Kasey Michaels - What a Gentleman Desires

CHAPTER THREE

“JUSTTHETWO of us for breakfast, Charles?” Valentine asked as he was ushered into the morning room by one of the footmen. “How cozy.”

His lordship looked up from his plate of coddled eggs, a bit of yolk clinging to his chin. “You were observed speaking with Miss Marchant yesterday evening,” he said without preamble. “Why? Making some late-night assignation after all you said to the contrary?”

So he’d been correct; that door had opened a crack.

Hmm. Take umbrage? Look puzzled? What to do, what to do? Valentine knew he needed a reaction, quickly.

He spoke while making his way along the sideboard, loading his plate with a steady hand, his back to Mailer.

“Daisy? Although she’d be more fittingly named after some noxious, prickly weed,” he said, having decided on a course of action. He would—for the moment—ignore the fact that Mailer’s servants reported to him, and concentrate on keeping Daisy’s secret safe. “I fear my gentlemanly conscience belatedly got the better of me. When I chanced to see the sad creature slumping down the hall on my way downstairs, I felt bound by good manners to apologize for my earlier remarks. Lord knows she’s got enough problems on her own, without me adding to them. One can only hope the poor woman doesn’t now decide to take me in affection, for that would only lead to sorry disappointment. She couldn’t raise my interest were she to fling her naked self at my feet.”

Adding a single slice of buttered toast to his plate, he turned about to face his host, his eyelids narrowed. “Now if you’d care to explain why my movements are being watched, I’d own to being quite curious to hear your answer.”

Perfect. Admit to something—mea culpa, mea culpa—and then quickly turn the tables so that the other person is cast into the role of wrongdoer. Kate’s advice did come in handy from time to time. Look at Mailer—the wind seems to have entirely gone out of his sails.

“I—I only thought to ask if she’d bothered you in any way,” Mailer said, not precisely a master of improvisation. “My wife took her on a few months ago while I was not at home. She’s no thief, I tempted her by leaving my ring on the hallway table...”

Valentine sat himself down and flourished his serviette before placing it on his lap. “That ring? Perhaps it simply wasn’t to her taste.”

Mailer held out his hand, the diamond at the center of the golden rose catching the sunlight. “There’s nothing wrong with this—you don’t think it isn’t masculine enough, do you? I mean, a rose?”

I could skewer that damn ring through his nose and lead him around by it, no question. A true follower, nothing remotely resembling a leader. A man we need, but not the man we seek. “Nonsense, Charles, I’ve already told you it’s a fine ring.” Then, unable to resist, he added with an indulgent smile, “If you favor that sort of thing.”

Mailer twisted the thing around his finger, and this time slipped it off and into his pocket. “The thing is, I believe Miss Marchant may be smart.” He said the word as if this were somehow vile, to be avoided at all costs.

Valentine coughed into his hand, to cover a grin. “Really? I would have thought that preferable in a governess, perhaps even mandatory.”

“They’re just nursery brats, what do they need of a governess? Companion is more like it, that’s what she is. I don’t like it. I didn’t mind, not at first. But she makes my skin crawl somehow. I catch her looking at me, and I—”

“Look back?” Valentine asked as he cut into a thick slice of ham; who would have thought sparring with idiots could so increase his appetite. Then he looked up, pulling a face. “Charles, you must be jesting. Nobody could be that desperate. It would be like seducing a broomstick.”

“God’s teeth, no! When I have— No! She’s in the way at times, that’s all. Besides, I’ve never been partial to red hair.”

Valentine took a bite of ham while keeping his amazed gaze on Mailer. “Really?”

“I know, I know. I’ve red hair, and I loathe it. But it’s on top of my head, so at least I’m spared having to look at it.”

Valentine threw back his head and laughed. “Charles, you’re a complete card. It’s no wonder I like you so much as to bury myself here in the country,” he said, and watched as the man preened. “Now tell me again about this amazing party you dangled in front of me, as I only see the two of us here. And your lady wife, of course.”

Mailer frowned. “Yes, I know. I received a note earlier. It seems there has been a delay of some sort, and the remainder of the party won’t arrive for another few days.”

Valentine considered this dollop of news. Perhaps the rest of the party was still out hunting for their missing shipment from France? Searching for their goods, and for one Honorable Ambrose Webber, who had so foolishly put a period to his own existence rather than be captured, and who now was most probably nothing more than a skeleton lying at the bottom of the Straits of Dover, bits of him having filled the bellies of a variety of marine life.

Valentine rather hoped there wouldn’t be a fish course at dinner.

“That’s a pity, then, isn’t it? Do these tardy guests have names, or are they to be a surprise? I rather dislike surprises, Charles. You said I was in for elevated political conversation and some entertainment that indulges what even the most lenient fleshpots in Piccadilly refuse. I suppose I could deal with the loss of the former, but if you’ve been exaggerating the latter, well, then, Charles, shame on you, and I’ll be leaving.”

“No, no, you can’t leave— That is to say, you’ll miss all the fun! As to the other guests? Well, you see now, that’s the thing,” Mailer said, pushing a split, smoked herring around his plate with his fork. “It’s all true, just what I said—beyond your wildest imaginings, I promise you. But...but I explained this, didn’t I? No, I suppose I didn’t.” He looked across the table at Valentine, his expression hopeful. “I didn’t? Are you sure?”

Valentine imagined the herring shoved halfway down Mailer’s throat. Nasty, but the image helped him tamp down his temper. “No, you didn’t, and yes, I’m quite sure. Why don’t you do that now, if you’re done dissecting your kippers. I admit to being highly intrigued.”

Mailer put down his fork. “The thing is...the thing is, I’m not certain who is coming. It...varies. Yes, that’s the word. Varies. Variety being the...the something of life.”

“The very spice of life, the thing that gives it all its flavor. Cowper said it first, I believe.” Valentine sat back in his chair. “I see.” Then he sat front again, glaring at Mailer over the candlesticks. “No, that’s a lie. I don’t see. Are you host of this party or not?”

Mailer dismissed the servants with an abrupt wave of his hand, then leaned forward toward Valentine, not speaking until the door closed behind the footmen. “Look, sometimes it’s...well, the guests are known, and we meet here at Fernwood. But at other times we meet somewhere else, and the entertainment is more...anonymous.”

“Here, perhaps there—and you say you don’t know? Not the time, not the place? My first instincts were right, weren’t they? You’re all talk, Charles, boastful talk and wishful thinking. I should simply hire a coach and head back to town. I’ve already explained my appetites, and you assured me—”

“Oh, but I meant it, I meant every word! Anything and anyone you want, anything and anyone you desire. London’s brothels are but pale imitations of what you and I deserve, just as I told you that night after we left Madame La Rue’s and you complained yours all objected to the restraints.”