Page 18 of Bad Luck Bride (Scandal at the Savoy #3)
“Just so. And because of that, I appreciate that going into a lucrative business venture with a duke and a viscount is a deal Wilson would never let pass by.”
Delia frowned, uncomprehending. “But why should their rank matter? What does he care?”
“Because of Charlene. His daughter. She’s fifteen, so she’ll be coming out in a few years.
But with Wilson being such new money, the poor girl won’t ever be accepted in New York.
So he wants to bring her here when the time comes, and to do that, he needs connections here.
That’s why,” she added, “he came to England in the first place.”
“Kay!” Delia’s eyes widened, making her regret she’d been so frank. “You mean Rycroft’s marrying you for your connections?”
“Of course not,” she replied with asperity, suddenly on the defensive. “If British connections were all he wanted, he could have found much better ones than I can offer. I’m ruined, remember?”
“In the eyes of some people, I know that’s still true,” Delia was forced to concede. “But not everyone feels that way.”
“Thanks in part to my powerful friends,” Kay replied, holding up her glass in acknowledgment of Delia’s influence and that of her cousin, the duke, and, to a lesser extent, his sisters. “I will always be grateful to you for standing by me.”
“We always will. But, dearest, if your connection to us is the reason Rycroft’s marrying you—”
“Listen to you,” Kay scoffed lightly. “What conceit.”
Delia’s answering gaze was steady. “Is it conceit?”
“Of course. Titled fathers all over Britain would love to get their daughters married off to American millionaires. Wilson could have had his pick, I daresay, but he chose me.”
“Which only shows his excellent taste.”
Kay smiled at her friend’s show of loyalty. “Thank you, Dee, but we both know I was never the catch of the season, even when I was young and unsullied. Now, it’s different. And I don’t even have a dowry to offer.”
“What? Your father left you nothing?”
No point in trying to dissemble. “Not a farthing,” she confessed. “We knew things were a bit tight, of course, but we didn’t learn until after he died that everything that wasn’t entailed was mortgaged to the hilt.” Kay took another swallow of wine. “That was rather a shock.”
“Oh, Kay,” Delia murmured, giving her a look of compassion she found almost unbearable. “My dear.”
Appreciating she’d said more than she’d ever intended, probably due to the sherry, Kay set aside her glass.
“So all’s well that ends well,” she said lightly.
“Wilson is rich as Croesus, so he hardly needs his future wife’s dowry.
As for me, I can rest easy, knowing Mama will be taken care of.
Josephine will have a very generous portion when she marries, a dowry fat enough to take the sting out of her husband having a disgraced sister-in-law.
As for me, I will be washed clean. I will also have a home, children, and a secure future. It’s more than I ever thought I’d get.”
Delia opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again.
“Don’t look so stricken, Dee,” Kay said gently.
“Wilson is very fond of me, I promise you. And I’m fond of him.
He’s a good, decent man, and he’ll be good to me, and that’s more than a lot of women can claim.
Now, enough about that,” she added sternly before her friend could ask any more inconvenient questions.
“There’s still one thing you haven’t told me.
How did Devlin Sharpe get me the duke’s ballroom?
Does he know Westbourne’s tenants, or something? ”
Delia shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. Max told me the news only a few hours ago, but he was on his way to some sort of political meeting tonight for the Lords, and I was on my way here, so I had no chance to obtain any details. But he told me Sharpe is the one responsible.”
Before Kay could reply, a cough from the doorway to the reception room had both of them turning in that direction to find the subject of their conversation standing there.
“Ladies,” Devlin said with a bow. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”
As he straightened, the movement drew Kay’s gaze to his chest, and at once, the image of him half naked came again into her mind—the washboard ripples of his abdomen, the striations of sinew and muscle in his powerful arms, the honey-bronze color of his skin—and tongues of heat curled in her belly.
“Not at all, Mr. Sharpe,” Delia was saying. “We don’t mind, do we, Kay?”
Kay couldn’t quite find her voice to reply.
The heat in her midsection was rushing upward like a wave, flooding her face.
It took all the will she had to lift her gaze, a stupid and humiliating move, for the knowing curve of his lips and the tiny smile lines at the corners of his eyes told her he knew exactly what she’d been remembering.
