A Grand Design Part 13

"Hmph. Not an ounce of chivalry in his body," came their hostess's contribution. "Four duels, and in all four he fired early!"

Cate blinked. She had no idea Fremont was p.r.o.ne to dueling. That he would so risk his own hide amazed her. That he would fire early, hence, she supposed, really not taking much of a chance with his hide at all, did not.

"Four times?" Lucy demanded, clearly finding this tidbit rather fascinating. "Would you not think that his opponents would have been the wiser after the first, and most definitely after the second and third?"

"Men," Lady Leverham announced, "are never quite so stupid as when they are smacking each other about the face with gloves or groggily waving pistols across a damp field. If there is any act more asinine than a duel, I am certain I do not know what it is. Now a nice joust, on the other hand . . ."

"What was the reason for the duels?" Lucy wished to know.

"Other men's wives and daughters," was the prompt response. Then, perhaps realizing that a bit more circ.u.mspection was appropriate around her young guests, Lady Leverham cleared her throat and amended, "Fremont's . . . social behavior has occasionally been frowned upon. He was even once forced to rusticate on the Continent while his third opponent decided whether or not to expire. He is not, I fear, the best companion for you, Lucy, dear." Her ordinarily guileless eyes sharpened. "You were not . . . excessively . . . entertained by the creature, were you?"

Cate, clenched fists hidden in her lap, wanted very much to hear the answer to this question. She also wanted very much to hear about these wives and daughters-or even just about the frowned-upon social behavior. She silently willed her sister to answer and to ask. But Lucy, choosing the very worst time to develop a reticence and disinterest in gossip, merely shrugged.

"It was not such a stimulating encounter that I am breathlessly antic.i.p.ating the next. Among other things, Lord Fremont does not converse particularly well."

Relief that her sister did not seem to be falling under Fremont's potent spell washed over Cate. It hardly mattered whether Lucy's disenchantment came from wisdom or that the subject in question did not possess either the requisite fortune or lofty enough t.i.tle. Unlike Cate, Lucy seldom changed her mind about a man. People did not grow on her like an unwelcome rash.

That did not mean Cate wasn't ready to have at her over those "other things" Lord Fremont did poorly.

She counted five instead, sighed, and casually asked, "On what did you converse?"

"Actually," Lucy replied with a delicate little yawn, "we did not. He conversed, mostly about the color of my eyes. After that, his most frequent mention was of you."

"Me?"

"Mmm." Lucy did not elaborate for a long moment, instead turning her attention to helping their hostess disentangle her lavish gold bracelet-which, Cate had noted earlier, bore a remarkable resemblance to chain mail-from the table's lace doily. "He spoke of the delightful days you spent together on the Maybole estate."

"You spent delightful days with Fremont?" Lady Leverham demanded. Then, deciding she had chosen the wrong event to grace with a reaction, "You were a guest of the Loose Maybole?"

"Not really. Louisa Maybole commissioned the uncles to renovate her house. We occupied a tenant cottage. Lord Fremont was a frequent guest at the house, and we became casually known to each other. He did not say we were . . . more than acquaintances, did he, Lucy?"

"He spoke very fondly of those days, adding, of course, that he must have suffered a severe knock on the head at some point not to have remembered me." Lucy rolled her eyes again and flashed her best impish grin. "He also said you were the sweetest of creatures and a trusting soul- which made it more than clear to your devoted sister that you and he were certainly no more than mere acquaintances."

/f that were only true. Cate wondered if she needed to do something about Fremont. And she wondered what she could possibly do if the answer was yes. It was going to require some serious thought.

"You know, my dears" -Lady Leverham had finally succeeded in freeing herself from the doily and was now removing it from the table-"I am ever so fond of this table, but cannot be sure it is suited for this room."

Apparently she had either forgotten or temporarily exhausted the subject of Lord Fremont. Cate was perfectly happy to discuss tables.

The lady's parlor was a minstrel's dream of Gothic arches, carved mahogany furniture, and lush silk tapestries. There was even a painted wooden unicorn in one corner and two sets of armor flanking the door. The table, one of Ambrose Buchanan's finer works, depicted the fall of Carthage. His painted skies had never been smokier, his rivulets and rivers of blood redder. In a room whose four walls were decorated with an impressive collection of maces, pikes, and daggers, the little table looked right at home.

