Chapter 3
The events of that night and after it had proved absolutely infuriating. Firstly, Lord Brinkley had gone about saying what a poorly run evening it had been. He then speculated about how absolutely on the edge of good society Andromeda had to be if she invited someone as low as Lord Peterboro.
Low. Ha! The very idea.
She longed to ruin the man’s beloved cravat, perhaps by tying it too tight about his lily-white neck and giving it a good, long tug. She masticated her toast with more energy than usual as she stared at the headlines on her newssheet. But really, what an appalling state of affairs this truly was.
“Dear sister,” Angus called from the doorway to her breakfast room. “Whatever has that poor bit of perfectly-toasted bread done to ye to deserve such fury?”
As her brother entered, his presence dwarfing the marigold-hued room, she smiled. Very few people had her undying affection, but Angus was one of them. They’d survived a difficult childhood together. They’d both proven wild. And they’d both loved the other for it. They never had, nor never would abandon each other.
She took up her napkin and took care of errant crumbs. “I’m thinking of a certain someone.”
“Lord Peterboro?” he asked, face as innocent as an angel.
“Nay. No’ Lord Peterboro!” she shouted before she drew in a long breath and smoothed her hair.
Her brother’s eyes danced merrily.
She grabbed her teacup and took a long drink.
Angus sat, his merry gaze eyeing her carefully as he took the coffee pot and poured. “Have some. It will do ye good.”
“Ladies are supposed to drink tea,” she reminded him, her nose raised.
“And when have ye been overly concerned about what ladies do?” he asked, pouring the beautiful, black libation.
She stared at the coffee like it was the nectar of the gods. “Since my reputation has been tossed into the Thames.”
“Hardly.”
“I am the subject of gossip,” she bit out. She picked up her knife again, ready to eat another piece of toast, buttered heavily of course.
“Ye have always been the subject of gossip,” her brother reminded without accusation or embarrassment as he sat close to her. “But this doesna paint ye in a pleasant light and that is the difference.”
A great feeling of woe overtook her. Suddenly, she put her knife down. “I look like an ignorant fool.”
Her brother said nothing as he spooned lump after lump of sugar into his coffee. He merely gazed at her, eyes wide.
“I am no’ ignorant or foolish!” she roared.
“Och, no. Of course ye are no’. Ye took a chance on a successful, young person and well, he proved—”
“An ignorant and foolish man, which I now seem by association. No’ a man, mind ye. Just ignorant and foolish.”
“Ye’ll rise above it, lass,” he said gently. “Ye’re good acquaintances with too many marvelous people.”
“I suppose. But I hate it.” She shook her head. That deeply unpleasant feeling was having its way with her again. “The way he looked at me.”
“Brinkley?”
“That toad?” she scoffed. “I could care less.”
Her brother’s brows rose. “Lord Peterboro?”
“Aye,” she admitted, flinging her napkin onto the table. “He looked at me as if I were the worst sort of ton woman who understood nothing about world affairs and cared only for her coiffure, jewels, and position in society.”
“If that was what he saw, he has very poor vision.”
Her heart swelled with affection. “Thank ye, Brother.”
“I ken yer worth.” Angus reached out and took her hand in his big one. “What does it matter if Peterboro does, fascinating fellow that he is?”
She narrowed her eyes. “How do ye ken him?”
“Friends as boys,” he said easily, retracting his hand and drinking his coffee. “We’d shoot at house parties and all that. My father was a duke. His father is a duke. It’s miraculous ye never met him.”
“Of course.” And it was miraculous given the number of parties she’d been dragged to as a girl. But likely, she’d not been quite old enough to go when Peterboro was still in England.
Angus took another deep drink of coffee, closing his eyes. “Rapture, lass. Pure rapture.”
Pleasure fluttered through her. Her brother didn’t have a great deal to make him happy. Even something this small was welcome. “Thank ye. I do try to procure the best.”
He frowned. “If ye dinna drink it yerself, why do ye even have a pot available?”
