Lottie laughed aloud, the sound ringing against the high ceilings of the morning room. “Noted, Papa.”
Before he could retreat behind his paper again, she stepped forward, bent swiftly, and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
He blinked. “Good God. Was that an expression of affection, my dear Charlotte?”
“Do not let it go to your head, Papa.”
“Alas,” he said, with a sigh of theatrical resignation, “I fear the damage is already done. I feel quite unaccountably tender.”
With that, she gave him a final curtsey, more mischievous than proper, and turned on her heel.
Behind her, Lord Tolliver sighed contentedly and unfolded his newspaper once more, adjusting his spectacles with one hand and lifting his teacup with the other. “Crossing swords before luncheon,” he muttered with a satisfied nod. “How very Tolliver of her.”
Chapter 16
The doors to Westvale House’s upper gallery flew open at precisely noon.
Jasper Deverell had faced angry husbands, suspicious brothers, and insulted opera singers, but none of them had ever entered a room with quite the same promise of violence as Miss Charlotte Tolliver. He had been leaning against a marble column in an attitude of carefully arranged indifference, but at the sight of her, he very nearly forgot to be indifferent.
Good God.
Jasper pushed away from the column and bowed. “You are punctual.”
She raised her brows. “You are overdressed.”
He glanced down at his exquisitely tied cravat, embroidered waistcoat, and perfectly polished Hessians. “I was not aware one could be overdressed for mortal combat.”
“One can, if one looks as though he has come to make love to a looking glass.”
From the corner, the physician made a small, strangled sound. The poor man was elderly and visibly regretting whatever fee had induced him to attend. He sat upon a cane-backed chair with his leather case clutched to his knees, as though it alone might protect him from aristocratic folly. “Er,” he ventured, clearing his throat, “I was not aware a lady would be—”
He was silenced as Miss Tolliver drew her sabre and glared at him. She lifted it to the light, testing its balance with one gloved hand.
The physician gulped, and Jasper could not blame him. “Perhaps I ought to begin the count—?”
“No,” said Miss Tolliver pleasantly.
The physician blinked and looked to Jasper. “No?”
“No, thank you, doctor,” she said, her tone so coolly agreeable that Jasper felt his mouth tug despite himself. He was beginning to learn that Miss Tolliver was most dangerous when she sounded most polite. “Unless you are here to take my place and cross blades with Mr Deverell yourself, I believe your services are premature. You are not required here.”
The man looked at the sabre, then back at Jasper—and then, with evident misgiving, back at the sabre. “I was told there might be injury.”
“There may be,” Miss Tolliver conceded. “And if either of us begins to bleed in any meaningful fashion, we shall be certain to summon you from downstairs.”
Jasper offered him a sympathetic shrug. “She does tend to be decisive.”
There was a brief silence as the physician opened and closed his mouth several times, apparently attempting to summon a protest.
“I shall pay you double,” Jasper promised.
The doctor rose with some difficulty, gathered his bag, and shuffled towards the door. “Should you require me,” he muttered, “I shall be downstairs. Most likely drinking.”
Miss Tolliver gave him a cheery little wave. “Do fortify yourself.”
The grand doors closed behind him, and Jasper looked back at Miss Tolliver with the uncomfortable sensation that some essential part of his good sense had abandoned him along with the physician.
She stood opposite him, sabre in hand, and unholy glee in her eyes.