Lady Leverham patted its glossy surface wistfully. "After all, there is little that is more distressing than different epochs of one's life intruding upon one another."

Cate heartily agreed. Such circ.u.mstances could be terribly uncomfortable, not to mention dangerous.

Tregaron grunted as a well-aimed fist thumped into his gut. He dashed what he optimistically a.s.sumed was sweat from his brow and earned himself another thump for having lifted his guard arm.

Madness. On a good day, when his mind was reasonably clear and all he wanted was some exertion for his body, this activity was foolishness. On a day like this, when he had chaos roiling in his head and all of him, tip to toe, was reeling from too much liquor, it was madness.

"Enough, sir?" his opponent asked.

"No!" Tregaron snapped, jabbing out a right hook. An image of Cate-on-the-balcony flashed into his muddled brain just then, slowing the thrust enough that a three-legged turtle could have dodged it.

An instant later, he was seated on the hardwood floor, stars in his eyes, a dent below his ribs, and no feeling whatsoever in his posterior. "Madness," he said aloud, then, "Ouch. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l."

To his credit, Rob MacDougal did not ask if he was hurt, nor did the fellow apologize. Instead, the acclaimed pugilist and boxing salon proprietor offered a hand and helped Tregaron to his feet. Tregaron had long since stopped minding MacDougal's being a full head shorter than he, but was forever the one looking down at him as he sat, reclined, or lay flat as a flounder on the floor. The man was built like a tree stump with arms. And he had fists like anvils.

"I have a question for you, MacDougal," he announced as the man followed him to a bench, one anvil hand hovering just in case he should totter or go down again. 'With no offense intended."

"I'll do my best to take none, m'lord."

"Good. Good. It's about you Scots."

"Aye?"

Tregaron sighed. "Is there an inherent ability to completely flatten men like me, or is it learned?"

"I suppose all the porridge and haggis help build strong ...

Ah." MacDougal nodded. "You've found yourself a good Highland la.s.sie, have you?"

Tregaron had no idea what he had found, but he was certain of the location. "Argyll, actually."

"G.o.d love you, m'lord. And help you."

"Thank you, MacDougal."

"Think nothing of it." The boxer watched in concern as Tregaron lowered himself onto the bench- wondering, probably, if he'd knocked something vital out the other side. "I'd say to hide the knives . . . and to spend as much time at home cuddling your la.s.s in front of the fire as you possibly can. You'll be a lucky and happy man."

Tregaron grunted. "So you say."

"I do indeed. Now I've a question for you, m'lord, seeing as you're among England's foremost n' finest."

"Debatable, that," Tregaron murmured, "but ask away."

"What is all the rot about driving about, hmm?" MacDougal propped a foot on the bench and rested his arm across his knee, displaying a hand full of huge and k.n.o.bby knuckles and not quite straight fingers. "Daft if you ask me, a fellow perching himself all the way up there on the box, then slapping his horses into running h.e.l.l-for-leather. It's just asking to be tossed off and battered head to foot."

Tregaron gingerly felt his own sore ribs, then surveyed the other man's crooked nose and permanently quirked eyebrows. To each his own sport, he supposed. He shook his head. "I am afraid I am the wrong man to answer that one, my friend."

"You and every other fellow who walks in here. Haven't found one yet who can give much of an answer."

"It must be that you have a more sensible clientele." Either that or they'd all had their brains sufficiently rattled to be a far more hamheaded clientele. Tregaron wasn't at all confident of his own wisdom at present. "And for what it's worth, MacDougal . . ."

"Aye?"

"I have far more Welsh blood in my veins than English."

The boxer grinned, displaying a dimple and several missing teeth. "Do you now? Well, that's all right, then. All of my family since my great-great-grandda' from Mull has been born 'n' bred in Yorkshire, not Scotland."

A quarter hour later, steadier of leg and sense, Tregaron quitted the salon and headed for his rooms. Gryffydd, whose presence was not welcome at MacDougal's due to his tendency to bite at the ankles of anyone sparring with his master, would be expecting a walk. Tregaron was antic.i.p.ating a hot bath.

