Sunrise with a Notorious Lord Page 5

  Even though he doubted Regan would blush if he told her that he was waiting for his mistress to appear from one of the private rooms, Vane was reluctant to confess the true reason why he had returned to the dressmaker’s shop.

  He had purchased the poppy evening dress for Miss Thorne.

  Vane had observed her face when she and Delia were arguing over the dress. Once he had seen the Thorne sisters’ modest dwelling, he understood Isabel’s casual dismissal of an evening dress that she clearly desired.

  It was the least he could do for her. After all, she had rescued his snuffbox from the young pickpocket.

  Still, he doubted Miss Thorne would wear his gift if she was aware that several ladies of the ton knew its origin. He could trust Regan to remain silent. However, Miss Tyne and Miss Bramwell did not owe him their loyalty. If word got out, the gossips could shred Miss Thorne’s reputation within an evening.

  “Didn’t I?” He leaned forward and kissed Regan on the cheek. “It’s a pity I do not have more time for explanations.”

  “Now, see here!”

  Vane ignored Regan’s frustrated outburst. “Ladies, I am certain we will meet again. Regan, tell your husband that I will be stopping by Nox this evening.”

  His errand completed, he walked away as quickly as decorum permitted.

  * * *

  “Dashing in front of a pickpocket!” Lady Netherley exclaimed as she poured tea into Isabel’s empty cup. “I cannot decide if that was the bravest or most foolhardy thing I have ever heard.”

  “My only thought was to slow his escape,” Isabel explained, feeling calmer after spending the past two hours with the marchioness. “It was Lord Vanewright who was supposed to catch him.”

  Her nervousness was to be expected, since her experiences with the bon ton were rather limited. Isabel had spent all her life in the quiet village of Cotersage. Even though her mother was the daughter of a viscount, her marriage to a commoner severed all ties between her family and London society. If Lady Netherley had not been visiting a sick friend in the country, Isabel would have never met this unpretentious, sweet-natured woman.

  “I hope my son thanked you for your bravery.”

  A faint smile played upon her lips as she thought about their encounter. “Only after he lectured me for taking a foolish risk.”

  “Although I applaud the originality of your introduction, I must agree with Christopher.”

  “Christopher?”

  “My son,” Lady Netherley replied. “It is a lovely name, is it not?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Oh, everyone refers to him by his title, or simply Vane, as he prefers, but he shall always be my Christopher.”

  “You are his mother. Of course, such intimacy is appropriate.”

  Lady Netherley picked up a spoon and stirred her tea. “As it is between a man and wife.”

  Isabel tried not to choke as she swallowed her tea. “And you believe my sister is the perfect lady for Lord Vanewright?”

  “I do. A mother knows a thing or two about her son, and the moment Mrs. Whitechurch introduced me to you and your sister, I sensed that Delia was the key to my quandary.”

  “You mentioned that Lord Vanewright has resisted your matchmaking efforts over the years.”

  “Christopher can be rather stubborn about certain matters, but I am certain you and I will bring him around.”

  “Me?” Isabel said, startled that she was being included.

  “Obviously, my dear. From what I recall of your sister, Delia is no more interested in marriage than my son. Together, we must conspire and think of ways to bring them together. Delia is quite beautiful, and Christopher appreciates true beauty. Nature will take its course, and soon I will be preparing for a wedding. What do you think of a summer wedding?”

  “A summer wedding would be wonderful,” Isabel said, feeling more than a little guilty that she and the marchioness had brought Delia to London under false pretenses.

  Lady Netherley was correct. Delia had no desire to marry. Like a caged exotic bird, her sister longed for her freedom. Marrying the first gentleman she encountered in London was not part of her sister’s plans. Nevertheless, Isabel had seen curiosity in Delia’s gaze whenever it settled on the handsome earl. Some marriages began with even less.

  No, whether Delia liked it or not, she held her family’s welfare in her delicate hands. Becoming the Countess of Vanewright, and eventually the Marchioness of Netherley, would save her family from financial ruin. It would also give Delia all the things that she craved out of life. Wealth. A place in the ton. Respect. The freedom to fulfill every whim and secret desire.

