Page 14 of Gentleman Jim

Maggie had a poor opinion of a gentleman’s word of honor. Even so, she knew better than to call it into question. A gentleman could be quite touchy on the subject. She supposed that St. Clare’s assurances would have to satisfy her. “Thank you, my lord. I’m very much obliged to you.”

“Indeed you are,” he murmured. “One might even say that you’re in my debt.”

Bessie gave a sharp intake of breath.

Maggie cast a fleeting glance in her maid’s direction before turning her attention back to the viscount. “In your debt? For sparing Mr. Burton-Smythe, do you mean? But you said you had no intention of killing him in the first place.”

“So I did. And at the moment, that’s very true. At dawn, however…” He shrugged. “Who’s to say? Your Mr. Burton-Smythe can be devilish provoking.”

“Of that I’m well aware, but I don’t see how—”

“There’s a good chance he’ll say something to annoy me.”

Her brows drew together. “He very well might.”

“And when he does, the impulse to put a bullet in his brain may be too great to resist.”

Maggie heard another gasp from Bessie. And no wonder. A gentleman shouldn’t speak of duels at all in the presence of a lady, let alone be so lost to decency as to mention firing a bullet into someone’s brain.

Perhaps St. Clare was trying to put her out of countenance?

If so, he was in for a disappointment. As a girl, Maggie had frequently heard her father threatening to blow this or that person’s brains out, or to tear them limb from limb. Indeed, she recalled making similar threats a time or two herself. The Honeywells were known for their bluster.

“If he offends you in some way, can you not simply ignore him?” she asked. “It’s what I try to do.”

St. Clare leaned back in his leather chair and crossed his legs. The firelight reflected in the mirror-polished finish of his Hessians and glittered in the golden threads of his hair. He was the picture of an aristocratic gentleman at his ease.

Maggie wasn’t fooled one bit.

His light-colored pantaloons clung to long, powerfully made legs, and his dark blue coat appeared to have been molded to his broad shoulders. The elegant sprawl he affected was an illusion. St. Clare was no more relaxed than a lion waiting to spring upon its prey.

“In other circumstances,” he replied, “perhaps I could. But during an affair of honor a man’s blood is running high. Even the most placid sort of gentleman often finds himself unable to refrain from violence when a pistol is in his hand. And I am not a placid sort of gentleman. In truth, I have a bit of a temper.”

“As do I, my lord. What does that signify? Unless… Are you saying that your conduct at dawn hinges on whether or not Mr. Burton-Smythe can refrain from irritating you?” She was incredulous. “If that is so, then he’s as good as dead. I have come here for nothing.”

“Not necessarily. I believe, with the right inducement, I may be able to restrain myself.”

“Inducement?”

“It strikes me, Miss Honeywell, that if I’m to do this great favor for you, the least you might do in return is to grant me a forfeit of some kind.”

Bessie gave a puff of indignation. “Miss Margaret,” she warned under her breath.

“It’s all right, Bessie,” Maggie said, still looking at St. Clare. If he hadn’t reminded her so much of Nicholas Seaton, she might have been insulted. As it was, she could only be intrigued. “What sort of forfeit?”

“You’ve asked me to spare a man’s life. A man whom I dislike excessively. The comparable forfeit for such a service would be great indeed. Far greater than anything a gentleman would ever ask of a lady. I propose instead, three more moderately sized forfeits to be collected at the time of my choosing.”

“Miss Margaret!” Bessie hissed.

“Hush, Bessie. I ask again, my lord, what sort of forfeits?”

St. Clare gave her a crooked smile. “I don’t know yet, but it will be nothing untoward, I assure you.”

The sight of St. Clare’s smile was like a lightning bolt straight through Maggie’s heart. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. She’d seen that same crooked smile thousands of times before. It worked on her in a powerful way. St. Clare wasn’t Nicholas Seaton, she knew it, but to once again be the recipient of that smile and that stormy gray gaze, Maggie thought she would agree to practically anything in the world. “All right, then. I accept your terms.”

“Jenkins has done wonders with your gown.” Jane eyed Maggie’s muslin walking dress from across the breakfast table the following morning. “Didn’t I tell you? A stitch or two here, a bit of ribbon there, et voilà!”

Maggie cast a brief glance downward. Jane’s dresser, while no skilled seamstress, was a dab hand at making minor alterations. She’d taken in Maggie’s three-year-old white muslin in only a few strategic places, and now, instead of billowing about her like a shapeless sack, it skimmed softly over her curves. “It certainly fits better. Though I’m afraid no amount of ribbon can disguise how thoroughly out of fashion it is.”