Wicked Becomes You
What else wouldn’t she do? Heavens above, the possibilities seemed dazzling. All the nasty small thoughts that she hid away—why not share them?
No more purchasing gowns she disliked simply to placate sad-eyed shopkeepers.
No more patronage of charity events when she suspected the profits were going straight into the host’s pocket.
And no more ignoring the sly allusions to her background! Ten years, now—she was done with it! Why, Lady Featherstonehaugh, do you mean to remind these ladies that my father was once a chemist, a shopkeeper of the most common order? How kind. Let me return the favor. May I remind them of how your husband halved your allowance when he found you in bed with Mr. Bessemer?
No more feigned obliviousness when a gentleman rubbed his hand over her breast during a dance. Did you misplace your fingers? I will misplace mine into your eye.
No more levees at court! She always came home sore from wrists to shoulders, thanks to the nasty women who stuck pins into people’s arms to force them out of the way on the stairs. The Queen’s concerts were dead boring anyway.
And no more kissing any man who slobbered. Really, there had to be something more to kissing, or else why would ladies giggle over it? Well, bother it, she supposed she would simply have to find out! If she wasn’t going to be nice anymore, why not be fast?
In fact, now that being nice didn’t matter, perhaps she should also make a list of things she would do.
But first, she must finish the task at hand. Retrieving the pen, she wrote in that deliciously aggressive and unfamiliar hand, You will return my brother’s ring immediately.
Despite the underlining, it did not look quite complete to her.
Ah! In giant block-print, she added:
OR ELSE.
Alex was beginning to wish he’d brought his own bottle of liquor. Alcohol—so said the doctor he’d consulted in Buenos Aires—interfered with natural sleep. But an hour now he’d sat listening to this nonsense, and it was beginning to wear on his patience. Meanwhile, Henry Beecham, who was Gwen’s de facto guardian and should have been out for blood, instead grew ever more cheerful. He reclined in the easy chair by the fireplace, flicking drops of his fourth or fifth whisky into the flames. With every sizzling pop, he smirked into his sleeve like a boy with a secret.
“But Fulton Hall won’t do,” said Belinda. She sat in a nearby chair, outwardly composed; heavy lids lent her blue eyes a deceptive air of placidity, and her chestnut hair had been trammeled into a viciously tight chignon. But Alex knew her nature, so he knew where to look. Her right hand had broken free of her left, which still sat demurely in her lap; the rogue digits were squeezing the armrest in a fierce and regular rhythm. She was imagining herself in possession of Pennington’s throat. Alex would wager money on it. Already she had told him to wring Gerard’s throat for the sin of selling a musty house she’d never bothered to visit.
Had a good deal of snap, did Belinda. Put her down in Manhattan’s Five Points, and by nightfall, half the citizens would be pouring into church to repent their evil ways.
“But Fulton Hall is lovely,” said Elma Beecham. She cast a hopeful look toward the settee, where Caroline was languishing.
As suited the twins’ respective roles, Belinda had shrieked in the church, while Caro had wept. Now Caro offered a regretful smile, along with a shake of the head.
Elma sighed. “No, I suppose not, then. It’s too near to Pennington’s estate.”
“Then keep her in London,” Alex said flatly. He rubbed his eyes. “I told you the viscount is bound for the Continent.” Henry Beecham might have come home directly from the church, but Alex had not. He’d found Pennington’s town house in a state of disarray. The master had fled to the railway station, intent on the Dover-bound train.
Elma gaped at him. “But she’s not invited to anything, Mr. Ramsey. Everybody thought she would be on her honeymoon.”
“Besides,” said Belinda, “it doesn’t matter. His mother is still in town.”
Caroline gave a visible shudder. “She’s even worse.”
“Right,” he said. “The dragon might slay her with an unkind look, I suppose. Who bloody cares?”
Elma gasped.
Most of the world could not tell his sisters apart. He’d no trouble on that account, but it never failed to amaze him how identically they delivered a glare.
“Watch your language,” Belinda bit out. “And please, do not illuminate us with one of your trenchant social commentaries.”
