Chapter Nine
Robert listened to the butler, hesitated, stared at Eleanor, and then said, “There is a James MacGregor at the door. Jeffries was going to turn him away, but he’s insistent that you’ll want to meet with him.”
Eleanor wished she were the tendril of steam rising from her teacup, dissipating into the air. She felt Robert’s gaze on her, incredulous, intent. “Show him in,” she told Jeffries, resigned.
Robert’s brows lifted. “Do you have something to tell me?”
Eleanor pursed her lips as she imagined what she’d say—You warned me against Georgina’s scheme and you were right and I was wrong and I very nearly had everyone fooled until I made one silly mistake?
“I’d rather not discuss it,” was what she finally said.
James MacGregor strode into the drawing room as though he owned it. With calculating eyes, he glanced at the pale-blue walls, then the windows, tall and framed by drapes that were tied off with gold cord, and then the furniture, blue and white with rosewood frames.
“I like this painting,” he said, studying the landscape that hung above the mantel. “Is it that artist? The one the aristocrats go mad for?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The one who paints all the rich swells lounging about, pretending to like nature?”
Unfortunately, she was able to translate that colorful and vaguely insulting description. “Do you mean Gainsborough?”
“Gainsborough,” he said. “That’s it.”
“It’s not a Gainsborough.”
“Hmm.” He sounded unimpressed “How much did it cost?”
How in the world was she supposed to teach this man? He’d just stomped on several important rules of etiquette and he didn’t even seem to realize it.
Eleanor, exasperated, said, “You’ve shown up later than the normal calling hours. You didn’t give Jeffries a card. And you never ask a woman how much something in her home costs. You shouldn’t speak of money, at all.”
He started to turn toward her. “But I like money. And some of us actually have professions—we can’t all make our social calls at fashionable—”
He stopped when his gaze reached her, calmly sitting on the settee—or sitting on the settee and struggling to appear calm. She realized this was the first time he’d seen her as herself and not as Cecil.
She set her teacup in its saucer, a little roughly, and then looked down at her slender, pale hands folded in her lap. She wished she had her gloves on, for some reason. Her hands looked…strange, vulnerable, too frail…though she knew they were capable enough.
Maybe it was being so close to him. Maybe it was his presence in her sanctuary. He sucked all of the oxygen out of a place with his size, with the raw primality of his body. He didn’t look like he belonged here, but he dominated the space all the same.
She wondered what he thought of her. She’d never spent much time contemplating her looks—she didn’t think she was entirely plain, but she was no great beauty, either. And while she liked to be well-groomed, physical conceit was a distant, abstract concept to her. As long as she was presentable, what did it matter what she looked like? Her family didn’t care. Beetles certainly didn’t care.
She’d rather have a quick mind than an admired face.
And she was annoyed that she was suddenly aware of her own skin in a way she never had been before. She was annoyed that she knew, beyond any doubt, James MacGregor would rather marry a woman with an admired face than a quick mind if he couldn’t have both. And then she was annoyed that it mattered at all.
Anyway, he was wearing the most hideous polka-dotted cravat she’d ever seen. She certainly shouldn’t be the one concerned with her looks.
Whatever he thought of her as Eleanor, when he’d only seen her as Cecil, he hid behind a lazy grin. “And what is the purpose of a calling card if I can simply state my name?”
“Lady Sarah might take some issue with you flouting the rules.”
That sobered him a bit. “You are never on my side, Cecil.”
She stiffened at his careless use of her secret identity. Her gaze flew to her brother. She’d almost forgotten he was there.
He was looking between the two of them, his expression somewhere between incredulity and irritation, but when MacGregor called her Cecil, he stepped in front of her, hiding her from the other man’s view. Which was pointless, as the damage had already been done, but still caused a pang of fondness in her chest.
“Who the devil are you?” Robert asked.
“Who are you?” MacGregor returned warily.
Robert huffed out an annoyed breath. “I’m Robert Townsend, and you are addressing my sister, so I would suggest you address her respectfully.”
