West End Earl by Bethany Bennett

Chapter Seventeen

Miss Lillian Fitzwilliam must possess a soft spot for awkward, pasty-skinned redheads. That, or this was all a rather cruel joke. No one at the dinner table could overlook Miss Lillian’s rather outrageous flirtation with Adam Hardwick. Which dashed Phee’s hopes of passing the house party in relative anonymity. Everyone eyed Adam Hardwick with speculation, and she couldn’t blame them.

Cal appeared to find the whole thing hilarious, and the one ray of happiness in this dinner so far had been watching him try not to choke on his wine while stifling his laughter. No doubt she’d hear about it later. Anticipation warmed her belly. Because there would be a later. He’d whispered a promise when they’d crossed paths before dinner, and her pinkie finger had tingled after he’d brushed it.

Thinking about the things she planned to do with Cal later that night while a woman rested her rather impressive bosom on Phee’s arm felt dirty—and not in a fun way. At least Miss Lillian was friendly. Which struck her as odd, since prior to this house party, during the few social occasions where they’d met—usually because Cal had finagled an extra invitation—Miss Lillian had seemed a trifle rude and generally not very likable.

“Tell me, Mr. Hardwick. How long have you been in London? I thought I’d met all the notable men, but I don’t recall seeing you before this year.” Her smile was pure coquette, and Phee had to give her credit—Miss Lillian didn’t look silly with the expression. Phee would look like she suffered from bowel issues if she attempted a simper like that.

“After school, I came to London. I didn’t move about in society much until Lord Carlyle hired me.” Surely, the gentle reminder of Adam Hardwick’s status as an employee of their host would cool the flirtatious line of questioning.

“I do love a man who is not afraid to make his own way in the world,” she said. “It would have been so easy to simply be a gentleman of leisure while awaiting your inheritance, but you chose to work. To build connections and friendships with your peers and earn your living. That’s admirable.”

How the hell had her inheritance become a topic of discussion? On Phee’s left, Miss Georgina Lowden gave her a wide-eyed look. Miss Georgina picked up her wineglass and drank with a focus that held its own commentary, as if the only way to ensure she didn’t say the wrong thing was to keep her mouth busy. If Phee had any confidence that alcohol would help the situation, she’d happily join her.

“Miss Lillian, I am not sure what you’ve heard, but I don’t feel comfortable discussing my personal finances with anyone.”

Miss Lillian waved aside the objection with a flutter of her hand and a sweep of her lashes. “I apologize, Mr. Hardwick. That was poorly done of me. Mother made a dossier for all the guests, and I thought your story fascinating. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable with my admiration.” The guest placed a hand over Phee’s fingers, covering the death grip Phee had on her butter knife.

Cal’s eyes were suspiciously bright.

Do something.She raised an expectant brow.

He cleared his throat. “Miss Lillian, I’m sorry to see your mother absent this evening.”

“Thank you for asking after her, milord. Mother doesn’t travel happily, I’m afraid. It’s usually a day or so before she finds her equilibrium after spending hours in a carriage.”

And yet here Miss Lillian sat without a maid or chaperone. Granted, she’d been out for several years. Still. Between the lack of chaperone and her comment about having a dossier on each guest, Miss Lillian’s goals were obvious. She’d set out to snag herself a husband, no matter what.

Miss Lillian’s mother could probably investigate for the Home Office if she’d found information on Adam Hardwick’s modest inheritance. While the money—assuming Milton hadn’t gotten his hands on all of it—ensured an eventual lifetime of comfort, it would never be enough to fund a lifestyle like those enjoyed by the people at this table.

As soon as possible, Phee reclaimed her hand and the knife she needed to cut the next bite of delicious pheasant. When Miss Lillian shifted away, Phee rested that hand in her lap, thus removing the opportunity for the woman to rest her breasts on Phee’s forearm again.

Lordy. It would be easier to hide upstairs and avoid the house party altogether.

Across the table, Lady Emma abruptly shoved her chair back and hurried from the room. When several moments passed and she didn’t return, an instinct tingled at her nape, and Phee rose as well.

“Pardon me, Miss Lillian. Miss Georgina.” Phee brought her wineglass with her as she left the table in case her hunch was correct.