He did not see Vaer until the man was nearly on top of him. "Tregaron!" He flinched first at the volume of the greeting, then at the blast of whiskey fumes. Vaer had clearly just come from a long, liquid luncheon, probably at his club.

"Sly fox, you. Been waiting for you to call on the girl, but noooo." Vaer came to an unsteady halt inches from Tregaron's shirtfront. His nose was vividly red. his cravat askew, and there was a wine-colored trail of spots running down the lapel of his pink waistcoat. "S'pose you're waiting to talk pounds and pence."

"To be honest, sir-"

"Quite right. You're plump enough in the pockets. Land, then. I've a pretty ace ... er ... acre or two we can throw in the pot."

"Vaer." Tregaron glanced around, half looking for a convenient hedge into which he could deposit his would-be father-in-law, half to see how much attention they had drawn. Not so very much as yet. A curious pa.s.serby had stopped on the opposite side of the street; several shopkeepers were peering through their doors. "Perhaps we can summon you a-"

"Live goods, then. Not a man in England can resist a fine set o' legs and good teeth."

Tregaron could only a.s.sume the man was speaking of horses.

"Tregaron!"

There was no mistaking that voice, nor the red hair and face that went with it. The whole of the parts was now approaching at a rapid clip, having appeared as if from nowhere.

"Earith," Tregaron muttered.

"House in Ireland," came from Vaer. "Castle really. Forty-odd rooms. Just needs a bit of work to make the perfect love nest."

"What will it take to send your black soul back to Wales?" Earith demanded.

At present, a swift-moving conveyance and quick stop at the Albany to collect his dog would have sufficed. Tregaron did not say so, however. He resisted, too, the urge to remind the man of the time his son and heir, a milk-faced pup at the time, had taken to writing billets doux to the much older, undeniably gorgeous, endlessly f.e.c.kless wife of a viscount who made even the Duke of Earith's temperament resemble that of a lamb. As it happened. Tregaron had been attending a ball at the viscountess's house on the very night Earith's son had decided to make himself comfortable in the lady's bedchamber-just as the viscount decided to check for such lovestruck intruders. For no reason he could fathom, Tregaron had hustled the young idiot out a connecting door and had faced the viscount himself. He'd nearly had a dawn encounter as a reward for his good deed. As it was, the pounding he had received from three of the viscount's behemoth grooms had been nearly as uncomfortable as a lead ball.

"Well?" Earith spat. "What will it take? Money? The business end of my gun?"

"He ain't going anywhere!" Vaer insisted. "We're discussing important matters of business here."

The duke ignored him. "You've been sniffing about my Chloe, and I won't have it, Tregaron. Do you hear me?"

"I expect half of London hears you, sir," Tregaron replied wearily. They had finally attracted a bit of an audience, the three of them. In fact, a sizeable crowd was gathering nearby. "Perhaps we could take this-"

"Don't you be thinking you can worm your way back into respectability by marrying my daughter. Girl might be a senseless little bit of fluff, but she's a Somersham and has her consequence. But not for the likes of you. I'll see you six feet under before you sully the family name!"

"Oh, cork it, Reggie. You've been trying to marry the girl off for a year," Vaer announced, then hiccuped. "By all means, m'boy, worm your way with my chit. 'Spectable as the Regent's wife and a d.a.m.ned sight easier on the eye."

"Best teach her to shoot like Manton," was the duke's dire p.r.o.nouncement.

"Oh, balderdash," Vaer retorted. "Man like Tregaron only makes a mistake such as he did once. Elspeth'll be just fine."

Enough was enough. And Tregaron could not decide which was worse: Earith's grunting and growling when he was far more concerned for the family name than his offspring, or Vaer trying to sell his daughter like so much chattel in a street auction. Deplorable, but hardly surprising, if one thought about it. Belinda's father had been much the same, lamenting the introduction of so much hot Welsh blood into his own impeccable lines, desperate enough to marry his daughter to a t.i.tle that he'd been ready to add the moon to the settlement.

