He fisted the orange in his hand. Phoebe had learned by now what to do with unwanted suitors, and she did not disappoint. She paused near the wall, positioning herself carefully, to all appearances at least pretending to listen to the gentleman who prattled on as if he could hold a conversation entirely on his own.
“I’ve got four children,” he was saying. “And they are in desperate need of a mother, Miss Toogood. Of course I naturally thought of you. Even if you’ve no children of your own, surely you have no small amount of experience with them.”
“Thank you, my lord,” she said, and Christ, even Chris could hear the dry, annoyed inflection to the words. “However, I do not believe we would suit.”
“Nonsense. I’ll call on you tomorrow. Bring the children with me. You’ll get on famously, I’m certain of it.”
Chris wrenched his arm back and flung the orange with all of his might. It smacked Statham dead center at the back of his head, bounced off, and rolled beneath a convenient bush.
“Ouch! What the devil?” Statham rubbed at the back of his head.
“Your turn,” Chris said, nodding to the orange Rafe held still in his hand.
With a longsuffering sigh, Rafe waited until Statham had turned his head once again, then hurled it off the balcony and over the wall. Another dead-center hit, and Statham squawked as if he’d been shot.
Chris bent to retrieve another orange. Even at this distance, he could see Phoebe’s shoulders shake with mirth, her gloved hand coming up to cover her mouth.
This time they’d not been lucky enough for the foliage to conceal the evidence of their misdeeds; the orange bounced and came to rest just behind Statham, and the man stooped to scoop it up. He turned, his gaze drifting up, and up, to where Chris and Rafe stood on the balcony.
“Afternoon, Statham,” Chris called, holding up another orange. “She don’t want you. Next time perhaps you’ll listen when a lady talks.”
A flush of fury singed Statham’s cheeks. “What business is it of yours?” the man snarled.
Chris let another orange fly, and Statham yelped as it hit him in the groin, his hands jerking to shield his privates. “My business,” Chris said, “is anything I choose to make it. And I’ve got a whole sack of oranges up here with me I don’t mind going to waste. So get you gone.”
Wisely, Statham chose to pick a different battle than this—he turned so abruptly that Phoebe was forced to leap from his path as the man stalked back toward the house. Hopefully never to return.
In the distance, there was the pronounced slam of a door, and Phoebe’s shoulders sank in relief. With one hand she offered an appreciative little wave, and then turned to make her own way inside.
“Throwing oranges is a bit beneath you, is it not?” Rafe asked.
Chris shrugged. “Could’ve had him tossed in the Thames,” hesaid.
“Oranges are somewhat more palatable than murder,” Rafe acknowledged, with a faintly sarcastic inflection. “Am I to understand that this is not the first time you’ve assaulted gentlemen with citrus fruits?”
“Only on Tuesdays,” Chris said shortly, retrieving the sack at his feet and thrusting it in Rafe’s direction. “Her at-home days.” The first one had been perhaps three days after the family had moved in. It hadn’t been a conscious choice, really. It was just that the man who had come to call upon her had imagined a woman of her years must be so desperate to snag a husband that he’d placed his hands upon her.
Gentlemen of theTonalmost universally thought themselves a cut above; better than those of the lower classes strictly by virtue of the station to which they had been born. Of unimpeachable honor, regardless of their actions. But evil men lurked within all echelons of society. Some were simply better at masking their natures than others, some given to wielding their position against accusation of impropriety.
Chris had never been what anyone might, even by generous terms, considerhonorable. But there were lows to which even he would not have stooped—or ignored in another. If he’d been in a different position, he might have shot the blighter. But he’d been upon his balcony with only a sack of oranges to hand, and one used the tools at one’s disposal. A few well-aimed volleys had sent the man fleeing.
Still Phoebe had waited there in the garden until after the man had gone.
Thank you, she had said, with such a depth of feeling. And then she’d blinked, stared, recognized him at last.You’re Emma’s brother, are you not?
Yes. Yes, he was. The bastard half-brother. The criminal. The damned social liability.
It hadn’t been the only time they had spoken, though he found himself loath to admit as much to Rafe. Their private chats would hardly have met with public approval, had they been common knowledge.
“Just how many gentlemen have you run off in a month?” Rafe asked, as he slung the sack of oranges over his shoulder.
“A few,” Chris said absently. Though by the way Phoebe’s shoulders had slumped as she’d made her way back to the house, he could hazard a guess that it hadn’t been quite enough. Perhaps one of these nights, he’d inquire further.
∞∞∞
Chris’ third scalding-hot bath of the day had failed to erase the smell of the Thames. There was yet a lingering scent that seemed to come and go, and by the barely-masked sour expressions he’d glimpsed in the faces of his servants, Chris suspected that he had grown somewhat accustomed to the stench and that it was a good deal worse yet than he had hoped. Still, there were more important things to which to attend—namely, the search for a wife, since Rafe had been no help at all.
Worse than no help, in fact. The damned disloyal bastard hadlaughedin the end. Chris slung on his banyan and belted it at the waist, determined to put the last hour or so that remained before nightfall to good use.
