The presentation to the queen—that burned hot because Averil herself hadn’t been accorded that honor, despite her marriage to an important, well-regarded peer. She plowed on. “As I said, most appropriate young men are put off byher. She readily voices her opinions and they’re usually contrary. She sharpens her wit on them, which I’ve told her over and over she must not do because no gentleman wants to be out-talked and out-argued by a female, particularly a young one who has no sense. If she doesn’t marry, Whit, you know she’ll be a millstone around our necks.” Dramatic pause. “Forever.”
But she’s only nineteen.The words remained unspoken. His eyes riveted on her magnificent breasts, the sinking man finally managed to murmur, “Cam makes me laugh with her sharp wit. She is very funny and smart and when she offers an opinion, it is well thought-out.”
“She may be smart, but not in the right way. It’s a very big drawback. And her striking a gentleman for being a bit too affectionate! If she doesn’t curb her tongue, I strongly doubt she can bring either Pilcher Gayson or Teddy Jewel to the mark, and that means you’ll be forced to find a gentleman in great need of money to make living with her worth it or, as I said, she’ll remain at home, a spinster, seated with other spinsters and companions lining the wall of ballrooms. She will be an object of ridicule and pity. And all will regard you in the same way. Think of poor Eliza and her future.”
Inspiration struck. Whit said, “Listen, my love, not all young gentlemen are put off by her. Why she met a young man today at Westminster who seemed quite impressed with her wit.”
Averil rolled right over him. “I knew it. She came to plead with you, didn’t she? To let her stay in London? Of course she did. And she found a man? A clerk? A secretary? A perfect stranger of no account at all, yes, of course, and doesn’t that just prove my point. She has no sense, Whit, taking up with a man with no chaperone. You must hold firm. We mustn’t let Teddy escape, but if he does, we must make her encourage Pilcher Gayson in Bath. Both are proper gentlemen.
“And the queen? If Camilla doesn’t keep her mouth shut, the queen will not approve of her, and just what would be theconsequences to you politically? And me socially?” She saw some from his expression she needed more.
Breasts on full display. “Listen, my love, Teddy is the heir to Viscount Dawes and there is some old family money, I inquired. Pilcher is the second son of the current Baron Riggs. His brother will take the title of course, and I’m told there is also sufficient family money. I know one of them is her only means of salvation. She would eventually become Lady Dawes or Mrs. Gayson.
“I believe we could offer her a choice—invite dear Teddy to dinner and you will order Camilla to apologize for clouting him. She could claim she was overcome by emotion. Tell her she must keep her tongue in her mouth, smile and agree with whatever he says. If she refuses, she goes to Pilcher Gayson in Bath.”
Whit would have said he’d rather have dinner with a drunk Whig, even the arrogant queen-favored Lord Melbourne, when Averil lightly laid her palm against his cheek, leaned up and kissed him, her lips parted, her tongue sliding into his mouth, her breasts pressed against his chest. It was enough, too much. Whit wanted her so badly his brain died a painless death. What had she said? Something about giving Cam a choice between that idiot Teddy Jewel and that other idiot Pilcher Gayson?
She kissed him again, rubbed against him. She used her soft, steel voice. “Promise me you’ll speak to your daughter, tell her she must apologize to Teddy when he comes to dinner or she leaves for Bath on Saturday to Aunt Deveraux and to marry Pilcher Gayson. Don’t you remember? Your sister wrote he’s mad for her, why I can’t imagine, but it’s a blessing. But first, my love, there’s Teddy and for whatever reason, he appears to still want her. So do you agree?”
Whit would have agreed to having his feet cut off he was in such bad shape. “As you will, my darling.” And he took her arm and led her out of his study.
Cam eased out from behind a thick, long, golden drapery and stared at the closed door. She’d known there would be unpleasantness when she’d arrived home and whisked herself off to her father’s study, not to her bedchamber, because the witch would find her too quickly. She had to figure out what to do without her stepmother yelling in her face. She knew she would have to be logical, give reasoned arguments. But then her stepmother was coming into her father’s study and Cam had hidden herself behind the thick drapery.
Now, as she stood in the middle of her father’s sanctum, she realized she’d just witnessed the power a woman had over a man using her upper works, her tongue, and a soft, iron voice. When she’d heard her father suck in his breath, she peeked out from the edge of the drapery, watched open-mouthed and learned. It was amazing, like seeing a tree felled without a single axe strike. Cam might not like Averil, but she was forced to recognize and admire a master strategist. From what she’d seen, what some part of her understood completely, her father hadn’t stood a chance.
