The reminder of Viscount Mowbray was timely. What had happened to her protestations of love for the silly prig? She’d been quite silent on the matter with Trevor’s tongue in her mouth.
“It was a mistake,” he told Pamela coolly. “One that won’t happen again. That is all you need concern yourself with.”
Only, he wasn’t certain about that. He didn’t trust himself with Virtue. Not after what had happened between them in the library.
“I am her chaperone. Only think of the damage it will do, not just to Lady Virtue, but to me, were it to become common fodder for the gossips that her own guardian had ruined her beneath my nose?” Pamela threw her hands up in despair, and then looked about, as if she were seeking an object she might throw.
But that made no sense. This was Pamela. Pamela was calm. She was never angered. She was always calm and implacably proper.
Just as the warring thoughts settled in his mind, his sister picked up the inkwell from his writing desk and hurled it into the fireplace. It shattered within, sending ink splattering all over the interior brick.
He stared at the aftermath in disbelief for a moment. Perhaps he’d finally driven her to the edge of madness. He couldn’t blame her. He was reasonably certain he’d driven himself there. Trevor had never meant to debauch his ward. He’d been doing everything in his power not to ever since she had arrived at Hunt House. It had simply…happened.
“I am exceedingly fortunate you have excellent aim,” he said, keeping his sangfroid intact as much for his sister’s benefit as his own. “I should hate to think of how all that ink would look on the wall coverings.”
But Pamela was not finished. She raised a scolding finger, all the better to berate him. “If you touch her again, next time, I shall aim for your head. Sow your rakish oats anywhere else in London. Go to your sordid little house of ill repute. Take a mistress if you haven’t one. But leave Lady Virtuealone.”
Why did everyone insist upon calling The Velvet Slipper a brothel? It wasn’t one. But the mulish expression on his sister’s face told him now was not the time to argue the matter.
He nodded. “I intend to do precisely that. As I said, what happened was an unfortunate lapse in judgment. It won’t occur again.”
It couldn’t, regardless of how desperately he longed for it to. But what his sister didn’t know, and what he couldn’t possibly tell her, was that there was only one woman he desired. And she couldn’t be found at The Velvet Slipper. There was no cure for what ailed him save Virtue, and he couldn’t have her.
“If it does, you’ll have no choice but to marry her yourself,” Pamela warned. “There won’t be any other way to protect her from the damage.”
Leg shackle himself to Virtue? Why did the notion not make him shudder with abject revulsion? He’d never wanted to marry. The institution held no appeal for him. And yet, the thought of Virtue in his bed every night…
No. It wouldn’t happen. He was not the man for her. Someone hated him enough to want him dead, for Christ’s sake. He couldn’t forget about the price upon his head. Tierney had been reasonably certain the bastard who had broken his neck on the stairs had been a hired assassin.
“Rest assured that I have no intention of marrying Lady Virtue or anyone else,” he told his sister smoothly. “I promise I shall keep my distance. You, meanwhile, will encourage her to marry. Quickly.” He paused, thinking better of that particular directive. “Butnotto Lord Mowbray.”
“What is your objection to the viscount?” Pamela asked, indignant.
“I don’t like him. He isn’t good enough for her.”
“Hmm.” His sister’s eyes narrowed as she studied him. “They seemed taken with each other last night at the Montrose ball when they shared a dance.”
“I said no,” he bit out curtly. “Now, is there anything else you wish to take me to task for, or are we done?”
“Will you tell me why there are suddenly ruffians sauntering about Hunt House?” she demanded next, apparently not finished. “There is a man calledBeastroaming about as if he were an honored guest. It is all quite scandalous, even for you.”
He didn’t think he liked this new Pamela very much.
“They’re trusted men here to ensure the safety of the household,” he told her firmly. “You needn’t concern yourself with them.”
Tierney had assembled the best and most fearsome men in his acquaintance for the task, within hours. He didn’t give a damn if the men’s names were Beelzebub or Mephistopheles. If Tierney said they were reliable guards, he believed it. He wasn’t taking any chances with his life or the lives of those in his care.
“This is because of the dead man, then?” his sister asked, her countenance turning grave once more. “I thought he was a common housebreaker.”
Apparently, Pamela was not nearly as well-informed as Virtue. Somehow, Trevor wasn’t surprised that his enterprising ward had ferreted out the truth before anyone else.
He sighed wearily, for after being harangued by his sister for the better part of the last half hour, he didn’t wish to also explain the complexities of someone trying to have him murdered.
“There is a possibility he was not,” he said simply. “The guards will remain until I deem them no longer necessary, for the safety of everyone within Hunt House.”
Pamela was once again pale. “I don’t like the sound of this, Ridgely. What are you not telling me?”
He summoned a false, reassuring smile. “Nothing, my dear. I am merely being excessively cautious. Now, will that be all?”
