Page 11 of The Wallflower Ruse

“Then what should a lady do if she wants to find the, er, right man?”

“Be herself, I suppose,” she said, “which is impossible with a matchmaking mother driving her insane. And hope to meet a man who finds her as interesting and appealing as she finds him.”

“You’re rather idealistic.”

“No,” she said, “I’m realistic. I believe that I will be happier as a single woman than married to the wrong man.”

He choked out a laugh. “You certainly are unique. If only the foolish ladies who pursue me realized how much of a wrong sort of man I am.”

“Oh, they do,” she said. “You’re rude, ruthless, known to have a string of mistresses, and without honor. Either they delude themselves that they will reform you, or they simply don’t care.”

For some reason, this catalogue of his faults stung. “I’m only rude to unmarried women and their mothers, ditto ruthless, string is a gross exaggeration, and I define honor on my own terms.”

“It seems to me,” she said, “that it’s actually the women who are without honor. However, they have been taught to revere wealth and status, and they believe that their only purpose in life is to marry a suitable man.” She paused. “Do you have cousins who could inherit the title if you don’t marry?”

He nodded. “I have.”

“Then all you must do is persist in being rude and ruthless,” she said. “You’re reasonably attractive, but that won’t last forever. Eventually, hungry ladies will realize you are a confirmed bachelor and will turn their attention to easier prey. Besides that, most young girls don’t want to wed an old, raddled roué, no matter how wealthy.”

“I’m not a—” Damn it, she was laughing at him, and he couldn’t help laughing, too. “Vixen,” he said. “It rankled, did it, when I said you were reasonably attractive?”

She wrinkled her nose. “A little, but it seemed a fair enough assessment. I don’t pay much attention to my appearance.”

“I never tell women they’re pretty, even if they are.” Which was as close as he dared get to complimenting her. “And here we are—time for a change of horses.” He pulled into the yard of a roadside inn. “Are you hungry?”

“Ravenous,” she said.

~ * ~

Which was true, but what Lucinda was thinking was: He’s awfully good-looking when he smiles and laughs. No wonder I had such a tendre for him when I was young. What a shame he’s so obnoxious most of the time.

And then, worse thought: How horrid if he proves to be a traitor.

“Sausage rolls and coffee should do it,” he said. “I don’t expect to see anyone I know, but if I do, you’re my second cousin, whom I volunteered to escort to London to stay with friends.”

This practical statement reminded her of the hazards of traveling in his company, even for the relatively short drive to London. She could become a social outcast.

However, she decided stoutly, it was worth the risk if it resulted in unmasking a traitor. Surely one’s country came before one’s reputation—which in any event was usually judged by those who didn’t understand the meaning of honor.

They spoke little for the rest of the way. He seemed to have something on his mind, and then he was fully occupied with driving through the crowded streets. At last, he pulled up before the house in Kensington where Miss Pringle lived with her sister.

He helped her down and passed her the valise. “I’d carry it in, but...”

She rolled her eyes. “People will talk. Not my governess, but her neighbors. Thank you very much for bringing me here, my lord.” She nodded and trod quickly up the walk.

A maid answered the door, and Mrs. Boston, Miss Pringle’s widowed sister, came forward to greet her. She was a stout, sharp-eyed lady who had married a prosperous merchant and now enjoyed a comfortable jointure. “Miss Belair! What a surprise.”

Out of the corner of her eye as she picked up her valise, Lucinda noticed that Lord Restive had pulled away—and halted again a little way down the street. He didn’t drive off until the door closed behind her.

“How lovely to see you, dear,” Mrs. Boston said, peering out the window at the departing curricle, and Lucinda held her breath, hoping she wouldn’t ask. “What a pity my sister isn’t here.”

“Oh, no! Lucinda said. “I’m so sorry to arrive without notice, but she told me I might come whenever I liked.”

“Of course you may, but Jean” (that was Miss Pringle) “has gone to Margate with an elderly cousin. She won’t return for a week, and in the meantime, I took advantage of her absence to have her bedchamber repapered, and the guest chamber is full of furniture moved from her room. I don’t know where to put you!”

Lucinda thought fast. “It may be only for one night, and I’ll happily sleep on the sofa. Tomorrow I’ll see if my friend Dorothea Hale can put me up, and the next day I’ll return home.”

“What a pity, though,” Mrs. Boston said. “Jean will be so sad to have missed you.”

“I’ll come to London again later,” Lucinda said, setting her disappointment aside. Mother wouldn’t be so difficult once she calmed down about Susannah’s elopement. As long as Lord Restive stayed away, all would be well, more or less. “For the moment, I have some news.”

Not about the secret code, of course, but Susannah’s elopement was a more acceptable topic of conversation than that she needed to escape her mother’s machinations.

“Come into the drawing room, dear, and we’ll have tea, and you can tell me all about it.”

Lucinda gave Mrs. Boston the bare facts about Susannah’s elopement with Humphrey Ball, to the accompaniment of a great many tsks and sighs about foolish young people. “This Mr. Ball—is he acceptable?”

“Perfectly,” Lucinda said, “but not for Mother’s ambitions. She wanted her to marry Lord Restive, which was absurd.”

“Heavens, no. They say he is very ill-mannered.” She frowned. “That’s who it was in the curricle! I thought I recognized him.”

“Yes, his estate is a few miles from where we live. I was going to take the stagecoach, but since he was already coming to town, he kindly offered to drive me.”

“Tsk. Most unwise, my dear. I hesitate to say this, but his reputation is not of the best. In fact, it’s quite dreadful.” She lowered her voice. “They call him Stallion, and by what I’ve heard, he lives up to that vulgar nickname.”

“Yes, but he’s a close friend of my brother,” Lucinda said. “His manners are acceptable if he doesn’t think one is trying to trap him into marriage.”

“Tsk,” Mrs. Boston said again.