But now she had to do something, and fast, because she knew if she didn’t, she was a goner.
As she paced her father’s study, she didn’t doubt for a moment that Osbourne, their butler with all-seeing eyes, the housekeeper Mrs. Willig who’d buried three husbands and could spot a dust mote from twenty feet, the footman Jeremy who was in love with Alice, the pert upstairs tweeny, the footman Henry, her champion, all of them knew what was going on upstairs in the viscount’s bedchamber in the middle of the day. Not only that, they knew Cam was in big trouble and there was nothing they could do to help her.
What would her father do now? She knew to her feet if she didn’t do something fast, it was either Teddy The Toad or stargazy pie Pilcher.
At least she’d seen how a lady could control a man if the need ever arose.
CHAPTER 9
Sherbrooke townhouse
Portman Square
Tuesday evening
Whit felt very fine, a man pleased with himself and his world. After a splendid afternoon spent with his enthusiastic wife, followed by a much-needed nap, he’d managed to escape from his house before his daughter could catch him. Nor did he see his eldest daughter, Eliza, doubtless in her room preparing for the evening with that sour-faced maid of hers, Claudine. His precious Averil, now pleased with him since she’d secured his promise to see his hoyden daughter off to Bath if she refused to apologize to Teddy Jewel Friday night, if, that is, poor Teddy accepted their invitation. If he refused, why then, she would chaperone Eliza to the Winter-Smiths ball. Whit profoundly hoped his presence wouldn’t be required.
Soon Eliza would be out of his house. Whit wondered if Eliza’s fiancé, Winstead Towbridge, who sported a good deal of blue blood in his veins, had ever witnessed his future wife’s temper in full flight as her father had. Probably not. Eliza was too smart to let her tongue loose before she had him tothe altar. Whit liked Winstead, a jovial young man, raised to privilege, of course. He loved the land and would doubtless prove to be a good master when his turn came, which Whit hoped would not be for a long time, but alas, he’d heard Jame son Towbridge was not in the best of health, melancholia, he’d heard Winstead tell Eliza.
Whit loved his daughter, recognized her dislike for her sister, he wasn’t blind, but he didn’t understand it. He had to admit too he’d witnessed Eliza’s unkindness to the servants. Odd, but she and Averil appeared to get along splendidly.
All in all, Whit’s life was very pleasant, well, except for the dislike between his precious Averil and Cam and the very real concern about what Cam would do if Teddy Jewel did indeed come to dinner. Sometimes he wished he’d had three sons. Daughters were the very devil. No, he wasn’t going to worry about any of that until tomorrow. Just pesky little worries, nothing more. He thought of his wife, thought of their lovemaking just that afternoon and smiled, fatuously.
As he walked down the front steps and climbed into his carriage to travel the single mile to the Sherbrooke townhouse on Portman Square, it didn’t surprise Whit when the English heavens split open and dumped rain. His coachman, John, flew off his perch to hold an umbrella over his master’s precious head. As he settled against the lovely dark burgundy squabs in his grandfather’s splendid old carriage that Averil believed should be in mothballs, he breathed in the lovely old smell of cracked leather, enjoyed every creak and groan, and felt contented to his boots. No mothballs for this splendid old conveyance.
Tonight he wasn’t going to think about the minor problems at home. He was going to think about how he and Alex Ivanov, if Ryder was right about his ward, were going to make a good deal of money.
Whit had always been a bit intimidated by the Earl of Northcliffe’s very impressive early Georgian townhouse, the largest on Portman Square, lovely pale weathered brick, perfectly maintained, the servants efficient and ever so obliging, the ancient butler Mr. Plume as impressive as a king.
Whit was seated in an exquisitely comfortable Spanish winged chair he imagined had been appropriated from Philip II’s palace in Madrid after Elizabeth’s drubbing of his armada in 1588. The drawing room was warm from the lovely fire in the exquisite Carrera fireplace, the dark blue and green Aubusson carpet soft and thick beneath his polished boots, the high shine achieved by his valet Slipper’s special champagne recipe, a secret handed down from his grandfather.
In but a moment Mr. Plume gently placed a snifter of very fine brandy in his hand, informed him Mr. Sherbrooke would be with him shortly.
