Page 27 of Heiress Gone Wild

“Comte de la Rosa, your dishonorable intentions toward my ward are clear as glass.”

“I?” de la Rosa gasped, pressing a hand to his breast, staring at Jonathan as if astonished. “Have dishonorable intentions toward a young lady? You misjudge me, sir.”

“Do I?”

The count assumed a pretense of haughty dignity. “I am willing to send my seconds to you, Monsieur Deverill, if that is what you desire.”

Jonathan laughed. “My dear count, there’s no need for such theatrics. Duels are quite passé nowadays. But I’m sure your tales of such exploits impress the ladies at dinner parties.”

“I am in earnest, sir.”

“I doubt it. But either way,” he went on before the other man could argue, “you aren’t worth the trouble of a duel. I must confess, however, that the idea of giving you a sound thrashing tempts me enormously.” He moved closer, grinning as the other man took a step back. “If I see you anywhere near Miss McGann again, I’ll do it, too, by God. Now go, before I forget I’m a gentleman.”

“The English are savages,” the count complained, but when Jonathan took another step toward him, he seemed to decide retreat was in order. “Baroness, I fear I must leave you.”

The count gave her a hasty bow, whirled around, and fled, almost running in his haste to be away. Laughing, Jonathan watched him go, but when he returned his attention to the baroness, his amusement faded, for she was attempting to follow the count’s example by escaping in the opposite direction.

“One more step,” he called, “and I will inform the purser of the liberties you take with his table arrangements.”

She stopped, heaved a sigh, and turned around. “You’re mad,” she said with an air of aristocratic dignity that was almost convincing. “I have no idea what you are raving about.”

“Spare me protestations of innocence, madam.” He reached into the breast pocket of his evening jacket and pulled out his notecase. “They are futile and unnecessary.”

She stared as he opened the case and pulled out a handful of notes. “How much did the count offer you for tonight’s little escapade?” he asked as he began counting dollars.

“I—I—” She broke off any stuttering attempts at denial when he paused and looked up. “One thousand dollars.”

He lifted a brow at the sum, rather impressed by the count’s thoroughness. “I suppose anything worth doing is worth doing well,” he murmured as he resumed counting. “And how much has he offered for you to arrange an assignation between him and my ward that would be witnessed by others?”

The baroness made a sound of outrage, causing Jonathan to pause.

“Really, baroness,” he said in amusement, “I thought I’d made it clear there’s no need for pretenses between us now.”

“I make no pretense. Allow a man to compromise a young lady to ruin her? Never would I do such a thing. Never!”

“Your scruples prohibit it, do they?”

“I would not do what you say. Rearrange a few place settings? Yes, why not? Encourage the girl to consider his suit? Yes, perhaps. But open her to scandal and shame? No, I would not ever do that.”

She was so vehement that Jonathan couldn’t help being impressed. “You’re a better actress than I gave you credit for. But let’s not argue. Believe me, it’s better for you to place your bets on me than on de la Rosa. More lucrative, too.”

He folded the wad of notes he’d counted and held them out. “Here is five hundred dollars. See me tomorrow, and I shall pay you a thousand more. You will also have an additional thousand when we reach London, if you do as I say. Betray me,” he added, pulling his hand back when she stretched out hers to take the money, “and not only will you not be paid the remainder, I will hound you, and ruin you, and drive you out of any position you may have somehow managed to carve for yourself in good society. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” She pulled the money from his fingers. “What is it you want me to do, Englishman?”

Lady Stansbury, sadly, was a much less entertaining conversationalist than Baroness Vasiliev. The Count de la Rosa seemed to share Marjorie’s opinion of the Englishwoman, for after the baroness had excused herself with a discreet murmur in Marjorie’s ear about needing to visit the ladies’ withdrawing room, the count had managed to tolerate just a few minutes of Lady Stansbury’s conversation about the breeding of terriers for ratting before remembering a promise to join his friends in the cardroom. Wistfully, Marjorie had watched him escape, trying to take some consolation in the long, lingering glance of admiration and regret the count had given her over his shoulder as he left.

In the wake of his departure, several of Lady Stansbury’s elderly friends joined Marjorie and the countess, and the subject of terriers was abandoned. That brought Marjorie no relief, however, for the conversation somehow became centered on the moral laxness of young people nowadays.

This discussion was accompanied by several glances at the low neckline of Marjorie’s evening gown, making her feel terribly self-conscious, and it was a struggle not to squirm under their disapproving scrutiny. She also began to feel the effects of her three glasses of wine, and when the conversation turned to what constituted a proper herbaceous border—whatever that was—she almost fell asleep in her chair. When the baroness finally returned, Marjorie’s relief was so great, she wanted to hug the Russian woman in gratitude.

Hoping to spare herself any more discussion of alstroemerias and verbascums, she stood up. Expressing the wish for a bit of fresh air, she suggested to the baroness that they take a stroll on the promenade deck before bed, but the other woman shook her head in refusal.

“Forgive me,” she said and reached for her evening bag, “but I do not feel well and must return to my cabin. Lady Stansbury, would you be so kind as to escort Marjorie to her stateroom when you retire?”

She turned away without another word, and Marjorie frowned in bewildered concern. “Whatever is the matter, I wonder?”

“Probably ate something that didn’t agree,” the countess commented.

---