"Gentlemen." Tregaron spoke just loudly enough to get their attention, forcefully enough that Earith closed his jaw with an audible click and Vaer took an unsteady step closer. "No more."

He looked directly at Earith, whose face was now a distinctive shade of purple. "The closest I have been to your daughter is across a crowded room or two. And while I have never once heard that Lady Chloe is senseless, I would suggest that she do something about the bouncing. It is rather disconcerting."

To Vaer, he announced, "I have no need of money. I have ample land in Wales, which happens to include a castle of sorts, to make any sort of nest I desire. I like a nice set of legs and good teeth as much as the next man, but presently have no need of cattle. And should I feel the desire to ... worm, I will do so elsewhere. As much as I appreciate your very public displays of generosity, I am not so certain the lady in question would. There is nothing for me to take and, at present, I find I have naught to give.

"In short, gentlemen, at this very moment, marriage could not be further from my mind! As far as I am concerned, we may all merrily go our separate ways understanding each other perfectly. Hmm?"

Earith was glaring at him from beneath his beetle brows, hands clenching and unclenching at his side. Tregaron had always thought the man a boor, but never outright stupid. He would figure out that there was nothing more to be said soon enough. Vaer was staring at nothing in particular, one hand scratching at his rotund belly. Chances were, he would recall just enough when he'd sobered to pander his daughter elsewhere-or to come after Tregaron with a primed pistol. Odds were even.

"Now, sirs, if we are quite finished . . ." Without waiting for a response, Tregaron tipped his hat, swept his stick in a quick arc that was half an expression of nonchalance and half warning should anyone decide to get in his way, and strode away.

Vaer's garbled "French brandy? Just smuggled from Calais last week!" had him clenching his teeth in a silent curse, but he did not stop.

The sight of his cousin dead ahead did.

Charles Reynolds was there, too, with Lucius Gramble and Freddie Fortescue. All were splendidly attired, carefully coiffed, and as welcome a sight as a press gang.

"Damme if that wasn't a drama and a comedy in one, Tregaron," Gramble announced blithely. "You could have demanded threepence admission."

"Sixpence, even," from Reynolds.

"With you gentlemen in compet.i.tion?" Tregaron gave a thin smile. "You hold the comedic genius quite captive. I would be out of business in minutes."

"Port?" Vaer called. "Claret?"

Tregaron sighed.

Edgar, especially resplendent in a canary yellow waistcoat and emerald coat, yawned. "Still don't know why you came back to Town if you ain't looking to leg-shackle yourself. No one wants you here."

Tregaron supposed Edgar could truly believe he had not come looking for a wife. The fellow had always been one of the dimmer candles in the family sconce. Then, too, Edgar had been counting on inheriting the marquessate for years now. Perhaps he had not been the very first in line to see the current marquess strung up for murder; he probably would have been perfectly content to know his cousin was rotting away alone in his Welsh castle . . .

"Best take yourself back to the outlands. Molder there in peace."

"Ah, Cousin." Tregaron shook his head and announced with a sarcasm that was forever lost on Edgar, "I can never guess what thoughts are coursing through the uncluttered corridors of your mind."

Edgar took that with a gratified smile. He was never stupider than when it came to knowing he had been insulted. But then, Tregaron derived no pleasure from baiting the brainless, so he chose his moments.

Again he tipped his hat; again he started on his way. Gramble did not quite smack him in the shin with a gold-tipped stick, but came close. Tregaron could have shoved the thing out of the way or stepped over it, but decided he might as well give these people, whose opinion really meant nothing at all, their chance to take a shot at him.

"There is some Marlowe play or another opening in Covent Garden Friday," Gramble said with nearly convincing affability. "Will you be attending? Terribly old hat, of course, but always entertaining. And I do believe a comedy, no less."

Tregaron was rather fond of Marlowe, as it happened. He thought very little of Lucius Gramble. "She Stoops to Conquer, isn't it?"

"Quite right."

"No, perhaps not right at all. That is Goldsmith. How careless of me. No, I do believe it is School for Scandal."

Gramble nodded.

"Or is that Sheridan?" Tregaron shrugged. "You see, 1 have no taste for comedy. Ah, well. I hope you find it vastly edifying, sir." Once more, he tried to leave.