“For ye, ye booby,” she teased. “In case ye come. Ye often do come for breakfast.”
He smiled. So, I do. Ye’re damned thoughtful.”
She sighed. “Thank ye. But I feel like I made a horrid show of things this week.”
“Looking to climb back to the top of the ton?” he asked. He gazed at her over the rim of the delicately painted blue cup.
“Nay,” she said honestly. Then she added with a good bit of passion, “I wish to discover how to avoid frauds like Brinkley.”
“No’ everyone sees Brinkley as a fraud,” her brother lamented dryly. “Some would even agree with the sentiments he expressed that night.”
She shuddered. “I’ve no wish to ken those people.”
“But ye do ken them.” He put his cup down, his face growing grim. “They’re everywhere and ye willna be able to avoid them. I have to negotiate with them every blasted day.”
She batted her lashes at him and put her hand over her heart. “Ye poor duke.”
He laughed. “A point. A veritable point, ye vixen.”
“Even so,” she declared, straightening in her chair. “I dinna have to give such people a place to pour out their rather unfortunate opinions.”
“True. Let him read in some other idiot lord’s salon.”
She picked up her napkin then threw the linen at him.
He gasped dramatically. “A hit! A hit!”
Andromeda was laughing now. She said, “I think I shall visit the British Museum today.”
“A worthy outing. But why?” he asked, folding the napkin that had slipped to his chest. “Part of yer atonement?”
“That,” she admitted carefully. She did not want to expose just how interested Peterboro had made her in the truth of the situation in lands beyond her knowledge. “And because I am genuinely interested. Instead of listening to people talk about antiquities, surely I should take courage in hand and go see them myself.”
“Indeed.” Her brother frowned, his nose wrinkling which caused his scar to crease. “But crusty, old fellows are no’ always welcoming to curious, young ladies.”
“That is a sentiment that proves true in regards to most men.”
“No’ me,” he countered.
“No’ ye,” she concurred.
“But most,” he agreed with a tragic sigh. “Right then, shall I escort ye?”
“I’m sure ye’re far too busy for that, though it’s kind of ye to think of it.” She pushed back from the table. “I thought I would ask the Duchess of Huntsdown to accompany me.”
“London should quake, knowing ye two are out together.”
They were a formidable pair of ladies. Even she knew that to be true. Both with powerful titles. Both with more money combined than entire counties possessed. And both with ancient family names. Little got in their way.
Little could be said. Something would have to go horribly amiss for one of them to be truly in trouble in society. And as Duchess Olivia was married and she widowed, the amount of freedom they had would have proven shocking to the merchant class. It was absolutely marvelous.
Angus stood, crossed the room, and kissed her head. “Have a wonderful time flustering all those old men with yer questions about Grecian urns and wrestling in the nude. Now, I’ll be off.”
A laugh poured from her as Angus departed. He was, no doubt, off to an important meeting that he’d kept to himself. No sister could be luckier in a brother.
As she took a final sip of tea, she smiled. She was positively determined to adore the British Museum and even the fussy men who ran it.
Damian positively loathed the British Museum and the men who ran it. Montagu House, the present site for it, was entirely inappropriate. It fairly made his blood boil.
Oh, he supposed he could possibly see its good points, if he tried. Very, very hard. But it was excruciating to try to justify its existence at present, especially in its present, overcrowded state.
Now, natural history was different. He had no problem with the collection of insects, plants, stones, etc. But to steal or liberate artifacts and then display them here? Criminal. My God. And the manner in which they were displayed? It left him nearly apoplectic.
It wasn’t an old establishment, the British Museum. In fact, it was arguably in its infancy by English standards. And as he strolled into the main hall, he grimaced.
It was worse than he’d imagined.
Even so, it was necessary for him to rise above his disgust for the bungling of these people. He was here with a purpose and overt disdain would not assist him.