All right, he was usually a bit subtler in his approach, but this conversation was going in circles. “I illuminate, do I? And here I thought I idled, ignored, and absconded.” Absconded. Almost, he sighed with longing. It sounded like an excellent idea.
Belinda launched into a lecture to which he did not bother to listen. His attention wandered to the empty sofa across the room, an overstuffed piece of maroon brocade. Hideous. Unusually long, too. Almost as long as a bed.
It looked quite comfortable.
Sleep. The doctor in Buenos Aires had warned him against napping. That was very easy advice to give, no doubt.
Belinda grew louder. He nodded agreeably, and she rewarded him by modulating her voice to a less strident pitch. “. . . you may find civility tedious, Alex, but Gwen cares about her place in society.”
“Certainly,” he said. “But if actions bespeak character, as you have so often told me”—he gave her a flattering smile—“then I consider this morning a lucky escape for her. Don’t you?”
Belinda sighed. “Well, I am tempted to agree.” She wrinkled her nose. “What a toad the viscount is!”
“I just can’t understand it,” Elma murmured. As she took a deep breath and launched back into her pacing, Caroline sat up and sent him a mischievous look.
He lifted a brow in acknowledgment. Since vanity did not permit Elma to wear spectacles, her progress across the carpet was proving dramatic. Three times already she’d collided with the centre table, and now she looked bound for a fourth.
“I still don’t see why Trumbly Grange won’t do,” Elma grumbled. “The peace and quiet would do her good.”
Bel and Caro gave speaking snorts. Unaccustomed to their synchronized contempt, Elma halted. The centre table held its ground, four inches away. Alex shook his head at Caro, who grimaced apologetically.
“It’s a sad little house located on the edge of the moors, isn’t it?” Belinda was never one to mince words, even when the property she maligned was her host’s. “There’s not a neighbor in miles. Would you like to stay at Trumbly Grange?” When Elma looked at her blankly, Belinda added, “You’ll be accompanying her, of course. She can’t travel alone!”
“Oh!” Clearly it had not occurred to Elma that the itinerary she proposed would be her own. “Yes, of course I’ll accompany her. Trumbly Grange . . .” She turned to consult with her husband. “Hal, hadn’t you planned to go north and have a look at that filly for the Yorkshire Oaks?” When no reply came from the fireplace, she put her hands on her hips and lifted her voice. “Mr. Beecham. I am addressing you!”
“What’s that?” Snuffling, Beecham wiped his nose and set down his drink. “North? No, no, changed my plans. Bad strain of the back sinew. She’s done for.”
“Ah!” Elma turned back to the twins. “Well, I suppose the north will serve, then. Indeed, why not? Have you noticed how young everyone looks there? It’s for want of sun, I expect.” She sounded positively warm now. “Yes, what a good idea. The north will do nicely!”
Alex swallowed a laugh. Elma had a remarkable ability to judge anything by its possible effect on her looks. Moreover, since her faith in her beauty still thrived at age fifty, this worked to create an attitude in her of unshakable optimism. The gray in her blond hair only made it look blonder. The wretched failures of her cook benefited her bone structure by melting away “that puppy fat about my jaw.” Three summers ago, when taken with fever during a weekend at Caro’s country house, she had observed to Alex, in a to
ne too syrupy for his comfort, that the flush on her face made her hazel eyes look radiantly green. Didn’t he agree?
He’d agreed, but he’d also taken care not to find himself alone with her again. She had the alarming habit of speaking to him as though she were twenty, and raised in a bordello. Worse yet, on the rare occasions when her husband was present for it, he tended to stand behind her and nod vehemently, as if to say, Give it a go, then. I don’t mind.
“The lack of sun is a sound point,” Belinda decided. “What Gwen needs is someplace cheerful.”
“Hmm,” Alex said. “Rules out England, then, doesn’t it?”
Belinda flashed him a sharp look.
“Not the north, then,” Elma said hesitantly.
“Not the north,” Belinda confirmed.
