The Lion's Daughter (41 page)

“And
cold and wet and half-starved to boot,” her grandmother went
on, heeding her not a whit. “I've seen more promising specimens
in a workhouse.”

She
backed away a few steps and, her eyes still fixed on Esme, yanked
violently on the bell pull. “What a man thinks of, I don't know
I'm sure, except I much doubt he's got the equipment for it. And you
less than most, Edenmont. But you've brazenness enough to make up for
brains, I collect. Drays! Blast the scurvy rogue! What's keeping
him?”

The
doors opened once more, and the beaky-nosed little man entered. “My
lady?”

“Take
the gel to Mrs. Munden and tell her to order a hot hath, and then
—”

“Take?”
Esme echoed incredulously. “Bath? I am not
—”

“And
tell Cook to send her up a good hot curry and a pot of strong tea
with plenty of sugar and a heap of them biscuits and a
bowl of
—”

“I
do not—”

“No
one asked you. Go along with Drays, now, and get out of them rags.
Disgraceful's what
/
call it.”

Esme's
glance darted from her obviously insane grandmother to her husband.
Varian smiled, very faintly. She couldn't tell what it meant.
“Varian?”

“Your
grandmother is most gracious,” he said.

“You
want me to do as she says?” Esme asked, bewildered.

“It
would be best. I believe she wishes to speak with me in private.”

“I
most certainly do,” the old lady said darkly.

Reading
his expression was always difficult. Varian assumed masks so easily,
and they all appeared so genuine. Still, as she moved reluctantly to
the doors, Esme thought there was an easing of some kind, in his
stance if not in his cool gray eyes. She lightly touched his hand. He
caught hers a
nd
squeezed it briefly. “It's
all right, dear,” he murmured.

Nothing
seemed all right to her, but Esme gave him a weak mile and her
grandmother a great flounce of a curtsy and, lifting her chin, left
the room with Drays.

“JASON'S
GEL,” LADY Brentmor said, when Esme was well ou
t
of hearing range. “If I was
blind and deaf, I could deny it, but I ain't, so I won't. I've heard
all about this business
—
from
that incompetent son of mine and his lunatic boy.”

She
waved at a large gilt-legged marble table. “There's brandy in
that decanter on the what-you-call-it. Get me a fistful, will you?
Yes, and yourself as well. You ain't no Methodist, I know.”

As
Varian moved to obey her orders, she dropped into a I hair. “Devil
take the chit. Of all the imbecilic, worthless rogues
m
all of God's creation, she had to
shackle herself to
you.
No
more sense than her father. Got himself killed, didn't he?
—
and

by
a pack of heathens, of all things. Which he wouldn't have done if
he'd been where he belonged. But he wasn't. No sense at all. A pack
of fools, men are. Every last dratted one of them.”

Varian
wordlessly gave her the glass he'd generously filled. His great-aunt
Sophy had been of this species: a woman of the last century, a hard
living, blunt spoken breed. Great-Aunt Sophy could drink most of the
men in the family under the table, and her oaths could redden the
countenance of a marine.

“Sit,
sit.” Lady Brentmor gestured impatiently at a large chair
opposite. “I'll get a rheumatic in my neck looking up at your
sneaking, lying face.”

“I
assure you, my lady, I've not come to deceive.” Varian sat, and
immediately suspected his hostess had ordered the chair upholstered
in macadam and painted over. “You'd given your son Jason
permission to call on you, I was told. I hoped the permission would
apply to his offspring.”

“We
won't speak of that numskull, if you please,” she said sharply.
“As to deceiving me, you couldn't. I ain't a green gel, and I
ain't cozened easy by pretty words or pretty faces. Handsome is as
handsome does, I say
—
and
what
you 've
done
don't bear repeating. I know all about you, Edenmont.” Her
shrewd hazel eyes bored into him. “You and Davies and Byron and
the rest. Birds of a feather, and you the blackest magpie of them
all.”

“Wild
oats, madam. The follies of youth.”

“Not
six months ago you cuckolded two Italian counts, one banker, and a
pastry baker. A pastry baker!” she repeated. “Haven't you
any discrimination at all?”

“My
misspent youth, as I said. But I am a wedded man now, my lady, and
cognizant of my responsibilities.”

She
leaned toward him. “Are you
cognizant
as well that you're miles up the
River Tick and got no prospect of an oar to paddle you out of it?
Because I won't paddle you out, my lord. If you thought I would,
you'd best think again, with whatever it is you've got passes for
brains.”

“I
assure you, I had no illusions on that score.” Varian turned
the brandy glass in his hands. This was not going to be easy. And
later would be worse. “I've a good idea what you suspect
—
what
anyone aware of my reputation would suspect. I can only assure you I
did not bring Esme in hopes of coaxing a dowry from you. I didn't wed
her because she had a wealthy grandmother.”

“But
you knew she had one, didn't you?” Esme has never claimed to be
an heiress. Quite the contrary. Furthermore, nothing I knew of your
family inclined me to imagine otherwise. I've gambled often enough to
recognize exceedingly poor odds.”

“Yet
you wed her.”

“Yes.”

“With
no thought to your interests, I'm to believe.”

“I
wed her because
...”
Varian stared into his glass, as
though he might find the words written there, clearer than in his own
heart. “Because I am much attached to her,” he finished
tightly.

