Barbara Metzger Read online

  He laughed with her, their appreciation for the absurd foibles of society matching as well as their dance steps. Eleanor regretted the end of the music, but not that attention had been diverted from Alissa and poor Amy, who was recovered from her swoon, but now appeared near tears.

  The duke returned Eleanor to her companions and said he would fetch Rockford for them. Equally amazed at his kindness as everyone else in the room, Alissa managed a heartfelt thank-you before he left. Perhaps there was a little of William Henning’s sweetness in his elder brother after all.

  *

  Rockford was not as bored as he’d expected to be. At first he was busy accepting congratulations on his wedding—and on his choice of bride. Whoever thought he would be proud of a wife? A horse, naturally, but a wife?

  Then, as the well-wishers faded away and most of the card players claimed they had to go perform duty dances, he was left with a half-deaf retired general for companion. Instead of listening to old General Cathcart refighting the India campaign, Rockford congratulated himself on his new secretary. Now here was a fellow who understood life-and-death matters. The new secretary had instantly recognized the importance of the message from Bow Street, and had sent a footman with it to Almack’s. While the general droned on, Rockford planned his wife’s seduction tonight, and Sir George Ganyon’s destruction tomorrow. The baronet was in London, it seemed, staying in rooms at the Albany.

  Rockford did not intend to leave his wife’s bed too early in the morning, and he did not intend to leave that pond scum in England past noon. The future was looking bright, except for the large shadow that the Duke of Hysmith was casting across the deal table.

  “If you are here to call me out for that blow to your chin,” Rockford said, “you are wasting your time. Make an appointment with my new secretary and I will meet you at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Parlor.”

  The duke leaned over—his corset creaking slightly—and whispered in Rockford’s ear. He need not have bothered, for the general was too deaf to hear, and everyone else in the place knew the rumors.

  “Bloody hell!” Rockford cursed, loudly enough to make the general frown.

  “But we won the battle, I said,” he said.

  Rockford ignored him. “Ganyon.”

  “No, not a canyon. I told you, it was a mountain pass that day.”

  Rockford pushed away from the table, threw down his useless cards and a few coins, and headed toward the ballroom.

  The duke kept pace with him. “You know who would slander your family this way, and he is still alive?”

  “Not for long.”

  They had to go through the area set aside for refreshments before they reached the dance floor, and there he was. Speak of the devil; Sir George Ganyon was speaking to a fop in a puce waistcoat with shirt points so high he looked like a horse with blinkers on. The baronet was pouring spirits from a flask into the insipid punch served at Almack’s, and laughing at something his companion said. He touched his cheek, where a row of half-healed scars ran the length of his face. “This? Oh, I tried to pick up a wildcat, don’t you know,” he said with a wink and a snicker.

  “That was no cat!” Rockford roared. “That was my wi—” He caught himself before he could plunge Alissa’s name into another sordid story. “My sugar tongs, by Jupiter!” He shoved the tittering fop aside in his haste to get his hands around Sir George’s chicken-wattle neck.

  The duke stopped Rockford by grabbing his arm, and almost earned himself another livid bruise. “Think, man,” he urged. “You can’t kill him here. This is Almack’s, confound it. Ladies present.”

  All the women had fled the refreshments room, shrieking. The gentlemen kept their distance, but some were placing bets on the forthcoming confrontation, whatever form it took. No one doubted, from Rockford’s expression, that some kind of challenge was about to be issued.

  “If he spread those lies, I will stand your second,” the duke said, “but not here.”

  “I will not face that cur on the field of honor,” Rockford swore, struggling to shake off Hysmith’s grasp. “For that would give him the courtesy due a gentleman.”

  Sir George was grinning, a trickle of punch dribbling down his chin. He knew he was safe here in the cradle of civility. He also knew he had already had his revenge. He might be scarred for life, but that Henning bitch and her sister were ruined. And Rockford was stuck with both of them forever—and that shrewish sister of his, too. He laughed.

  That drunken cackle was too much for Rockford. No one laughed in his face, especially not a midden worm in soiled linen, with three parallel claw marks down his cheek. He lunged, but Sir George sidestepped, holding up his glass of punch in salute.