Her older brother didn’t quite have the brooding intensity of Theo, but he sounded angry enough to give MacGregor pause. MacGregor might be able to pummel Robert with his pugilism skills, but that wouldn’t get him very far if he wanted her help. Eleanor felt a surge of unholy delight at James MacGregor being put in his place.
He scowled. “Miss Townsend and I have a private matter to discuss.”
“Very well,” Robert said. He moved back to the escritoire by the window, where he’d been penning a letter, and picked up his quill. “I’ll just listen while you do that. Don’t speak too quietly, please.”
MacGregor looked at Eleanor, still scowling, and then sat down on the other end of the settee. He left space between them, but he was so imposing that it didn’t feel like much.
Even sitting in a drawing room, he wasn’t completely still. His thumb tapped out a pattern on his knee, a subtle but constant motion. His energy was only partly contained, like a box stuffed too full—it seeped out in shifts of positions, the way he tilted his head, his tapping thumb, occasionally a tapping foot.
If she watched him for very long, she’d be exhausted.
“I’m meeting Lady Sarah tomorrow to shop for bonnets,” she said. “If you would like, I can make the introductions then. I’ll say you are a friend of the family.” Because of Theo’s reclusive tendencies and Eleanor’s wallflower tendencies, they were already known for being a little eccentric, it probably wouldn’t surprise anyone very much to think they’d befriended a wealthy pugilist.
MacGregor’s mood shifted at this information and he grinned, his teeth flashing white. Though clean and bright, they were crooked teeth, as jauntily defiant as the man himself. Eleanor wanted to hate them, but instead found them oddly endearing.
“You move quickly, Cecil,” he said in a low voice. “I like that.”
Robert was frowning at them, his quill hovering over the foolscap.
“Stop calling me that,” she hissed.
“Why? You chose it yourself.”
“I would think the reasons would be obvious.”
“No one can hear me. Your secret is safe.”
Robert set his quill down. “I won’t hesitate to forcibly remove you,” he said to MacGregor.
MacGregor looked at him skeptically. Robert was by no means a small man, but his build was lean and wiry compared to MacGregor’s bulk.
“True, you’re roughly the size of a small ox, which may present a problem, but I’m resourceful.”
“You swells always are—it’s easy to be resourceful when one is born with all the resources they need,” MacGregor said dismissively, before turning his attention back to Eleanor. His intent eyes were the color she imagined the sea might be, underneath a cloudless sky. “How should I approach you?”
She nearly started, before she remembered that he was talking about approaching her when she was with Lady Sarah. She deserved as much for contemplating his eye color. They were blue. Simple, plain blue.
“You should never approach a lady in public unless she acknowledges you first,” she said. “When I introduce you, do not shake Lady Sarah’s hand. A bow will suffice. And if you are walking on the pavement together, you need to take the outside.”
He looked bemused. “Are all of these rules necessary?”
“If you want to court Lady Sarah, they are.”
He sighed. “What should we speak of, then?”
Unease trickled along Eleanor’s spine. She hadn’t realized he would need this much guidance in proper etiquette—she was starting to feel that, instead of simply aiding him every now and then, she was the one leading him. And she hadn’t wanted to be involved in this in the first place.
“Ask about her interests—music is always a good topic. If you cannot think of anything appropriate, stick to the weather.”
“The weather?” he said with a laugh. “Is there a point discussing something that’s obvious from glancing out a window or stepping outside?”
She didn’t disagree, but she gave him a stern glare anyway. “You don’t need me for this. You could buy any number of books on deportment and etiquette.”
“Books are dull. Why would I read a manual on etiquette when I can simply have you tell me what I need to know? I much prefer your company to a book.”
“Books are not—” She stopped on a deep breath. She would not engage in a ridiculous argument with him, no matter how tempted she was. She had a feeling he enjoyed being contrary simply for the sake of being contrary. Arguing with him would be the same as letting him win.
“Books are not what?” He smiled like she assumed the devil smiled when he was tempting people to commit atrocious acts.