  “Miss Thorne. Isabel?”

  “I beg your pardon, Lady Netherley,” Isabel said, embarrassed that she had been caught woolgathering. “You were saying?”

  The marchioness glanced at the closed door. Fearing that they might be overheard, she lowered her voice. “My son is clever. He will be suspicious of anything that I say or do, so I will be depending on you to be my eyes and ears.”

  Isabel carefully set down her teacup. “I will admit that I have some concerns about this plan. I am not certain I can meet your expectations, Lady Netherley, since it will require me forming a friendship with Lord Vanewright. To be frank, I do not believe your son has any desire to speak with me again.”

  The marchioness smiled at her. Beneath all that sweetness, there was a kind of shrewdness that prickled the tiny hairs at the nape of her neck.

  “Never fear, my dear. You will encounter my son again.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Brace yourself, dear brother. I am moving in with you and I am in no mood for arguments.”

  Vane opened one eyelid to see his younger sister, Ellen, standing in the open doorway of his library. Like him, she was blessed with the dark hair of their sire and their mother’s clear blue-green eyes. She was a pretty little thing with a flawless complexion, a lean, almost boyish build, and too much intelligence for her own good. At seven-and-twenty, she was still unmarried, which was another thing they had in common. As a small child, she had been his best friend, playmate, and fellow slayer of dragons.

  “And you thought disturbing my nap would sweeten my disposition?”

  “Susan is arguing again with her husband,” his sister announced as she strode into the room without waiting for an invitation. “She has brought the children with her. Not all of them, mind you, but I saw at least six of the twelve. When I left, our sister was telling Mama that she will not sleep under the same roof with Pypart until he has apologized properly to her.”

  “For what?” Vane asked, repositioning himself so that he was resting on his elbows. He had resigned himself to the thought that the nap he’d been anticipating had come abruptly to an end. “According to Pypart, he has made his apologies. Numerous times.”

  Ellen gave him an exasperated look. “Of course he has. Our brother-in-law’s sins are many.” She walked over to the sofa and slapped at his boots. Obliging her, he shifted his legs until they were planted on the floor. She sat down at the end of the long sofa.

  “Pypart isn’t a villainous brute, Ellen. He is simply flawed like most of God’s creations. His problem lies not in the fact that he cannot seem to resist sticking his co—” Vane caught himself and tried to amend his words of civil company. “Himself in ladies other than his wife. It is his damnable regret afterward and his need for absolution. He should do like any other self-respecting gent and lie to his wife.”

  Ellen laughed. “Especially to our sister. Mama tells me that Susan chased her husband around the bedchamber with a brass bed warmer.”

  “That does not sound horrible.”

  Unholy glee lit up his sister’s eyes. “It was filled with hot coals.”

  Vane winced in sympathy. “Fortunately for Pypart, he is quite light on his feet.” All of his indiscretions had kept his brother-in-law fit.

  “She beat him soundly when she caught him.” Enjoying herself, Ellen twisted so they were fa
ce-to-face. She clasped both of his hands, silently encouraging him to sit up. “According to Mama, Pypart’s clothing ignited as he was showered in a hail of burning coals and his wife’s hellish temper.”

  “Hellish temper is right. When I was a small lad, Susan used to take a broom handle to me if she caught me misbehaving.” Or whatever else was within reach. “I pity her children. All of them are probably sporting half a dozen dents in their skulls for their transgressions.”

  Vane and Ellen laughed, though it was not out of cruelty. Their elder sister had behaved like a second mother rather than a sibling because of their differences in ages. Susan had already married when their mother had given birth to Vane, and eighteen months later to Ellen. With an unfaithful, albeit apologetic husband, and twelve children who needed a firm hand and guidance, their sister had little patience to spare for her younger brother and sister.