Sure enough, Lady Emma had made it as far as the library doors before spilling her dinner into yet another vase of flowers. This supposed traveling sickness would be tremendously hard on the porcelain if she kept on like this, but it wouldn’t be kind to see what type of excuse the girl would give this time.

Instead, Phee waited until the retching finished, then held out the glass of wine. “Here, milady. Rinse your mouth out.”

Emma didn’t look at her but did as instructed. Hazarding a guess, Phee murmured, “It gets better, you know. A few weeks in. For most women, anyway.”

Emma’s panicked look confirmed everything. “You can’t tell Cal.”

A heavy sigh rolled out of Phee. “Not this again.” She held out a hand to ward off Emma’s protestations. “You need to tell him yourself. Have you told Roxbury?”

Tears welled in Emma’s eyes, and she suddenly seemed far younger than eighteen. If anyone saw Emma crying, there’d be no stopping the rumor mill. Glancing over her shoulder for witnesses, Phee pushed against the library door and hustled Emma inside. She settled the girl in a chair and handed her a handkerchief.

Instead of dabbing at her tears, Emma let them fall while she twisted the linen square around her hand until the tips of her fingers turned pink, then white. “I called on him two weeks ago. He’s refused to see me since.”

Phee sat, then rested her elbows on her knees. “I take it things didn’t go well.”

When Emma shook her head, blond ringlets bounced about her ears. Although she opened her mouth, her chin quivered too hard for words to form. Fresh tears pooled, and she gave an indelicate sniffle.

“He said I couldn’t prove it’s his,” Lady Emma finally managed, then squeezed her eyes shut.

Phee muttered a curse.

“He said he loved me.” The words wobbled with a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry.” Shouting I told you so wouldn’t be helpful and frankly would be like kicking a puppy. But damn it, Emma had been warned.

Lady Emma straightened, then scrubbed her face with the handkerchief as if she could wipe off emotions as well as tears. “May I ask, Mr. Hardwick—are all men lying bastards, or only the ones I’ve met?” A heavy pause fell between them.

“Honestly, I’ve met my fair share of bastards. But there are fine men too. Your brother is one of them.”

A glimmer of a smile broke through Lady Emma’s gloom. “You’re right. Cal is a good one. And you seem to be as well. Thank you for listening. And thank you for your discretion, Adam. May I call you Adam?”

Phee nodded.

“Then you shall call me Emma. Anyone who shares secrets should be on a first-name basis, don’t you think?”

“Emma it is, then. Are you returning to the dining room?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Could you tell them I was overcome by the heat or something?”

Phee rose and offered her hand. “I can do that. Let’s get you settled for the night, and I’ll prevaricate the best I can with the guests.”

In the hall they handed over the vase of flowers with apologies to a maid, then climbed the sprawling giant staircase. At Emma’s door, Phee dipped her head in a bow.

“Please break the news to your brother soon.”

The blond ringlets bounced again when Emma nodded, but worry burrowed a groove between her brows. “You’re right. I know you’re right. But at the moment, I want to sleep.”

“Good night, then.” If Phee didn’t return to the party, Cal would worry. She trudged downstairs, her evening shoes padding on the steps. From the sounds of it, the ladies had retreated to the drawing room, which meant the men would be drinking and telling tall tales in the game room.

Phee stopped outside the door, listening for a moment to the muffled din of voices coming from the room. Assuming the persona of her brother took effort today, but she managed. Worries over Emma would have to wait. Right now, she needed to be Adam Hardwick.

It didn’t used to be this hard to lie to everyone.

*  *  *

The role of host grated at Cal, and it was only day one of this damned party. When Phee entered the room, a ripple of awareness skittered along his spine.

The men lounged about the room with glasses of port or brandy. Some played billiards; others simply sat and smoked cigars. A cloud of smoke hovered over the room, and Cal tried not to wrinkle his nose. The carpets and drapes would need a thorough airing after this. Such a nasty habit.

In the past, he probably wouldn’t have questioned the rather frank discussion going on around him. Although the men spoke of the women, there was a definite lack of commentary regarding Emma—probably out of respect for him—so for that he could be grateful.

