“Stuff dreams are made of, my boy. Elgin tells me you and Miss Carrick own Lyon’s Gate. Together. I should like to hear how that came about.”
“A simple enough tale, sir,” Hallie said. “Both of us wanted the same property.”
“It shouldn’t have happened,” Lord Renfrew said. “Hallie should be married to me, all settled in a lovely house in London, planning our next soiree.”
“That could be possible, I suppose, were you another man altogether,” Hallie said.
Charles Grandison laughed. “Ah, that’s a grand wit you’ve got, Miss Carrick.” He turned to the earl of Northcliffe, bowed. “My lord, forgive my interruption. I am Charles Grandison. My father vastly admired you.”
“I remember your father and his antics,” Douglas said. He didn’t add that he’d believed Conyon Grandison had been more incompetent than evil, which was the only reason he hadn’t been hung.
Charles said, “Just so, sir. To my dying day I will rejoice that my father didn’t manage to shoot that bullet into Miles Sinifer’s head.” He turned, bowed to Alex. “I spent many hours convincing my sister she didn’t want to fling herself from her mare’s back on the off-chance that James here would catch her before she landed on a yew bush. She’s expecting her third child now. Screamers, the first two are.”
He was too charming, Hallie thought, watching him joke with Angela and the countess. She sipped at Lady Grimsby’s champagne punch, potent enough to knock a girl on her bottom and not care. She watched Charles Grandison, Lord Carlisle, bend over Lady Lydia’s ancient veiny wrist and treat her to an intimate smile to make her remaining teeth tingle.
“Who is Miles Sinifer?” Hallie asked.
“Ah, a gentleman who tried to seduce my mother. My father picked up his gun and shot it from no more than three feet from Miles’s head. As I said, thank God he missed.”
Where the devil had Charles been, James wondered, watching the man he and Jason had always admired make his way charmingly from lady to lady at their table. Until he got to Corrie. He stilled. James knew when a man was looking at a woman with lust in his eyes. James stiffened in his chair, but said pleasantly enough, “Keep away from her, Charles. I’m younger, stronger, and meaner than you. Unlike your father, I wouldn’t miss.”
“This is your Viscountess, James? The innocent young girl who saved you from kidnappers and herself from Devlin Monroe?”
“Oh goodness,” Corrie said. “I haven’t seen Devlin in far too long. He is well? He is married? Does he still avoid the sun?”
Charles Grandison laughed and took Corrie’s chair when she slid over onto her husband’s lap to make room for him.
“Devlin quite likes all those whispers about his being a vampire, all naturally behind polite hands. I believe you were the one who started it—”
“Perhaps I was the first to say vampire out loud,” Corrie said, “but Devlin always admired his pallor. Now, you, sir, and my husband have known each other for a very long time, have you not?”
“Since he tried to beat my gelding, Horatio, in an impromptu race. James was riding his pony, Jason cheering him on. They were five years old as I recall, and I was an ancient eleven or twelve.”
“In that case, please call me Corrie. I miss Devlin and his pale face. He was quite amusing.” She sighed and James wanted to smack her. Instead, he eased beneath her gown and slid his hand up her leg.
Always the charmer, Jason thought, content to sit back and watch Charles charm his family, but what was he doing here? He appeared to know Lord Renfrew, and surely that wasn’t in his favor. Charles had been racing mad as a boy, and now owned one of the largest racing stables in northern England. It was heard he would shut himself in his bedchamber for three days and nights if he lost a race, which wasn’t that often. No one tried to cheat Charles or poison his horses, or cripple his jockeys—the price Charles made the miscreant pay was too high. And that, Jason decided in that moment, was the reputation he was going to nurture as well. Maybe his would even be more fearful.
Jason, Hallie, and Angela didn’t arrive home until nearly three o’clock in the morning. Both Martha and Petrie were in the drawing room, Petrie, head thrown back on the back of the sofa, snoring, Martha huddled in a chair, one stockinged toe sticking out from beneath her gown.
When they walked into the drawing room, Martha jerked up and yelled, “Tell us everything!”
Petrie’s nostrils pinched as he jerked awake, and he nearly stumbled off his feet he jumped up so quickly. He was quick to wave his nanny’s finger at her. “Martha, a lady’s maid doesn’t demand gossip from her mistress. You will lower your head and inquire if Miss Hallie wishes to have you remove her stockings.”
Angela said, “Goodness, Petrie, isn’t that rather indelicate of you? Martha, after you have assisted Hallie, do come to my bedchamber. I appear to have more buttons than fingers to do the task.”
“I will, Miss Angela.” Martha whirled around on Petrie, hands on hips, “As for you, Mr. Stump-Chops, don’t you tell me what to do with Miss Hallie’s stockings. It pains Master Jason to hear such private matters spoken of in his drawing room.”
“Actually, I believe Jason is standing in my half of the drawing room,” Hallie said.
“But—”
Jason raised his hand. “Be quiet, Petrie, let it go. No, no more from either of you. No, Martha, heel.” Jason turned to Hallie and Angela. “You see? I put a stop to the hilarity just as you asked.”
“Hilarity?” Petrie said. “Hilarity is not at all the thing in a gentleman’s household.”
“All we need,” Angela said, “is Cook to complete the picture.”
“But, Master Jason,” Petrie began, knowing he had an important point if only he could find the ears to hear it.