And as much as he detested their work, he did need them. Or he needed them to see the error of their ways. For he was determined to make them all see there was an exceedingly better way to go about the ravishment of ancient lands for their artifacts. . . Or at the very, very least, the position of those artifacts once they’d been liberated.
Now, he only had to convince them without killing them first. Simplicity, itself, no? No. Double damned no. But what could one do? Persist.
And as he walked further into the strangely displayed artifacts, he heard a reedy voice say, “Now the Greeks were obsessed with form. And they were vastly superior to the Egyptians in terms of study. If you look here—”
He fought a groan. Some poor idiot was being given a dubious education by a no doubt well-meaning, old curmudgeon of a misguided scholar.
He inched forward until he could peer around the large shield blocking his view.
Shock sent him stepping back into a potted plant and he nearly knocked a man-sized shield to the ground. By sheer will, he carefully clasped it, touching it with only the tips of his fingers before righting it.
Lady Gateshead and the Duchess of Huntsdown peered his way.
Getting ahold of himself, he stepped from the shadows and tugged down his waistcoat.
“Don’t believe a word of it,” he called as he collected himself. “The Egyptians were brilliant artists. The Greeks were not superior. In fact, the Greeks would have little to say without the Egyptians.”
The older man’s face twisted up with horror. “Impossible. The Greeks understood beauty, truth, philosophy. The temples of Egypt are crude. Their statues—”
“Have stood time beyond mind and were the first indications of the abilities of man as artists.”
The older man humphed. “Come this way, ladies.”
He turned to Lady Andromeda. “You cannot mean to educate yourself like this.”
The older man let out a bleat. “And who are you?”
Lady Andromeda’s lips twitched. “Lord Babbington, may I introduce Lord Peterboro.”
The other’s man’s bushy brows shot up and his general displeasure gave way to almost a boyish animation. “I see. I see. I have not been to Egypt myself, as you have. But all literature indicates. . .”
Damian had no idea what to make of the man’s sudden turn. He’d been prepared for battle not sudden excitement. “Lord Babbington, you do seem to have a genuine affection for history.”
“I do. I do. And you are one of the few men I’ve met to tread those ancient walks.”
“Would you care to see personal drawings of the Sphinx and Pyramids at Giza?” he offered without thinking. The old man looked so full of enthusiasm. “I can bring them to you this evening.”
The frustrated bluster of the older man disappeared entirely. He blinked in wonderment and took Damian in now as if he were a conquering hero. “That would be heavenly. I am always open to new ideas.”
Was he, indeed? Given his earlier salt, it seemed surprising and unlikely. Yet, here he was, indeed being open. Then again, Damian was renowned for his travels. Even he knew it. It seemed his reputation was not entirely unfortunate. “I’m relieved.”
“Lord Peterboro, I have an appointment in ten minutes’ time,” Lord Babbington said regretfully. “And I do know you are most capable on the subject of Egyptian and Greek artifacts. I read your pamphlet on the proper care of vases last month. Could you continue this tour with the Duchess of Huntsdown and the Marchioness of Schollingbrook, especially since you seem acquainted?”
Another surprise.
He felt an odd dose of hope. Not many souls would be interested in the proper care of vases. As far as he could see, most historians had no idea how to care for them. Often, they chucked them haphazardly onto shelves with no consideration for period or style. Then they allowed maids to dust them. Maids. Dear God. Experts with gloves were required for such a thing.
“Indeed, Lord Babbington,” Damian agreed. “Though the ladies may not care for—”
“The ladies will persevere, no matter who leads the tour,” Lady Andromeda announced.
Babbington inclined his head then headed back towards the foyer.
The Duchess of Huntsdown grinned. Then she abruptly turned to the massive fresco hanging on the overcrowded wall and studied it with seeming zealotry.
“Ye do make the strangest entrances, Lord Peterboro,” Lady Andromeda said, clasping her gloved hands before her deep blue skirts.
He was certain he heard a teasing note to her voice. Though he had become unaccustomed to listening to the finer nuances of the female voice.
His wife had not been given to sarcasm.