  Rockford was almost beyond reason now, but the duke managed to hold him back. “You cannot hit him here, by all that’s holy!” his grace said. “Think of your wife, her sister and yours, man. They will be the butt of more gossip, not less.”

  Rockford thought of his gentle wife, his shy little sister-in-law, his freethinking sibling. Then he picked up the punch bowl and threw it at Sir George’s head.

  The patronesses were lined up by the door. “I am sorry, my lord,” Sally Jersey said, “but you and your party will have to leave. Your vouchers have been recalled, at least until spring. We cannot have this kind of scene at Almack’s, we who are supposed to be the shining stars of the social galaxy. We do have rules, you know.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Rules? Rockford did not even know what game they were playing anymore. He had neither committed murder nor issued an illegal challenge. Granted, Ganyon had slithered off before Rockford could do either of his first choices, but he had defended his wife’s honor, a gentleman’s right and duty.

  Now he was barred from a place he never wished to visit, and a bedroom he wished very much to visit.

  “How could you?” Alissa cried, guarding the door to her bedroom like Saint Peter at heaven’s gate.

  “How could I?” he shouted in frustration. “How could I not?”

  “But at Almack’s, of all places. You heard the ladies. Now we shall never be accepted!”

  “Deuce take it, Alissa, a month ago you did not give a rap about Almack’s or that other useless twaddle.”

  “A month ago I was not a countess. Now I am, and I do care about ruining your good name. I want to be worthy of my husband, not be a burden. I’ve already landed you with an entire family of castoffs. That’s enough. I will not have you throwing fists and punch bowls at every insult. You will be thrown out of your clubs and the diplomatic corps and every respectable house.” She sniffled. “I am going home.”

  “You cannot.”

  “Why?”

  He had not thought that far, just that he did not want her to leave London. “Because, ah, because we do not know where Sir George is. The Runners lost his trail in the dark, and he was already gone from the Albany when they got there.”

  “It does not matter where he is. The damage is done. If he wishes to make further mischief he need only send letters. People here are willing to believe whatever pig slop is tossed their way.”

  “Not everyone. Hysmith stood by us.”

  “He stood by your sister for some reason. Perhaps he felt guilty for not standing by her at the altar all those years ago. He would have let me and Amy be tarred and feathered, though, right there at Almack’s. And he has shown no interest whatsoever in meeting his nephews. So I am going home. The boys will have their ponies and their lessons and the dogs to run with. Amy will be happier, too. She hates it here, and I will never get her to go out in public again, not after tonight. One of the reasons I came to town in the first place was to find her a gentleman to wed, but the only man she met in London whom she talks to is the boys’ tutor. So coming to the city did not get my sons recognized by their father’s family, did not find a husband for my sister, and did not even keep Sir George Ganyon from bothering us.”

  “But you also wanted to conceive a daughter,” the earl said,
grasping for reasons to keep her here.

  She had also wanted a marriage, but not at such a high price. Rockford could get killed in a duel, or get set upon some dark night. She would not put it past Sir George to hire thugs to satisfy the hurt to his pride caused by punch dripping down his balding head. She had to leave before Rockford was injured—and before she rushed into his arms begging him to go home with them. He would hate that, and hate her for causing him such bother in their marriage of convenience. Alissa could not bear the thought.

  She shook her head. “I shall have granddaughters someday.”

  Rockford hated to see her giving up on London, and on him, he feared. Where was the backbone he admired? Where was that courage that let her face down a duke? He could not let his brave Alissa scurry back to her mousehole, chastened and afraid. “No. I will not have you giving up yet. The ton’s opinion is as bendable as a reed, and I have yet to call on my resources. Tomorrow afternoon we will visit the regent. Prinny is not universally admired, but his influence is not to be discounted. My associates at the foreign office will stand firm too. And Aunt Reggie promised to call on Lady Bessborough and Princess Lieven, who were absent from Almack’s tonight. We’ll have royalty on our side, a cabinet minister or two, and a duke, if Hysmith does not back down. One punch-sodden baronet cannot stand against us.”