Lord Warrick made the shape of an hourglass with his hands, then cupped imaginary breasts in front of himself, which sent the baron cackling. The cruder comments—mostly from Ainsley and Warrick—stopped when Cal said, “The more you talk about women’s bits, the less convinced I am that you’ve ever actually seen any for yourself. A real man doesn’t need to boast.”

The others laughed uncomfortably but changed the topic, and that had to suffice.

Across the room, Phee shifted in her chair. How did this sound to her? And had he ever done worse in her presence?

None of these men would say such things if they knew a lady was present.

Granted, no one said anything completely reprehensible. But the drastic difference between their polished manners at the dinner table not a half hour before and the faces they showed each other in private made him wish every woman at this house party could see these men with the masks of gentility off before committing herself to marriage.

Over at the bar, Phee poured a glass of brandy, then found a seat at the edge of the room. She didn’t sip at the drink but seemed content in her role of silent onlooker.

He caught her eye. In a silent conversation, she raised a brow, then looked deliberately at the door.

Yes, he’d love nothing more than to go upstairs and escape from their guests. Cal wrinkled his nose.

No, love. Can’t escape.

She pouted her bottom lip, then looked away.

Lord Hornsby sat on the sofa near her, cradling a book in his lap. Occasionally a burst of laughter from the other guests would cause him to look up and offer a vague smile to the room in general before returning to the book.

Hornsby had a strong nose and decent jaw. Brows that were nearly black made a nice contrast to the light-brown hair in need of a trim. Not a bad-looking fellow at all, and he had a peaceful reserve about him. Perhaps a man like Hornsby was exactly what Emma needed—someone to act as an anchor when she flitted to the heights of fancy and emotion. The book of poetry in his hands—assuming Cal read the spine correctly from this distance—implied he might be a suitable match for Miss Cuthbert. A solid option for either lady.

Because his body seemed hyperaware of hers, Cal noticed when Phee took a sip of the brandy. Her first drink since arriving.

Warrick and Ainsley were telling tall tales to the baron, trying to outdo one another in their blatant lies, and Cal hoped he wouldn’t have to rein them in again. So far, they’d kept things respectable enough. Barely.

Ainsley said, “Hornsby, my good man. You’re a handsome fellow. Surely you have your share of stories to tell us.”

Hornsby gave them that slight smile again. “Hate to disappoint, but I’m not much for London. The country suits me well enough.”

Hmm, if Hornsby didn’t like London, he might not be ideal for Emma. Cal would point Miss Cuthbert in that direction, then. No matter. There were options aplenty.

Gaffney still seemed a solid choice for Miss Cuthbert too. Lord knew the baron would have to be content with a duke in the family, a fact that gave Cal a sure path out of this mess. Not only had all Phee’s initial reports about his reputation been clean but Gaffney rose in Cal’s esteem by ignoring Ainsley and Warrick altogether in favor of playing billiards.

Cal cocked his head and studied the duke as he took a draw on his snifter of brandy. Gaffney would do nicely, and facilitating a match between him and Miss Cuthbert might even solidify the budding business relationship between himself and the duke. Cal wandered over and picked up a cue. “Care for company? I’ve been looking forward to talking with you, your grace.”

“By all means. Let’s play.” Gaffney waved him closer and set up the table.

Across the room, Phee set her mostly full glass on a tray and murmured something to Hornsby. She was making her escape. Meanwhile, he and the other men would join the ladies shortly, then while away the hours, pretending to be impressed by pianoforte performances or recitations of poetry.

Cal would rather sleep. Preferably with Phee beside him. He couldn’t help watching her pert heart-shaped arse as she left him to deal with the social niceties.

“Do you want to go first, or shall I?” Gaffney asked, pulling him from his thoughts.

Cal drained his glass and set it aside. “Rank over beauty. You first.”

The duke grinned and lined up a shot.

“Speaking of beauty, have you had a chance to talk to Miss Violet Cuthbert yet?” Cal asked, and cast one last look at the door. To think, if not for this role as host, he could leave right now and have Phee moaning within minutes.

Instead, he was playing matchmaker, holding a stick and balls.