“What if Lady Sarah enjoys reading?” she asked promptly. “She may be disappointed in a suitor who claims books are dull.”
That made some of his amusement fade. “Does she?”
“I couldn’t say. But I would think before you speak.”
It was his turn to look discontent. “It sounds like I’ll barely be able to speak at all.”
“This was what you wanted,” she pointed out.
Before he could answer, Georgina stepped into the room, pausing when she saw they had a guest, particularly when she saw who it was, but then she smiled in earnest. Eleanor would never quite understand Georgina’s ease with people—in the Highlands, she ran about like a wild thing and she’d seemed happy. Neither Robert nor Eleanor knew how she’d transition to Edinburgh after that kind of unrestrained freedom, but here she was, proper and friendly, and she seemed happy here, too.
It was possible Eleanor didn’t know exactly what was in her sister’s heart, which troubled her, because she’d always assumed Georgina was as open as a blank page.
“Stand when a lady enters a room,” Eleanor told MacGregor.
He flicked his thumb at Robert. “He didn’t.”
“He is our brother. Even if it was expected, we would allow him his bad behavior.”
“Ha,” Robert responded. “My bad behavior?”
Georgina sat in the armchair across from the settee. “Is this an etiquette lesson? How are you faring?”
“Well enough, I suppose. Your sister hasn’t insulted me yet.”
Georgina shot Eleanor a curious look. “Does she insult you often?”
“No, but when she does it’s well placed.” At Georgina’s silence, he continued, “Don’t tell me you’ve never been subject to her barbed remarks?”
“I can’t say that I have.” She raised her eyebrows. “Most in Society would call her reserved. A few may even say timid.”
“Timid,” he exclaimed. His head swiveled toward her, and she felt herself reddening under the incredulity of his stare. “You’ve not been timid with me.”
“It’s impossible to be timid with you,” she muttered, upset at her mannerisms being the topic of conversation. Upset that he was right and she didn’t quite know why it upset her. Anyway, being timid and being reserved were two different things in her mind, and she’d always felt she was more the latter. “If I was, you would flatten me with your careless exuberance and disregard.”
Georgina blinked.
MacGregor grinned. “See…I knew I wasn’t imagining it.”
“Clearly,” Georgina said. She sounded too speculative for Eleanor’s taste.
“Being able to make normally reserved women turn sharp-tongued isn’t exactly a high recommendation of your social skills,” Robert said to MacGregor, still writing his letter. “I don’t know why you sound pleased.”
MacGregor ignored him. “Is there anything else I should know?” His gaze quickly shifted from amusement to keen focus. She could see, in that moment, how he’d become a successful pugilist. He might hide his ruthless ambition beneath a jocular veneer, but Eleanor saw it as clearly as if it was painted on him.
She knew all about guises—insects did it, either to hide from predators, or to seek prey. She had a feeling MacGregor was the predator, not the prey.
“Do not speak of money,” she reiterated again. She nodded toward his cravat. “Do not wear anything that looks remotely like that.”
He peered down at the yellow dots. “This is my favorite cravat,” he said, frowning.
“It’s ostentatious.”
His mouth quirked. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“A fashionable gentleman should wish to appear understated and elegant. I would recommend hiring a good valet.”
He shook his head. “I can dress myself—I don’t need someone to do it for me.”
He’d obviously practiced—the cloth was tied in a simple but neat knot—but the knot wasn’t the problem.
“Don’t wear it,” she said. “Lady Sarah will hate it. And finally, don’t speak of anything that might not be…appropriate…to speak of in front of a lady.”
“That’s a vague command. Would you care to elaborate?”
She ignored the glint in his eye.
“Stag beetles and their indiscriminate habits, for instance?”
She worked very hard to meet his gaze with no hint of embarrassment, but she didn’t think she managed. “No, that is not an appropriate topic.”
“Ah, Cecil,” he said. “What tangled webs we weave.”
Eleanor wondered how a man who thought books were dull could quote a line from a Walter Scott poem. Though perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised—he liked being a contradiction, and he had technically misquoted it.