  “Well to be fair, Mama was always reluctant to punish us,” Ellen said, releasing his hands so she could toy with a lock of his dark hair. “Susan thought if Papa had beaten you once a week, you would not have fallen in with those womanizing scoundrels that you call your friends.”

  It sounded like something Susan would have said. “The Lords of Vice? The rumors that you’ve heard are exaggerations and lies, dear sister,” Vane said with feigned outrage.

  “Mmm,” Ellen said, tugging on his hair. “And what of that gambling hell you call Nox?”

  Vane put his arm affectionately around his sister. “A club of charitable deeds.” He ignored her burst of laughter. “No, seriously, our club provides certain amusements for the lost souls wandering about London.” He failed to mention the fallen doves Madame Venna sent to Nox each evening or the depravity that often took place in the private rooms upstairs.

  “I’ll wager these lost souls fill the Lords of Vice’s coffers rather handsomely.”

  “Nox provides its own rewards to all who pass through our doors,” he said with as much dignity as he could muster.

  In truth, Nox was one of the more notorious clubs in London. Founded by Vane and his six friends, and situated near the more fashionable clubs of St. James and Covent Garden at 44 King Street, Nox was a veritable den of corruption if the papers were to be believed. The Lords of Vice as the seven of them were often called had desired an elegant place to meet and play away from the disapproving scrutiny of the ton.

  It was Hunter who solved the dilemma of a site when he donated the now eighty-eight-year-old house that had been a gift from his grandmother. In a joint venture, all seven of them contributed resources and labor to renovate the old building.

  Vane could not recall who had originally suggested opening the lower half of the house to guests and potential club members, but such a mercenary scheme was likely Frost’s idea. With Mr. Charles Berus as steward, the gaming hell paid for its costly upkeep as well as the staff’s wages.

  Everyone who entered Nox passed under a stained-glass rectangular panel with the words Virtus Deseritur. The Latin phrase translated into “virtue is forsaken,” and was a generous gift from one of the gentlemen’s former mistresses. Over time, it became the Lords of Vice’s apt motto.

  Not that Vane intended to share Nox’s true origins with his younger sister. The rumors about the club and its wickedly depraved founders were often understated for polite society’s ears.

  The delicate arch of Ellen’s left eyebrow lifted when Vane said nothing more about the club. “And what does Mama have to say about Nox?”

  Vane slid his finger down the length of his sister’s nose. “Our mother has the good sense not to ask questions about matters that would only upset her. Perhaps you should do the same.”

  Ellen wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Not much fun. Besides, if I behaved myself I would still be listening to Susan’s tirade. Can you believe that I caught one of our nephews imbibing the contents of my scent bottles?”

  “Which one?” Vane asked, highly amused. At last count, their sister had five sons.

  She rolled her eyes. “Does it matter?”

  “Perhaps to Susan” was his dry reply. “While she may often rail at their sire, she is rather protective of her brood. I hope you alerted her so she could dose our nephew with an emetic.”

  Ellen smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt. “How do you think I made my escape? I slipped out while Susan was screaming for Mama.” She leaned forward and rested her cheek against his shoulder. “So may I reside with you this season? I am tidy and relatively quiet. You won’t even notice that I am here.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  She sighed and straightened. “Then I will dedicate myself to the task of helping Mama find you a suitable wife.”

  Vane gave her a look of disbelief. “You devious little blackmailer. I am very disappointed in you.”

  “A tragedy to be certain.” Ellen enraged him further by stifling a yawn. “Do we have a bargain? You offer me shelter and I will not meddle in your affairs.”

  “Done,” he said curtly.

  “Excellent!” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek before rising. “If you do not mind, I will occupy the bedchamber that I used last time.”

  “Ellen, when did you become such a brat?”

  “And when did you become such a pouter,” she countered. “Trust me, dear brother, you could use an ally in our family. Once Susan calms down, I am certain she and Mama will scour the balls and routs in search of the perfect bride for you.”

  Although it came as no surprise, Vane rubbed his brow and cursed.