  Alissa was wavering, Rockford could tell. He pushed his advantage: “Besides, I promised Hugo a visit to the Kew Botanical Gardens. I have a friend who is a member and can get us passes. The boys have yet to see the Menagerie or the Tower of London or a balloon ascension or the maze at Richmond or—”

  “All right,” she said with a laugh. “You have convinced me. We will stay, but only for a few days more.”

  With such a great deal of ground to cover, Rockford had to start now. He bent to kiss his wife’s satiny cheek—he did not trust himself further—and said he’d be off. “To my clubs, Alissa. Not to another party or ball.” Not to Princess Helga, he tried to tell her without coming out and saying it, which would have broken all of his own private injunctions against petticoat governance. “Reputations are made at White’s and Boodle’s, not ladies’ drawing rooms. You’ll see. Sleep well, my dear. Tomorrow will be a busy day for both of us.”

  Tomorrow he would show her what an influential earl could do, what a good father he could be. Tomorrow night, he vowed, he would show her what she’d be missing if she left.

  *

  The clubs were full of talk, naturally, after the incident at Almack’s. Interestingly, the Duke of Hysmith was before Rockford in defending Eleanor’s actions and his former sister-in-law’s character. She had been a true and loving wife to his brother William, his grace stated, and was a devoted mother to his nephews.

  Rockford raised his brow, but gladly bought his grace a drink. Then he proceeded to blacken Sir George’s name, implying that no gently bred female was safe from his foul grasp, no lady’s name protected from his filth. Why, the bad-breathed baronet might pick on Lord Winstanley’s daughter next, for her habit of disappearing at the various balls, or Sir Vivian’s wife, who was used to riding unaccompanied in the park. If some dastard was intent on ruining a woman’s reputation, the earl warned, no one was above reproach. Since neither of his examples was, in fact, innocent of misdeed, the message was well received. A gentlemen’s agreement was silently reached. Silence would be maintained.

  So Rockford’s wife’s good name would be restored, among the men, anyway. Lady Eleanor was once more considered an eccentric—nothing was going to change anyone’s mind about that, not even Rockford’s or the duke’s minds—but nothing worse.

  As for Miss Aminta Bourke, why, one look at the chit ought to prove her innocence. If it did not, Rockford vowed to darken the daylights of any man offering her an improper proposal. Not only was he not in a hurry to see the girl married off, but he intended to make a prospective bridegroom wait six months at least, to guarantee that Miss Bourke was sure of her choice. Fathers with marriageable daughters nodded their approval. Fathers with needy sons to settle were disappointed.

  It was a good night’s work, Rockford thought as he made his way home a few hours and a few clubs later. It was not the work he would have chosen, of course, but it was a start. By tomorrow night Ganyon would be found and dispensed with, and Lady Rockford would be firmly established in her rightful place, in the ton and in Lord Rockford’s bed. Hallelujah!

  *

  The next day’s rainy weather was not going to stop Rockford or the boys. He trudged along the botanical garden’s damp paths with his heir, listening with pride to young Rothmore’s learned conversation with the head groundskeeper. The other boys followed with the tutor, getting a quick lesson in horticulture, besides wet and muddy. Aminta had come along too, claiming a need to identify various species for when she became a governess.

  “You are not going into service, dash it!”

  Amy cringed at Lord Rockford’s shout and stepped closer to Mr. Canover, but she raised her chin and looked at him with those clear green eyes, reminding the earl all too much of his stubborn wife. “I am not going to attend any more balls whose only purpose is to match a girl’s dowry to some dunderhead who cannot earn his own living, when the other guests are not shredding someone’s reputation. I am not on the marriage mart, my lord. And that is final.”

  Lud, Rockford felt old. Aminta was seventeen.

  What did she know about final? Rockford left his wife’s sister with the tutor and the younger boys to watch his heir exclaim over some never-seen species or other. He brushed the drizzle off his beaver hat and tried to show a bit of enthusiasm for the greenery that all looked alike to his eyes.

  When the rain came harder, and when William stuffed a flower in his pocket, they left, in a hurry. Rockford left a generous donation, in case the plant was some rare, exotic bloom. Devil take it, first they were exiled from Almack’s, now they were in danger of being banned from the botanical gardens!