Cursing him, his splendid chest, and her own fair complexion, Kay forced herself to meet his amused gaze head on. “Of course not,” she lied. “Join us, Mr. Sharpe, by all means.”
“No, no,” he replied. “As I said, I didn’t mean to interrupt your tête-à-tête.
I’m here on behalf of Lord Calderon. The ma?tre d’h?tel is asking him about the seating arrangements, Lady Stratham, since there are more guests than expected.
I know my friend well, and from the look on his face, I fear he’s a bit lost.”
“I daresay he is,” Delia replied in amusement. “The poor pet hasn’t a clue about the nuances of seating. He’d just be dogmatic about it, and follow precedent to the letter, which means the two of you would probably end up next to each other.”
At that ghastly prospect, the heat inside Kay was instantly doused, and sanity returned. Devlin must have felt pretty much the same way she did, for his knowing smile vanished at once.
Delia, of course, perceived their mutual dismay.
“Heavens, my darlings,” she cried, laughing a little, “no need to look so horrified. I was only joking! But I’d best see the ma?tre d’h?tel anyway, just to be sure.
In the meantime,” she added with mock severity as she turned away, “do try not to kill each other. And, Kay, if you want to know how you got Max’s ballroom, why don’t you just ask the man who arranged it? ”
Watching as Delia started for the door, Kay felt an absurd jolt of panic at the idea of being left alone with this cretin. “I’d prefer to come with you, Dee,” she said hastily and started to follow, but Devlin’s amused voice stopped her before she’d taken two steps.
“Running away? But I thought you wanted to know about the duke’s ballroom? Of course,” he went on when she didn’t reply, “if you’d rather scurry off like a frightened rabbit…”
The idea that he thought her afraid of him was too much to bear. Kay stopped and whirled around, shoving down the silly panic of a moment before. “I’m not the least bit afraid of you,” she said coldly. “I merely detest the sight of you. There’s a difference.”
“Kay, Kay,” he said, shaking his head, his eyes crinkling with amusement at her expense, “is that any way to talk to your fiancé’s business partner?”
She made a sound of derision through her teeth. “I can’t think how you managed the blunt for such an investment. Lady Pamela’s dowry, I suppose?”
If she thought her words would sting, she was disappointed, for Devlin grinned. “Careful,” he warned. “I may have done you a favor by arranging for you to have the duke’s ballroom, but I can also un-arrange it.”
“It was hardly a favor,” she countered tartly. “Since you’re only replacing what you stole in the first place.”
“As I told you this afternoon, I didn’t steal it.”
She gave a skeptical sniff, but there was no point in arguing about it.
Best to just ask him about the duke’s house, thereby proving she was no timid rabbit where he was concerned, and then get the hell away from him before he could bait her any further.
“Either way,” she said, “how did you persuade the duke to get his tenants out of the Park Lane house? Especially in the space of one afternoon. And,” she added, unable to resist asking the even more puzzling question, “why did you do it?”
“Oh, well, as to the how, that was absurdly simple.” He paused, taking a sip of wine.
“After you departed my suite this afternoon in a whirlwind of righteous indignation, I telephoned Westbourne and presented a possible solution to your little problem, whereupon we then made use of both telephone and telegraph. Within an hour, we’d arranged for the Robinsons—that’s the American family leasing the duke’s house—to be invited to a country-house party put on by Lord Linville, the duke’s neighbor in Gloucestershire, the weekend of June seventh. ”
“Does Linville know the Robinsons?”
Devlin’s smile widened. “Not yet. But he will meet them this weekend when he goes up to the duke’s estate for a spot of fishing. Robinson, the duke tells me, is an avid fisherman.”
Kay frowned, still confused. “But why would Linville invite people he doesn’t even know to his house party? And why would the Robinsons accept such an invitation to the country in the midst of the season?”
“Lord Linville, as you may know, is a marquess with two unmarried sons and a mortgaged estate. Robinson is new money, obscenely so, and he has four very pretty, very eligible daughters. A marriage between their families means no mortgage for Linville and at least one of Robinson’s daughters off his hands and married to a future marquess.
Both of them jumped at the chance. As for you, you get use of Westbourne’s ballroom, his kitchens, his French chef, and a few of his servants for your wedding banquet.
Winning all round for everyone, wouldn’t you say? ”
Kay didn’t know quite what to reply. “And the duke did this just because you asked him to, even after… after everything that happened?”