  “Exactly.” Ellen nodded, pleased that he understood his precarious situation. She casually crossed the room, pausing when she had reached the door. “Do not fret. I’ll keep an eye on Mama and Susan. It is the least I can do to repay your generosity.”

  After his sister departed, Vane stared at the empty doorway wondering if Ellen was a willing pawn in his mother’s plans. He loved her dearly, but he could not afford to trust her.

  * * *

  “Where did you get that dress?”

  Delia and Mrs. Allen glanced up as Isabel entered the small parlor. Her afternoon with Lady Netherley had gone better than she had expected, but she had left the marchioness’s town house feeling irritable and tired. Anticipating a quiet moment to herself, she was surprised to find her sister clutching the poppy evening dress they had both coveted in the dressmaker’s shop.

  Holding the dress against her front, Delia gave her a sly grin. “Can you believe it is a gift?”

  Isabel reached out and touched one of the sleeves. The dress they had admired had been unfinished. Someone had instructed the seamstress to complete it. “No,” she said flatly. “This is a mistake.”

  Lady Netherley had offered to pay their expenses while she and Delia resided in London, but Isabel had refused out of pride. Accepting more of the marchioness’s charity would have eased their financial woes, yet doing so seemed dishonorable. She had told the older woman several times that she could only encourage her sister to receive Lord Vanewright favorably, but she could not promise that the couple would marry.

  “Not at all.” Delia handed her a card. “A boy from the shop delivered the small trunk minutes before your arrival.”

  This was one of Lord Vanewright’s calling cards. “The earl was here,” Isabel said, astounded by his mother’s intuition. She had predicted that they would see him again.

  “The card was delivered with the trunk.” Delia preened for the housekeeper. “What say you, Mrs. Allen? Do you think I will be mistaken for a countess?”

  Isabel managed to choke on her own spit at her sister’s casual query. She coughed into her hand, fighting to catch her breath and composure.

  “Oh, Miss Delia … more like a grand duchess,” Mrs. Allen said, her worried gaze switching to Isabel. “A cup of tea with a spoonful of honey will soothe that irritated throat. Delia, you can show me the rest of it later.”

  “Rest?” Isabel croaked after the housekeeper left the room.

  Delia gestu
red to the trunk at her feet. “Lord Vanewright thought of everything. Dress, gloves, shoes … a matching reticule and fan. There is even a petticoat and—”

  Isabel held up a hand. “Say no more,” she entreated, staring at the trunk with an expression of appalled astonishment. “We cannot accept these gifts from Lord Vanewright.”

  Her sister protectively hugged the evening dress to her chest. “Why not? The earl clearly wanted me to have them.”

  She glanced up at Delia at her claim. “Are you certain? The trunk was delivered to you by name?”

  “Well, no,” her sister conceded. “Mrs. Allen thought the boy had made a mistake, too. Then the boy said the trunk was to be delivered to the Thorne residence. Nevertheless, Lord Vanewright knew I desired the dress. He overheard us arguing. I am certain of it.”

  Whether he was aware of it or not, Lord Vanewright was playing right into his mother’s hands. “It was very kind of the earl. Even so, we cannot accept this trunk. We must return it immediately.”

  “You cannot do that!” Delia protested. “Turn over his card and read his note. He would be insulted if we spurned his generosity.”

  Scowling, Isabel turned the calling card over.

  Lord Vanewright’s handwriting was as lavishly bold as the man himself.

  It reminded me of you. With gratitude.

  —V

  “It takes true skill to be considerate and thoughtless with a single deed.” Isabel allowed her hand to drop to her side. The earl had sent the dress to Delia. As much as she coveted owning such elegance, no gentleman would have looked at the brilliant poppy color and thought of her.

  Her knowing gaze rested on her sister’s face. “You do understand that we cannot keep the dress,” she said gently.

  “Of course we can,” Delia argued, sounding devastated, while she crushed the upper portion of the bodice with her fingers.

  “Delia,” Isabel said, striving for a reasonable tone. “We are strangers to town. One misspoken word of the origins of the dress and your reputation will be in tatters.”