Instead he dressed for dinner, submitting to the fussy exactitude of his aged valet. Starched shirt, cravat, pin, waistcoat and coat, and a comb dragged through his unruly hair. While his man fancied him up, Warren’s mind turned on the conundrum of Lady Maitland. Now that he’d met her, with her great, innocent, green-amber eyes and her wary shyness, he couldn’t allow her to go to Stafford. He’d kidnap her from the altar before he’d let that happen. All she had done was frown and glower at him in the ballroom, and yet he felt some impetus to protect her from that fate.
After dinner, he must go to Lord Baxter, who was an eminently reasonable fellow, and explain the reasons he must reject Stafford’s offer for the lady’s hand. He’d relate their recent conversation if he must, word for word, until he convinced him Stafford was an amoral and reprehensible worm. Baxter would forbid the match, Lady Maitland could avoid Bedlam, and Warren could sleep better at night, knowing he’d accomplished a selflessly heroic deed.
“Leave off, Henri.” He shied from his valet’s comb. “If you haven’t made order of it yet, you never will.”
“Yes, my lord.” The elderly servant put down the comb, gave one last twitch to Warren’s intricate cravat, then doddered away to clean up his grooming tools.
Warren headed to the dining room, wondering from whence this honorable and swashbuckling side of him had appeared. He supposed it had only been so long since a woman needed him. Oh, they wanted him. They always wanted him because of his money, his dashing looks, his talent at entertaining their fancies, his expertise in bed. But it had been a while since a woman needed him. And in this case, he could easily save Lady Maitland from marrying Stafford.
He only worried she needed more saving than that.
He fidgeted with the hem of his coat, feeling that tightness in his shoulders again. Surely there was a patient, earnest gent somewhere in England who could give this baroness the nurturing she required. Even if Warren was the marrying sort—which he wasn’t—he had Minette to worry about, and his burgeoning career in Parliament, and a thousand other duties that eclipsed the importance of the eccentric Lady Maitland.
As soon as he walked into the dining room, he heard an all too familiar greeting. “Good evening, Warren. We meet again.”
Jesus and the bloody devil. He might as well have Stafford on a leash. “Didn’t expect to see you,” Warren replied. “I thought you were going…elsewhere.”
“I am, later. If you want to join me, the offer still stands.”
“Not tonight.” Not ever, if you’re going to be there. He’d been to that flagellation parlor before, and it wasn’t a great establishment. The women all seemed rather overused. He liked his whores like he liked his horses—fresh and frisky, with a piece of ginger in their arse.
“Seen the baroness about?” asked Stafford as some other guests walked by. Down the table, Warren could see his sister with Mrs. Everly.
“No, I haven’t glimpsed Lady Maitland in some time. Honestly, I’ve been too busy planning how to steal her away.”
“You’re a howl, Warren, you really are.”
“I’m perfectly serious.”
Stafford studied his face. Pretty as the man was, he wasn’t very intelligent. His smile darkened to a frown. “Now see here,” he said, pointing a glittering finger at Warren’s chest. “I was after her first. It’s not the thing to move in on another chap’s territory.”
Warren shrugged. “All’s fair in love and war.”
“You know what I mean,” he muttered. “And she wouldn’t have you anyway. I saw you talking to her in the ballroom the other night, along with everyone else. She couldn’t wait to get away from you.”
“I haven’t seen you talking to her at all,” Warren replied in a bored tone. “Which makes me wonder if she’ll have you.”
“Like I said, there’s no other competition.”
“Except me.”
“Blast, man, are you jesting with me? Because if you’re serious—”
Warren held up a hand. Lady Maitland had entered the dining room, and was staring at both of them. Stafford followed Warren’s gaze, and puffed out his chest when he located the object of his attentions.
She pursed her lips and turned away. Warren snorted under his breath. “Anyone can see she’s wild to have you.”
“She’s no more wild to have you,” Stafford snapped.
Warren ignored him, watching Lady Maitland instead. She looked even more agitated than usual as she slid into her seat. She clasped her hands in her lap and worried at her lower lip. Never fear, he wanted to say. I’ll protect you from this idiot. You have more options than you think.
*** *** ***
“Such crowds and noise.” Baxter chuckled as he closed the study door. “Lady Baxter loves her house parties, but they can be a bother when a man wants a moment alone.”
“I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me,” said Warren.
“Of course. Anything for a friend.”
Baxter poured a generous amount of port and handed Warren the glass, waving him to a chair near the fireplace. Warren sipped the rich liquid slowly, appreciating Baxter’s fine stock. The men exchanged pleasantries and impressions of the past winter. Warren hadn’t much to say for himself. He hadn’t exactly been dissipated, but he had spent a great many hours at his gentlemen’s club and favored brothels. Too many hours.
At last Baxter sat forward and fixed him with a frank gaze. “Enough polite talk. You asked me here for a reason. What is amiss?”
Warren took a deep breath. “I had hoped to have a word with you on the subject of your ward.”
“Oh, thank God,” Baxter burst out. “Absolutely. The answer is yes.”
“The answer to what?”
Baxter’s glass stopped halfway to his lips. “Haven’t you come to ask permission to court her? I suppose it’s too much to hope you’ll marry her out of hand.”
The conversation had taken an unwieldy turn. “Forgive me,” said Warren. “You’ve misunderstood. I haven’t come to ask for your blessing to court her. Or…marry her.” He could barely get out the dreaded word.
“Then what have we to discuss?” asked Baxter in a curt tone. “If you’ve come to tell me she’s been rude, or unsocial, well, that is simply her way. She was not raised in society, you see. She showed up on some boat after a months-long journey from God knows where. The very day I received the letter from the solicitors, the woman was on my doorstep with a trunk of black clothing and a sun-faded bonnet. We had to scramble to take her in, being the only family she had.”
“You didn’t know her parents?”
“I wish I had. A fascinating chap, the late Baron Maitland, and the baroness too, following him all over Christendom with their only child. Unfortunately they had the poor luck to get killed during their travels. Murdered by robbers in some uncivilized corner of India.”
“Goodness. How did your ward survive the attack?”
“By some stroke of good fortune, Lady Maitland was not at home when it occurred.”
Warren digested this rather alarming information. “It appears the lady has had a difficult life.”
“Indeed she has. So if she does not seem the thing to you, not gracious or polished as you would like, then—”
“Baxter.” His reproachful tone silenced the man. “Do you truly think I’ve come to complain?”
The earl blinked at him a moment, then unruffled and took another drink. “Pardon me. I’m rather sensitive on the subject of Josephine. Er, Lady Maitland. My wife and I have come to care for her like a daughter. We’re very protective of her.”
“Of course you are. I’m here because I don’t wish her life to become any more difficult than it already has been. She has this suitor—the Earl of Stafford. I know the man more than a little, not that I would call us friends. I want to tell you, with great and purposeful emphasis, that he is not an acceptable marriage candidate. He’s a drunk and gambler of the worst order. He’s heartless and self-absorbed, and no
torious for his fortune-hunting exploits.”