Jack forced a grin back on his face. Maybe the whisky was doing something to improve his mood. “You know, before my uncle died, he told me there would be a neighboring young countess. Some barbaric and ancient Scottish splitting of the titles and the land when the duke before him died. My grandfather was her grandfather’s cousin. Perhaps I might use my scouting trip as a chance to get to know her.”
“A countess and a third cousin, eh? That’s the Jack I know and love.” Phineas clapped Jack on the shoulder. “Go to your new pastures and satisfy your itch for the fair sex. A coupling or two with a pretty Scottish lass will get your blood coursing. Just be sure you’re back to London in time for the last few months of the Season.”
“Why’s that?”
“The marriage mart, Jack. Barring the duchess beingenceinte, you’ll be a new duke by then. The debutantes will be running riot if you don’t show up.”
“I’m never getting married. You know that. I’ve told you a million times.”
Phineas leered. “You need to make an heir, Jack.”
“How about you? You need to make one, too, Phin. And you, Edmund. And you, George.”
Edmund shook his head, slowly. “No.”
George frowned. “I have to get my sister married first. And you forget I’m several years younger than the rest of you.” Yes, it was easy to forget how young George was since he was far more serious and responsible than the rest of them. Wearing his wig, following his rigid routines, always preparing his ponderous speeches for the House of Lords.
Phineas scoffed. “I was twelfth in line when I was born. The title is lucky to have me rather than the other way around. I’m not rushing. I feel no obligation to anyone.”
Edmund growled. “Like you, Jack, I will never marry. My cousin will be the marquess after me. Or his sons.”
Phineas sat back with a smug grin. “Just wait. You’ll all find some soft little thing who makes you dizzy with a bat of her eyelashes and you’ll be married before you know it. Come now, Jack. You must be back in town for the important balls of the Season. What fun it’ll be. You all done up as a duke. The young ladies salivating over your good looks. The mothers salivating over your title. The fathers salivating over your fortune.”
“I have no interest in making the fathers salivate, Phin.”
“Well, if you don’t want to get coated in drool, you had better give all your money to me, Jack.”
Four
“Lord Reeves.”
“Lady Kinmarloch.”
Even though the room was warm, much warmer than her own keep, Helen Boyd shivered.
She had known the man in front of her all her life, and she had never liked or trusted him. He had a cruel set to his mouth, the lips thin and always wet. The rest of his face was soft, pale, and relatively unwrinkled, despite the fact he must be forty years of age. This was not a man who went out in the weather. This was a man who sat in a warm room like this one and made other men go out.
He did not offer her a chair or refreshment of any kind but took his own seat and raised a goblet to his lips, appraising her.
Her nose twitched. Mulled wine. Helen could smell the spices, those damned exotic spices she would never be able to afford again. She had drunk mulled wine once-upon-a-time, though, when her grandfather was still alive. She had the memory of the taste of it in her mouth. She felt the back of her throat tighten, and her mouth was flooded with spittle.
That must be why Reeves’ lips were always moist. He had mulled wine, beef, all the bread he wanted, things to make your mouth water. It was a wonder Reeves wasn’t fat. But he wasn’t. He was lean, like she was, despite his good food, his money.
“My lady.” At least he addressed her correctly even though the rest of his behavior was that of a boor. “What brings you to my barony?”
She smoothed the front of her bodice. She wore her best dress, although it hung loosely on her now. The wool was brown, her least favorite color. But that was why the dress had lasted this long and was the least patched, the least stained. She hated wearing it.
The roughness of her palms snagged against the cloth. She looked down at her red, much-worked hands. Then she raised her head and squared her shoulders. Yes, don’t let her appear as some favor-seeker, some beggar. Even though that was what she was.
“Lord Reeves, I would like to borrow some money.”
He stilled in the midst of raising the cup to his lips again. “And I would like to be king of England.”
If he had smiled, she would have known what to do. She was prepared for a gibe. She would have forced herself to laugh at what he thought was wit and approached the request a different way.
But Lord Reeves did not smile.
Damn these English. Because that was what he was, of course. He may have grown up in Scotland, but his parents were English, his father having been made a greater baron of the lands south of Kinmarloch some thirty years ago. And he spoke with the flat and humorless accent of his southern heritage. No burr for Lord Reeves.
