finger against her rather determined chin, she nodded slowly. ‘You will take your uncle’s money and leave me to the tender mercies of the town.’
Bloody hell. She made him sound like a thief. Only he had no need of his uncle’s pitiful estate and no reason for guilt. He knew where his duty lay. It did not include taking his uncle’s bit of muslin home. ‘Nothing of the sort. You have to live somewhere suitable.’
Something hard and bright flashed in her eyes. Swept away by fair lashes, it was replaced by a mischievous gleam. ‘Anywhere except your home, of course.’
The deuce. Could she read minds? ‘Exactly.’
She dropped her bold stare to the floor and her imperfect top teeth nibbled her lower lip. ‘Excuse me, Mr Evernden. I do not wish to be at odds with you, but I do request a fair hearing before you reach a final decision.’
‘There is nothing to discuss.’
Her eyes flashed. ‘There is your family name.’
A lump of lead settled on Christopher’s chest. More scandal. His mother had enough misery to contend with as Garth debauched his way through life, without this female causing her anguish. ‘My family is nothing to do with you.’
She turned and picked up her gloves and hat. ‘Perhaps this is not the best place to discuss such a delicate matter.’
He followed the direction of her gaze around the cluttered, dirty room and shrugged.
‘We would occasion far less remark in my private apartments, once the other guests have departed,’ she urged.
Blast. He’d forgotten the reception. And Aunt Imogene. She would chew his ear off if she learned he’d been alone with this female. Not to mention what she would report to his poor, benighted mother. ‘Very well.’
‘I will ask the butler to bring you to my drawing room at the first possible opportunity.’
Christopher nodded.
Her hat clutched against her bosom, she peered out of the door, then slipped out.
Christopher raised his eyes to the smoke-grimed ceiling. He’d fallen into a madhouse.
He followed her into the hallway in time to see a swirl of black skirt disappear up the servants’ narrow staircase at the other end of the passage. At least she showed a modicum of decorum.
Christopher straightened his shoulders and sauntered back to the reception. The company had thinned in his absence and Tripp was nowhere to be seen. Nursing his wine, Christopher wandered over to the window and glanced out. A privet hedge bordered the lane leading to the wrought-iron gates at the end of the sweeping drive where a knot of coachmen smoked pipes and chatted at the head of the four waiting carriages. Beyond them, a down-at-heel fellow in a battered black hat perused the front of the house. A prospective buyer?
The ramshackle condition of the property would not attract a wealthy purchaser despite the magnificent view of alabaster cliffs, the English Channel and, on a rare fine day like today, the faint smudge of the French coast on the horizon. Small vessels, their white sails billowing, scurried towards Dover harbour behind the headland. Mid-channel, larger ships plied their trade on white-tipped waves. No wonder his uncle had hermited himself away here with his fille de joie.
A picture of her face danced in his mind. He shook his head. No one could be that beautiful. The dim light had fooled him.
‘Christopher?’
Damn it. What now? He swung around. ‘Yes, Aunt?’
Excitement gleamed in his aunt’s protuberant eyes. ‘I am so glad George brought me today. Lord and Lady Caldwell were my brother’s closest acquaintances.’
She motioned in the direction of the well-dressed couple engaged in conversation with chubby Uncle George. ‘They have invited us to stay with them for a day or two.’
‘How delightful for you both.’
Aunt Molesby dropped her penetrating voice to a whisper. ‘Caldwell says that John actually used that woman as his hostess. Can you credit it?’
A veritable charger in the lists, nothing would stop his aunt at full tilt. Fortunately, she did not seem to expect an answer.
‘Yes, indeed,’ she continued. ‘The shame of it. Lady Caldwell never attended, of course. Only men friends were invited for the gambling parties.’ Her expression changed to disgruntlement. ‘That woman didn’t attend the gentlemen in any of their gambling pursuits. She always disappeared after dinner.’
Thank heaven for small mercies.
‘You really should greet the Caldwells, you know,’ she said, urging him in their direction. ‘They were acquainted with your father.’
* * *
By the time Christopher had accepted the Caldwells’ words of sympathy, said farewell to the Molesbys and spoken to the vicar, most of the food was gone and the guests had departed.
The butler approached with a low bow. ‘If you’ll follow me, sir, Mademoiselle Boisette will see you now.’
Quelling his irritation at the pompous tone, Christopher followed the butler up the curved staircase to the second floor. Ushered into what was obviously an antechamber, he surveyed the delicate furnishings and the walls decorated with trompe-l’oeil scenes of what he assumed to be the idyllic French countryside.
Rather than risk the single fragile, gilt chair collapsing under him, Christopher declined the butler’s offer of a seat.
‘If you would wait here a moment, sir, I will inform Mademoiselle Boisette you are here.’
Hell. Did she think he was here for an interview? He would make his position clear from the outset.
The butler knocked on the white door beneath a pediment carved with cherubs. It opened just enough for him to enter.
More moments passed and Christopher paced around the room. This situation became more tiresome by the minute. Finally, the butler returned and gestured for him to enter. ‘This way, sir, if you please.’
A gaunt, middle-aged woman, her well-cut, severe gown proclaiming her to be some sort of companion, bobbed a curtsy as he passed and Christopher stepped into the lady’s bower, a room of light, with high ceilings and pale rose walls. A white rug adorned the centre of the highly polished light-oak planks. Mademoiselle Boisette, seated on the sofa in front of an oval rosewood table, glanced up from pouring tea from a silver teapot.
Stunned by the full effect of her glorious countenance, Christopher blinked. His mind had not played tricks downstairs. With hair of spun gold and small, perfectly formed features, she seemed even more beautiful than he remembered. Unfortunately, she had spoiled the effect by applying rouge to her cheeks and lips since their first meeting.
He took the hand she held out.
She smiled with practised brilliance. ‘Mr Evernden, thank you for agreeing to talk to me. Denise, you may leave us. Mr Evernden and I have business to discuss.’
The