Once again, he was struck by her. For all that she had to be a silly woman of the ton, she truly was a presence. He had met few women who had made him feel absolutely compelled to speak with them.
Well, actually. . . Only his wife.
And now Lady Andromeda.
It was damned disconcerting.
He cleared his throat. “Our concurrent experiences are odd, I agree.”
She grinned, her stunning violet eyes dancing. They complemented the color of her gown, those eyes. And her lips. A lush coral red. A color that blazed on the temples of Egypt that he’d sat for hours in, mesmerized.
“Odd.” She blinked studiously. “Ye made quite a scene at my gathering and now ye almost knocked a shield over. Were ye hiding?”
He scowled. “Firstly, a scene would never have occurred if Brinkley wasn’t such an arse. What are you doing, Madam, allowing arses to spread their nonsense in this world? Though I suppose I can’t blame you. Likely, you haven’t the education to know—”
“I do beg yer pardon, Lord Peterboro,” she cut in abruptly. “But are ye always given to such rudeness and repetition? I do believe we covered this particular ground at our last meeting. Were ye born with these qualities or was it something ye acquired with steady practice?”
He gaped at her then swiped a hand through his hair. “I’ve never given it thought.”
She eyed him, her lips twitching. “Born with it, I think. It’s terribly off-putting, ye ken.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” he replied.
“Relieved?” she echoed, astonished. “Surely—”
“Most people aren’t worth knowing, Lady Gateshead,” he said honestly. “And if I can drive them off apace, all the better.”
She lifted a hand and pointed at him. “And yet, ye agreed to give my friend and me a tour.”
“I did not agree,” he corrected quickly but without animosity. “I was essentially left with you.”
“Aye,” her lips curved with mischief. “But given yer natural rudeness, ye could have fobbed us off easily.”
“Good God, woman. Are you always so direct?” he blurted.
She grinned. “As often as ye are rude, aye.”
“I’m not entirely certain what to say,” he admitted. Not a condition he was accustomed to.
“Let’s begin anew.” She stuck out her hand in a surprising way.
He gazed at that delicate, gloved hand. “Forgive me. Am I to kiss it?”
A frustrated laugh bubbled from her. “Shake it, my lord. Surely we can manage something so amicable?”
He eyed it again, still stunned by the events that were unfolding.
She let out a loud sigh. “I found Lord Brinkley to be appalling. If I had kenned his personal inclinations, I would never have asked him to speak at my gathering.”
He eyed her carefully. Was she truthful? There seemed little artifice to her, but he wasn’t overly fond of polished women. The polish alone was a deception. “I can accept that.”
She stuck her hand out a little further.
Unable to do anything else, he took it. The feel of her hand in his caused the most unwelcome shocks of electricity to dance along his arm.
Not unpleasant. . . No. Too pleasant.
And so he pulled away quickly and cleared his throat. “You couldn’t know he was a complete fraud in any case. He’s been excellent in spreading lies from Naples to Paris. Adventurer, indeed. My information indicated that when there was one brief scuffle between two rival groups near Athens, Brinkley hid in his tent and drank a bottle of brandy.”
“Oh dear.”
“Sensible really if you have no martial knowledge in such a situation,” he said, despite his dislike of Brinkley. “You’re a nuisance out of your tent. But to go about saying he’d killed five rebels and then outsmarted the rest himself? I couldn’t let such a thing pass.”
“Aye.” She blushed. “That part of the book did seem a trifle flowery.”
“As fragrant as a compost heap, I tell you.”
She laughed a delightful sound. A sound which sent a shiver down his spine and hit him in an absolutely terrifying way. He shouldn’t like her. There was little to like except for her determination and bluntness. But those two qualities were ones he deeply admired. Perhaps, he’d been mistaken. Perhaps, she wasn’t a silly, silken piece. Perhaps, she was a good deal more. And suddenly Blakemore’s words whispered through his mind. Lady Andromeda would make a good match. He daren’t think it. . . Did he?