The
dowager gave a loud snort. “This is not
my
notion of attachment, sir, any more
than it's my notion of practical sense
.
You wed her, though you
knew
you couldn't feed or dress
or house her. A mere child
—
and
you put a ring on her finger so you could take her direct to the
sponging house?” “You tell me nothing I haven't berated
myself with a thousand times. The damage is done, and can't be
undone.”

“There
ain't many ties can't be untied,” she said, her tone brisk, “if
a body's willing to pay. I'd not give
you
a groat. But an
annulment of this abominable
marriage I'd consider a wise, very sound investment.”

His fingers tightened about the crystal stem. “That is out of
the question.”

“Why?
Don't tell me the poor child's breeding already?” “Good
God, no!” The glass jerked in his hand, splashing brandy onto
the carpet. Only a few drops. A few tiny blots, that was all. Varian
drew a steadying breath. “I mean that's not the reason. I mean
I should never consent to such a thing.” She watched him with
hard, pitiless eyes. Not that he'd expected or wanted pity. Nothing
she'd said was truly unjust. “Poor child,” she had called
Esme. That was what mattered. Like the bath and the food, it meant
there was hope. A chance. “What do you want from me?” she
demanded. “Tell me straight. I won't be sweet-talked to the
point. I've never cared for roundaboutation, and I'm too old to learn
to like it now.” He met her gaze straight on. “I want you
to look after her

for
a while. I want her safe and
—
and
well. I can't risk taking her to London. My title protects me to some
extent
—
from
the sponging house, at least. But I don't want Esme exposed to
harassment. That's why I brought her here.”

“I
won't support an idle rogue, I tell you.”

“Only
Esme, only for a while,” he said. “I must go to London,
bailiffs or not. There's no other way to deal with my affairs.”

“And
just how do you propose to deal with 'em?”

“I
don't know.”

The
dowager leaned back in her chair and heaved a sigh. “Ain't that
like a man? Men never know, but they always 'must,' mustn't they?
They never know, not one blessed thing. Not a prayer of coming to the
rightabout, yet you won't let the poor girl go, will you?”

“No.”

“Want
to have her safe in the country with her old grand-mama, do you? For
how long? Weeks, months, years? The rest of her life? No Season for
her, no beaux, no chance for a proper match. Damnation, Edenmont, if
you had to bed her, why couldn't you have left it at that? I'd have
found her a mate. Not every man
has
to have a virgin bride, whatever
they say. Not that they've any business saying it, selfish
hypocrites.”

Varian
rose. “It's no good telling me,” he said coldly. “She
won't wed another while I'm alive. If dissolving the marriage is your
condition, then say so, and I shall take my offensive self
—
and
my wife
—
out
of your way.”

“You're
a base and selfish man,” she said, rising as well. “But I
won't have Jason's gel starving or sleeping in alleys. She'll stay.
And
you,
my
lord, may go to blazes.”

THE
BATH WAS everything Varian had described to Esme that morning so many
months ago: the great, steaming tub, the scented soap, the soft
towels. Even the servant.

In
response to Drays' summons, Mrs. Munden had come chugging down the
hallway like a tugboat, aimed straight for Esme, and towed her away,
all the while tooting orders to various lesser servants who came
rushing in from every direction. The halls quickly began to resemble
the River

Thames,
with a host of vessels coming and going, carrying their diverse
goods: buckets of coal for the fire, buckets of steaming water for
the bath, valises, linens, and heaven knew

what
else. All the bustle made Esme dizzy, tired, and anxious. Everything
was done for her and to her, and nothing was under her control. From
the moment she had entered this

house,
she'd been swept into its power. Her grandmother's power.

The
feeling did not lessen at dinner, though Varian was there,
regaling the dowager with gossip from Corfu and Malta, Gibraltar and
Cadiz
—
all
the places they'd so briefly stopped at on their hectic voyage to
England. Less than two months it had taken them. But that was because
the schooner was racing a sister vessel.

The
owners of both were rich, idle lords
—
Varian's
former schoolfellows. They had been touring the Greek islands when
they heard the rumors of Lord Edenmont's marriage. One believed it,
the other didn't. The result was a wager
—
and
a mad
dash
Corfu
to settle it. The result of that, for Varian and Esme, was free
passage to England.

As
Varian was now pointing out to Lady Brentmor, his
rakehel
reputation had rescued them. Had
he lived a life of rectitude, he and Esme would probably be in Corfu
yet. The old lady was amused. She laughed loudly, as she had at the
gossip he'd shared
—
in
between berating Varian for proceeding such a lackwit, harum-scarum
way with a new bride.

After
dinner, they returned to the
green and gold room.

The
drawing room it was called. There Varian gave an edited account of
their adventures in Albania. Lady Brentmor did not laugh so much
then, or scold as much either, but stared into the fire, shaking her
head from time to time. At last she called for her port and brusquely
sent Varian and Esme away.

Though
the dowager had made it clear she disapproved of Varian and viewed
the marriage as an unmitigated catastrophe, she'd assigned the couple
adjoining rooms.

The
maid, Molly, had just left when Varian entered through the connecting
door. He took up the brush Molly had minutes before laid down upon
the dressing table, stared at it for a long

while,
then put it down. He placed his
hands on Esme's shoulders and gazed at her reflection in the looking
glass. Then, in a few quiet sentences, he told her what he'd arranged
with her grandmother.

When
he was done, Esme jerked away from him and walked stiffly to the
window.