A footman appeared with a tea tray—Georgina must have requested it; she rose early in the day and was always hungry in the afternoons—and Eleanor busied herself with the tea to avoid any further contemplation about MacGregor’s reading habits.
She poured hot water over the tea leaves while the footman passed around plates of seed cake. MacGregor started eating his before the tea was ready.
She was going to reprimand him when she noticed he was staring at the cake with a strange, wrinkled expression. “What is it?”
“There are seeds in this cake.”
“It’s a seed cake,” she said drily.
“Caraway seeds. You’ve ruined a perfectly good pound cake by adding caraway seeds.”
“You don’t have to eat it,” she pointed out.
He scowled and drew the plate closer to him before taking a large bite. “I never say no to cakes.”
Eleanor, Georgina, and Robert looked on as the man devoured a fairly sizable portion of seed cake in roughly three bites. He chewed, swallowed, said, “It’s a bit dry,” in a thoughtful tone, and then twisted toward her. “Are you going to eat yours?”
Eleanor blinked and found herself handing over her plate to his outstretched hand. He ate this piece in two and a half bites, and then looked up as hopefully as a dog at the dinner table, but Georgina and Robert had a tight hold of their own plates.
“Do you ever say no to any food?” she asked.
“Not if I can help it.”
She sighed. “Don’t ask Lady Sarah if you can have her plate. It’s not good manners.”
“Obviously,” he said. “What kind of idiot do you take me for?”
“You asked me.”
“You are not Lady Sarah,” he pointed out pragmatically.
When she poured the steeped tea into cups a few minutes later, her grip on the pot was white-knuckled, and she didn’t look at MacGregor for fear she might lob a blunt object at his head if it crossed her line of vision.
She noticed MacGregor, who happily and quickly consumed ale and seed cakes he complained were too dry and too seed filled, sipped at his tea at a remarkably slow pace. So there was, at least, one edible thing he didn’t care for.
She gave him a few more tips, and then they determined when and where the introduction with Lady Sarah would occur. Pangs of guilt accompanied this discussion, but she shoved them aside.
Finally MacGregor stood to take his leave, and executed a cheerful bow that wasn’t as poor as she might have expected. “As always, a pleasure, Cecil.”
The dratted man seemed to delight in vexing her. She managed one polite nod with her jaw clenched.
It was strange, though—as soon as he left, the room seemed to shrink, and the silence, which she normally didn’t mind, turned into something a bit stifling.
Robert’s shoes appeared in her line of vision. “I think I’ve been reasonable enough. Now, will you please tell me what the devil is going on?”
She tipped back her head to look at his face. There was nothing for it but the truth. “He discovered Cecil’s identity. He’ll keep his silence in exchange for entry into our circle.”
Robert scowled. “Eleanor…”
“All things considered,” she said, trying to be practical and feeling anything but, “the circumstances are not nearly as horrid as they could be. We simply have to acknowledge him as a friend of the family and introduce him to Lady Sarah.”
“Oh, is that all?” her brother said sarcastically. “And how do we know that’s where it ends? He might start to demand money, and what could we do to stop him?”
“He wouldn’t do that,” she said.
Robert’s brows shot up. “A blackmailer wouldn’t demand money?”
“No. Not this one.” She didn’t know how she knew, but she did. As frustrating as MacGregor’s actions were, he did seem to have a code of honor—albeit a colorful one. Asking for an introduction and an acknowledgment in Society wasn’t quite at the same level of villainy as extorting money.
Robert looked unconvinced.
“To whom were you writing?” Georgina asked, trying to change the subject.
Robert, however, did not take the bait. “I’m a little more concerned about Eleanor and her new friend, at the moment.”
“He’s not my friend,” she muttered.
“No, friends don’t force each other to give them introductions,” he said.
“Trust me, Robert. Once we give him what he wants, he’ll fade away quietly.”
“Somehow, I can’t see MacGregor doing anything quietly. But I do hope you’re right.”
She hoped she was, too.