Page 13 of Lady, Behave
Over the next six years until his death, the earl was the one who headed the construction of the prisoners’ escape tunnel. As an amateur engineer, he understood how to dig out the earth, how to hide it, funnel its course, and how to deflect it from the river that could flood it. When the tunnel collapsed, as it often did, in flood or after mudslides, he knew how to repair it or redirect the remains. He would not leave there but insisted all others go before him—even his son. When the old earl died, he had helped more than thirty British to escape the clutches of the French guards.
In June of eighteen-fourteen, as Napoleon took up exile in Elba, Gyles had met Lex in Paris, and the two of them had gone to Verdun. There, they spent more than a month searching for the grave where the guards had buried the old earl and two of their fellow prisoners. They found his remains outside the walls of a fort high in the hills above the city. There the two built a decent gravesite for the man who had saved so many, marking his earthly resting place nearest to the sky where Lex hoped his father could envision his native land.
“Your father was a hero to so many of us,” Gyles told him. “May we all live with half as much nobility of character.”
“He’d like it if we lived well to celebrate his sacrifice.” Lex reached for his top hat and flicked off a bit of lint. “I know my father would like Imogen. Laughter is good medicine. It’s even more attractive in a woman.”
“No palliative needed for so engaging a character,” Gyles agreed and caught up his own hat as his coach stopped before the rented house of Lady William Downs. “Complaints and demands are more the norm in the women I have all too often thought attractive. But I’ve decided these past few days that conversations in bed about money and jewels are extremely tiresome.”
“Whatever can you mean?” Lex feigned shock. “In bed, I like to discuss my estate profits!”
“The hell you do!” Gyles slapped him on the back. “Let’s go inside and laugh!”
*
Viscount Hewett ofHartwing Hall in Yorkshire was a pleasant fellow who had come early today and, as he had yesterday, attached himself to Addy forthwith. He was another conquest, and she needed to be able to choose the best man to wed among those attracted to her. But Gyles was the one she wanted.
At the moment, however, Hewett demanded her full attention. He was a talker, chattering on about himself. While that was tolerable, his eyes strayed to her bodice. His beady-eyed interest made her squirm. Those assets of hers, which Fifi called a woman’schoux, were nicely shaped but were apples compared to those that Imogen sported. If Hewett had an appetite for her—or any man did—Addy hoped it was because of what she had in her head, not on her chest.
Still, she was polite to him. Why not? Cousin Cass had told her last night after they reviewed all the men who had attended tea yesterday that Hewett might have a reputation as a rogue, but he also had eight-thousand a year income from a profitable country estate. That, plus his ownership of a large old townhouse in Mayfair, made Hewett more financially viable than the third man who paid Addy special court, the congenial Duke of Lonsdale.
Yet Gyles, as Marquess of Heath, was the richer. In land, he held twice as much. Income, enough to fund his own houses in London and Yorkshire, plus he often footed his father’s debts. With a sterling reputation as a former prisoner of Bony’s, a spy for the Crown, and a diplomat for Whitehall, Gyles was the man with the most favorable assets. That he was also called the Blood of the Season for his rakish ways saddened her. She’d not tolerate a husband who wandered or gambled or drank. Yet her first impression of him had not flagged him as a scoundrel. Could she count on her insight to confirm him as a fine man?
“What do you think, Miss Adelaide?” Hewett called her back from her wool-gathering.
“I do, indeed. Think, that is. Of course.”
Arching a skeptical brow, he nonetheless continued on about his physical prowess, of all things.
She smiled, letting him rave on.
Where was Gyles?
She glanced toward the parlor door. He’d been so prompt the previous two days. She grew irritable.
Meanwhile, Imogen paced the floor in front of the parlor window.
Addy sympathized with her sister and shot to her feet. With excuses to Hewett, she left him.
Cousin Cass was urging Imogen away from her vigil at the window. “We don’t want our guests to detect your anxiety.”
Addy gave her sister a smile. “Imogen’s fearful Martindale won’t come again today.”
“I thought he was committed,” Imogen murmured.
Laurel sat near the window and leaned close to put in, “There are so many others who have accepted. You mustn’t be dismayed, Imogen.”
Imogen and Addy examined Laurel’s smile. This was the first sign of a sunnier sister…and welcome, no matter the reason.
“He was forthright,” Imogen added, her gaze lingering on the rain.
“Perhaps his friend, the Marquess of Heath, will attend again and share news of him,” Addy said, trying to help. “I can ask.”
“Never,” Cousin Cass whispered harshly. “Martindale sent his regrets for both days. We shall welcome him at any time.”
“Do not fret, Imogen.” Addy pleaded. “He may appear at the yachting party tomorrow!”
“But I won’t,” Imogen said. “One foot on that boat, and I’ll toss my breakfast over everyone!”