Sighing, he tipped his head back to study the ceiling. It was an interesting geography they were assembling, here. For shame, Gwen could not stay in London. For pride, she could not go south. For spirits, north was out of the question. East lay the ocean, of course.
His eyes had shut.
Forcing them open, he said, “There’s always west.”
His sarcasm was lost on Elma. “Wales, do you mean?”
The syrupy note. He pulled his head down to confirm it. Yes, she was posing for him. Her hand strategically stroked the neckline of her gown. He did not wish to glance onward toward her husband.
Belinda cleared her throat. She looked dubious, and he did not think it all for Wales. “Herefordshire, perhaps.”
“Ireland!” cried Caroline. “Whisky cheers a lady as well as a man.” She cast a pointed look toward Henry Beecham, who had not offered to share his joy.
“Boston?” Elma frowned. “Do we know anyone in Boston?”
“Newfoundland,” said Alex. “San Francisco—bit foggy, no doubt, but most Londoners would call it tropical. Or why not China? Keep going west and you’re bound to hit it eventually. Usually works for me.”
“You might wish to reconsider that,” Caro said. “You got kicked out of China last year, if I recall.”
“Did I? Well, that explains the rude reply to my greeting at the port authority. I thought I was in Japan.”
“Your flippancy helps no one,” Belinda informed him.
He shrugged. “You propose to hide her away like a broken toy. London is her home, and you want to hound her out of it. Is that the act of a friend?”
Caroline leaned forward. “Alex, you must try to understand. It’s not at all like last time! The groom cried off. And in such a horrible way—when he needed her money so badly! People will assume he discovered something awful about her at just the last moment.” She faltered, going pale. “I really do fear she is . . .”
“Ruined,” Belinda whispered.
Elma flinched.
“For God’s sake.” Hearing the edge in his voice, he caught himself. “It isn’t as if she were caught in flagrante delicto. This is London’s darling you’re talking about. I hope you won’t feed her this nonsense; she’s silly enough to believe it.”
“You’re so naïve,” Belinda said pityingly. “How do you manage that with all these foreign places you visit?”
He sighed. In an argument, Bel was like a dog with a bone: she would never let go of her point. “Naïveté is imagining that doors will stand closed to her after this. Naïveté, Belinda, is your vast underestimation of the power of three million pounds. Preach all you like about what people will say. In Shanghai, they gossip if a woman’s feet are too large—in Valparaiso, if her mantilla clings too tightly to her breast. But no matter where you are, money makes every sin disappear. It’s better than vinegar that way.”
She gaped at him. “You can’t really believe that,” she said. “If you do, then you’ve been away from civilization for far too long.”
“Civilization,” he said dryly. “Half the guests in that church this morning were using the opportunity to pray that land prices will rise so they can sell their forty thousand acres and pay off their debts before creditors seize their town houses and ruin their season. That is your civilization. As venal as any other.”
Belinda tipped her chin mutinously but did not reply.
“Oh, and let me tell you,” he added helpfully. “Land prices are not going to rise. Not that much. Not anytime soon.”
The silence extended. It seemed to him a minor miracle. Finally, his sisters were listening to sense.
He decided to take advantage of it, for the occasion came only once in a blue moon. “And from now on, instead of standing by while she stumbles into an engagement with the first rotten bounder who bothers to smile at her, I suggest that you take an active hand in the business. Find a man who will make a proper husband for her—or at least manage to stick it out at the altar.”
Belinda huffed. “Oh, Alex.”
Of course there was an objection. “Let’s have it.”
“What do you propose? That we pick a man and instruct her to love him?”
He snorted. “Love? Have you not—”
“Paris!” Elma gasped.
“No,” Caroline said, “the viscount will be certain to pass through. The Dover-bound train, you know—”
“Guernsey, then?”
“Guernsey,” Belinda echoed.
“Yes, it’s perfect! What do you think? Sunshine, fresh air, and absolutely nobody of note!”