  The Tower Menagerie had to be a safer bet—except for the giraffes William wanted to pet, and the lions in barred cages all too climbable for his simian son. Mr. Canover seemed unperturbed, but Rockford was in a sweat by the time they left the dank enclosure to go back out in the rain.

  The boys would not believe the balloon ascension was canceled until they saw for themselves. Kendall picked up a fallen rope and struck up a conversation with one of the workers, who was kind enough to demonstrate the gas valves and the struts, and let the boys climb in the gondola.

  By then they were thoroughly wet and filthy, and Rockford was too, from lifting the smaller boys in and out. He bought them all hot spiced cider, then had an idea so perfect, it ought to be in a gilt frame. “You, my lad,” he said to Hugo, “are about to start learning the duties of an earl, which include paying morning calls in the early afternoon.” He sent the younger boys and Aminta home in a hired hackney with Mr. Canover and his brother, while he followed Hugo up into his own carriage. “Lady Thurgood’s house, Jake,” he ordered. “Russell Square.”

  Elizabeth, Lady Thurgood, was one of the most fashionable hostesses in town. She was not as strict in her notions of propriety as the Almack’s set, which made invitations to her parties even more coveted. Where she led, others would follow. The beautiful baroness had exquisite taste, a wealthy husband, and a generous nature. She had also been Hugo’s mother’s best friend, bridesmaid at Rockford’s first wedding.

  Lady Thurgood adored Hugo, as Rockford had hoped she would. She wept over the embarrassed boy, then embarrassed him worse by folding him against her breasts. Worst of all, she sent for her eight-year-old daughter to come meet the earl’s son. The little girl had freckles and spectacles and carroty braids, but she batted her pale eyelashes at Hugo like a courtesan. Lud, Rockford thought, they must be born knowing how to flirt.

  Lady Thurgood sent the youngsters to her conservatory, once she learned of Viscount Rothmore’s interest in botany. Then she asked Rockford what she could do to help. He left wi
th an invitation for Alissa and himself to share the Thurgood theater box that evening. Hugo left with a better understanding of what it meant to be a gentleman of privilege—and prospects.

  Rockford was not finished. He took Hugo to Covent Garden to buy flowers for the ladies, including Lady Thurgood and her little girl, another important lesson for the boy.

  Finally they went home, in time for Rockford to change his clothes for a visit to Carleton House to present his wife to Prince George.

  The regent was at his most charming, his most gracious, and his most accommodating. After all, Rockford was one of the profligate prince’s most forgiving lenders. To show his support, Prinny insisted on taking Rockford’s new countess for a turn in the park in his coach, now, at the fashionable hour. Let everyone see that Lady Rockford was a favorite of the Crown; then let them try to exclude her from their midst.

  Rockford decided to ride alongside the prince’s open carriage, in case his hedonistic highness became too accommodating.

  So the polite world saw the scandal-plagued countess courted by royalty, while her obviously besotted husband glowered jealously at her side. That night they saw her embraced by Lady Thurgood, and her box visited by two Almack’s patronesses, six high-ranking members of Parliament, and countless gentlemen…while her husband glowered jealously at her side.

  Who was that lying Sir George Ganyon chap anyway, and why was he invited anywhere? He never would be again, that was for certain. Why, everyone could see this was a love match, a bit unconventional, perhaps, but not beyond the pale. Lady Rockford would do well in her new role.

  And Lady Rockford would do well in her husband’s arms that night, the earl vowed to himself.

  *

  “Oh, my,” Alissa said, halfway between a purr and a sigh. “I see you really did read that book.”

  Rockford stopped what he was doing, eliciting a mewl of complaint, and laughed. “No, I am writing a book of my own, dedicated to you.” His fingers went back to inscribing desire from her head to her toes, with exclamation points at the sensitive spot behind her knees, the ticklish area under her ribs, the tips of her breasts, and the tops of her thighs. He explored every crease, every fold, every texture, like a cartographer mapping new worlds. His long, heated kisses were complete volumes, and Alissa was lost in the literature of his lovemaking.