Chapter 14 #2
“Not as much as a day with my man of affairs, who considers tallying figures great entertainment. Take pity on me, and don’t sentence me to a morning of arithmetic.
” When she still hesitated and glanced from him to her brothers, he added, “I tell you what. Let me come along, and I’ll buy tea and mutton pies for everyone’s supper afterward. ”
The shameless bribery worked perfectly, making the boys clamor for him until Felicity sighed. “Very well, but you’ll regret it. These four can be very wearying.”
“I’m sure I’ll survive.” Oh, yes. He planned to ingratiate himself so well with the Taylor boys that their sister would be forced to reconsider his proposal of marriage.
As the six of them headed for the entrance of the rented exhibit hall, Felicity pulled James aside and whispered in his ear. He nodded, then hurried ahead to catch his brothers and whisper in their ears.
It was all very mysterious and made him struggle to keep from laughing.
So they had secrets, did they? Felicity was a fool to think a few words of admonishment could prevent him from prying a secret out of her brothers.
Even the Terrors of Taylor Hall were no match for a man who’d once loosened the tongue of Napoleon’s senior advisor.
By the end of the day, he’d know everything. Then he’d use it to make her marry him. Most assuredly.
It took three hours and the realization that they neared the end of the rented hall for Felicity to finally relax.
But it had gone well. The boys had let nothing else slip concerning their finances.
They’d behaved themselves like gentlemen’s sons ...
most of the time, anyway. It had even been pleasant, despite Ian’s intrusion.
She surveyed her companions. Georgie, Ansel, and William knelt before a wax sculpture of a Scot, peering under the kilt to determine if the conventional wisdom was true. Ian and James stood in front of her, reading the placard that went with an impressive wax version of Bonaparte.
She smiled. Look at those two, standing so much alike.
Both Ian and James stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, and both rested their weight on one foot, keeping the other knee slightly bent.
They even looked a bit alike. James’s straight brown locks resembled Ian’s thick black hair, and both of them tended to dishevel it by running their fingers through it when agitated. They could almost be father and son.
She swallowed, a sudden longing curling down into her belly.
Ian and a son. Her son. The idea intrigued her, warmed her.
What would Ian be like as a father? Judging from his behavior today, he’d be wonderful.
He’d halted Georgie’s impetuous impulses with a word, humored William’s fancies, and squelched Ansel’s deplorable tattling.
But it was her sober brother James whom Ian had captivated despite the boy’s initial suspicions.
From the moment Ian described in riveting detail the events of the French Revolution while standing before the sculpture of Robespierre, he’d held the bookish, history-minded James in the palm of his hand.
She watched as Ian read a line aloud in French, and then translated it for James.
His French was fluid, expert, far better than her smattering learned from a long-forgotten French tutor.
But then Ian had lived on the Continent for many years.
The thought sobered her. He’d lived on the Continent, spying for the British or something.
She didn’t know what, because he wouldn’t talk about it. Or anything else, the secretive wretch.
Last night’s conversations burned through her brain.
She’d tossed all night, wondering how much was true.
Ian couldn’t have committed rape, but seduction was believable.
Was he capable of such selfishness? Perhaps not now.
But at nineteen? She wanted to know. She needed to know. Maybe if she simply asked—
“How do you know French so well?” James asked Ian suddenly, as if questions about Ian’s past bedeviled him, too.
A shadow crossed Ian’s face. He gazed up at the sculpture with the wooden, aloof expression she’d grown to recognize. “I spent six years on the Continent.”
James cocked his head and regarded Ian consideringly. “Why?”
Gazing down at James, Ian shrugged. “I fought in the war.”
She was still reeling from the fact that Ian had actually admitted his war activities to her brother when James retorted, “But Lissy said you lied about that.”
“James!” She caught him by the shoulder and spun him around to face her. “I did not say any such thing!”
“You wrote it in the paper!” James’ eyes widened with hurt. “I remember it.”
She sighed. “Oh, that. I didn’t realize you read my column.”
“We all do,” James said. “Well, not the triplets, but me and Mrs. Box and Joseph and Cook. We read it every morning, while you and the lads are still asleep.”
The revelation startled her. She’d never imagined her audience might include her family. Oh, she knew Mrs. Box read the thing. That was to be expected. But her brother? She didn’t know whether to be proud or mortified.
In either case, she must set him straight. “What I wrote about Ian was a mistake. I was misinformed. Ian did serve his country.”
“Ian?” James asked with all the innocence of a child.
She groaned. “Lord St. Clair. He didn’t lie. I was wrong.”
James looked confused. “But you’re never wrong. Everyone always says that. ‘Lord X has the way of it,’ they say. ‘He knows the truth.’”
She sighed. Now the boy was even repeating the gossip about her. What had she started, for pity’s sake? When she’d been so irresponsible as to write that last column, she hadn’t thought of how far-reaching the consequences could be.
“I know what everyone says,” she told her brother, “and I do try to write the truth. But I make mistakes. No one is perfect. You mustn’t always believe what you read or hear. Sometimes it’s exaggerated or even untrue.”
She should listen to her own advice and treat Lady Brumley’s claims cautiously and Mr. Lennard’s more so.
She glanced at Ian to find him regarding her with a guarded expression.
He certainly had secrets—that much she knew.
But until she had all the facts, she would make no assumptions. Not this time.
She returned her attention to her brother. “Now apologize to Lord St. Clair. No matter what you thought, it was impolite to mention the gossip.”
James faced Ian, suitably chastened. “I’m sorry, my lord. I spoke out of turn.”
“It’s all right.” Ian laid his hand on James’s shoulder, but his gaze locked with hers. “I don’t mind when people ask questions, only when they jump to conclusions.”
That annoyed her. “Perhaps they jump to conclusions because you don’t answer their questions.”
“Perhaps their questions concern private matters,” he countered.
She raised an eyebrow. “James, why don’t you fetch your brothers before they topple that sculpture?
” As soon as he’d scurried off, she smiled sweetly at Ian.
“The trouble with you is that you consider everything a private matter. I suppose you enjoin even your housekeeper not to discuss the contents of your closets with strangers.”
“Don’t you? No, I suppose not, considering your housekeeper.
Mrs. Box loves to talk about you. Shall I have a long conversation with her when I take you home?
See if she’ll tell me the contents of your closets?
” His low voice hummed through her. “I wonder if one of them contains that fetching scrap of lace you wore at Worthing Manor.”