He fell back in his chair. This was useless. What they should be discussing was how Gwen always managed to pick the worst of a very large lot. First Trent, now this one. For poor taste in husbands, her judgment rivaled Anne Boleyn’s.
Then again—he shook his head as Caroline countered Guernsey with Cornwall, and the debate of various hidey-holes picked up steam again—perhaps he had it wrong, and the reason Gwen kept picking duds was because her counsel came from this lot. He would swallow knives for his sisters’ sakes, but if his life or even his lunch depended on it, he would not turn to them for advice. Love, Bel said. Gwen’s aim had nothing to do with love. She wanted status, a title, and so long as everyone around her encouraged her to disguise that ambition and play the nearsighted romantic, her search for golden princes would unerringly turn up toads.
Damn it. He’d promised Richard to look after her. But he’d resisted taking a direct hand in this courtship. His failure had led to the fracas today.
Black humor settled over him. Did he have time for this nonsense? No. But how hard could it be to find a tenable husband? Surely there was one unmarried, titled idiot who did not have a violent temper, or syphilis, or a consuming thirst for drink, or a destructive appetite for cards, or, for that matter, any perversions either illegal or extraordinary.
Almost, Alex could picture this paragon: balding, perhaps, with a pronounced belly accrued during afternoons sitting on his arse in the Lords and evenings relaxing at his club, drinking port and dining on steak while raging with his cronies at the gall of upstart foreigners. Irascible to abstract foes, yes, but also indubitably good-humored with friends, chivalrous with women, fond of his dogs, given to bad jokes that rhymed, and—above all—loyal through and through to those with the good taste to admire him. And Gwen would admire him. If she’d managed to admire Trent, she could manage it with anybody.
All right, so he’d draw up a list of candidates. Hire a man to research them. That should take two, three weeks at most; these MP types were never discreet. He’d dispatch the list to his sisters, instruct them to set Gwen in front of these men, and drop mention of her assets and marital intent. A month more until someone proposed? Yes, just about.
If he got on with it, they could have her engaged within eight weeks. He’d be halfway around the world by the time the next wedding day came. Would send a cable by way of congratulations. Perhaps he wouldn’t even remember the date, and someone, his secretary, would have to remind him when the event was drawing near. Yes. That sounded like an excellent plan.
What he needed, he thought, was a copy of Debrett’s Peerage. And a very strong cup of coffee.
He came to his feet. “If you will excuse me, ladies.”
Chapter Three
One foot into the lobby, Alex came to a stop. Elma had assured them that Gwen was flattened by grief, but here she was picking her way down the stairs, an oversized valise clutched to her chest. More to the point, she had an envelope between her teeth.
The sight arrested him. It seemed historic. He could probably sell tickets to it. Proper Gwen Maudsley, carrying a letter in her mouth for convenience’s sake.
In fact, now that she’d embraced creativity, he could think of several other uses he might suggest for her lips.
It was a hot, predictable thought, irritating and useless, and, above all, bewildering. With so many willing, complex women in the world, he had little respect for men who fixated on girlishness. Innocence was, by definition, an absence of experience—character—knowledge. To desire that absence seemed rather deviant. Certainly it reflected a terrible laziness, or else the same failure of imagination that drove Gerry to patronize artists who challenged none of his preconceptions about the world.
Come to think of it, pity that Gerry was already married. He needed so badly to be admired, and Gwen, of all women, was determined to be nothing but agreeable. A more boring goal, Alex could not imagine.
It said nothing good of him that he found himself watching her all the same. She paused mid-step, lifting her shoulder to catch the edge of the letter, readjusting her toothy grip.
He glanced up again and discovered that she had paused to torque her shoulder toward her mouth and was using this shoulder as leverage to readjust her toothy grip on the letter.
How long since he’d seen her so close? Last autumn, he thought—in the garden at Heaton Dale. The breeze had carried away her shawl, and the late afternoon light, falling through the oak leaves, had strewn a delicate filigree of gold across her smooth, pale shoulders—
Well, yes, she’d always been pale, hadn’t she? Many girls were, nothing special there. Her current pallor probably owed to shock.