try to contain my suspicions about which of the local ladies you wish to make jealous.”
He forced himself to grin in exactly the sort of slow, rakish way that she’d expect from Mr Lucius Whitby, fashionable gentleman and heir to a fortune. “Much obliged. Now, it will be noticed that we are late down for dinner, but that’s all to the good. How passionately should I pretend to adore you this evening? Leaping straight to lovestruck blindness may attract suspicion.”
He extended his arm to her, and she took it without a trace of her previous ardour. She barely looked at him as they descended the staircase at the end of the corridor. Her gaze had focused inward, as though she had come up against a difficult problem in a textbook.
“We must go about this logically. It does not make sense for us to go from acquaintances to lovers in one day. We should proceed firmly, but with caution. A steady andante .”
“Are we to court one another in Italian?”
She cut her eyes to him. He suspected she was only just restraining herself from rolling them in pity. “Only insofar as Italian is the language of music, Mr Whitby. We must approach this courtship as we would a sonata. A slow build, each note leading naturally to the next, with the crescendo only at the appropriate moment.” Her lips curved into a smile. “If we were musical notation, this evening would be a chord with a dominant seventh. A transitional chord. Nothing too outrageous, but the additional note to attract attention.”
“I see. I suppose a simple scale of one to ten is too much to ask for?”
She let out a despairing sigh. “One to ten?”
“Yes. We’ll say that one equals disinterested friendship, and ten will be me taking a bullet for love of you. I’m sure you can work out the in-betweens yourself. That seems much simpler than trying to teach me musical theory.”
She pursed her lips. “If by simpler you mean inelegant and uninteresting, then yes. It is, indeed, simpler.”
“Good. We’re already playing with fire, messing around with romance this way. I don’t think an additional layer of intrigue is wise.”
They had reached the foot of the stairway. Laughter and conversation drifted towards them through the part-open doors of the drawing room. He caught sight of Evie, face pale as it had been since her rupture with Lord Henry, making a brave effort at chatting to one of the guests.
There were secrets aplenty at Whitby Manor already. What harm could come from adding one more?
Isobel shrugged back her shoulders and raised her chin. It shouldn’t have been at all possible for such a delicate slip of a thing to remind him of a boxer preparing for a bout, but somehow, she did.
“C dominant seventh,” she said, imperious as a queen holding court, “corresponds to two point five on your un romantic scale of affection. It will not be necessary to take a bullet for me this evening. But I may require you to kiss my hand and talk to me a little too often.”
He laughed. The sound drew Evie’s attention from within the drawing room, and she shot him an inquisitive frown through the crack in the door. As much as to say , So that’s where you’ve been? What on earth are you playing at?
The sight of her bolstered his courage. He raised an eyebrow at Isobel. “Your ideas of courtship are a little modest, don’t you think?”
To his astonishment, Isobel actually flushed red. She avoided his eyes. “I have never had much chance to practice it. You will correct me if I go wrong, won’t you?”
Lucius pressed her arm. “No, no. It is not possible to be courted incorrectly. A kiss to the hand – a little lively conversation – all quite suitable. And we are only playing a C dominant seventh, after all.”
“A two point five.”
“Precisely.” Her hand trembled on his arm, a sure sign her nerve was failing her. Lucius swept her into the room before she had time to reconsider.