Julian blinked. ‘Since he’s married, I’d shoot him! Believe it or not, I would refuse my consent to any binding betrothal until at least next year.’ The cat in his lap rolled, displaying its belly in furry offering. Resigned, Julian kneaded the shameless creature.
Lissy stared. ‘But, why?’
‘Because you’re too young,’ he said. ‘And don’t tell me again that you’re nearly eighteen!’
Deflated, Lissy said, ‘But we love each other. It isn’t fair. Just because he isn’t wealthy—’
‘Lissy—Daventry can’t afford to marry you!’ He strove for patience and nobly squashed his instinctive, and more cynical, reaction. ‘Not with bills like the ones sent to me from Bath last month,’ he said.
Lissy blushed. He hoped some of his pithy comments on the advisability of keeping a check on expenditure had sunk in. ‘It is unfair, though. If we cannot see each other, then—’
‘I didn’t forbid him the house!’ said Julian irritably. ‘For God’s sake, Lissy! Stop acting as though you were in a bad tragedy!’
Serena coughed, and Julian gritted his teeth, remembering the tact. He added, ‘He seems pleasant enough, and I believe I can trust him not to go beyond the line.’
‘You mean, we may meet?’
He fixed her with his best steely glare. ‘If he is invited to the same entertainments, then of course you will meet. He may call here. Occasionally. But you may not meet him unchaperoned, nor exchange correspondence. And I would make the same conditions for any man courting you, even if he were a veritable Midas!’
‘I suppose you think you’re being generous!’
He nodded. ‘Yes. Now that you mention it, I do. And if at any time you are tempted to view me as a callous tyrant,’ he added, ‘you might care to ponder the fact that our father would have shown Daventry the door with a horsewhip, set the dogs on him, complained to his employer, and confined you to your room for a month. At least. And think—once you are twenty- one, I will be powerless to prevent your marriage.’
Faced with this very accurate summation, Lissy set her mouth in a mutinous line. In trembling tones she said, ‘If you had the least idea about love, Julian, you would understand the agony of being obliged to wait!’
She swung around and stormed out.
Serena, Lady Braybrook, said, ‘I thought we agreed to be tactful?’
Julian snorted. ‘Tactful? Lissy needs a dose of salts!’ He removed the cat from his lap. ‘What has she been reading, Serena?’
Ignoring that as wholly unimportant, Serena regarded her stepson. ‘Tell me, dear—when you were seventeen—’
‘Yes, all right, very well,’ said Julian hurriedly, recalling some of his youthful peccadilloes. He looked away from the cat, which was staring up at him indignantly. ‘At least I never wanted to marry any of them!’
At Serena’s choke of laughter heat flared on his cheekbones, and the cat took advantage of his distraction to reinstate itself with fluid ease.
‘So I recall,’ Serena said, still laughing. ‘Is Tybalt annoying you? Just put him out.’
He grimaced. ‘I think I can survive one cat.’ Even if it was stretching its claws on his breeches again. Serena was fond of the thing. ‘Was I that much of a nuisance?’
‘Worse,’ she assured him. ‘Whenever news of your misdemeanours at Oxford and then, after you were sent down, London, reached us, your father nearly had apoplexy.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘The worst was the rumour that Worcester was about to call you out for your attentions to Harriette Wilson.’
Julian blinked at this unabashed reference to one of his youthful follies. ‘Dash it, Serena! Where did you hear that?’
‘Oh, was it true, then? I told your father it was more than likely a silly invention and not to give it a moment’s thought. Was I wrong?’
‘He told you?’ He hadn’t even realised that his father knew!
Serena stared. ‘Well, of course! How else could he ask my advice?’
‘He asked your advice?’ Julian tried, and failed, to imagine his father discussing his son’s involvement with a notorious courtesan with Serena.
Grey eyes twinkling, she said, ‘Frequently. Which is not to say he took it very often.’ Her mouth twitched. ‘Not intentionally, anyway.’
Julian decided he didn’t want to know. ‘Hmm. Well, I’m here now for the rest of the summer, and Lissy and Emma are off to Aunt Massingdale in the winter. Surely we can keep Lissy out of mischief until then.’
‘You’re staying until Parliament resumes?’
He shrugged. ‘Mostly. I do need to see Modbury about some business. I’ll go to Bristol for a few nights next week. Since I’m meeting with him I’ll write first and ask him to find out something more about Daventry. This house, for one thing.’
‘Yes, that surprised me,’ said Serena.
‘Modbury should be able to discover something if Daventry does own property,’ said Julian. ‘Apparently, Alcaston is his godfather and settled the income on him.’
Serena frowned. ‘Alcaston? The duke?’
‘Yes. He recommended Daventry for the post with Sir John,’ said Julian. ‘Will you be all right while I’m away? Are you sure you don’t want Aunt Lydia to visit? Or—’
He broke off under the fire of Serena’s glare.
‘I may be stuck in this wretched chair, Julian, but as I’ve said before, that does not mean I require someone hovering over me the entire time,’ she told him. ‘And since that is exactly what Lydia would do, no—I do not want her to visit!’
‘Very well,’ he said. ‘No Aunt Lydia.’
He’d have to think of someone else, because with her daughters off to Bath for the winter Serena needed a companion. He looked at her with affection. Her confinement to the wretched chair, as she put it, limited her physical independence. While he could see her point in categorically refusing her widowed sister-in-law as a companion—Lydia would fuss mercilessly and bemoan ceaselessly the unfairness of fate—who else was there?
‘Julian—I don’t want any well-meaning relatives fussing over me.’
‘No. I understand that.’ Sometimes he wondered if she could actually read his mind…he’d have to think of something else. Meanwhile he’d best write to Modbury and ask him to find out what he could about Daventry.
Chapter Two
I think I’ve found the house you wanted, my lord. Only Daventry I could find. It’s on Christmas Steps.
Yes?
Only thing, my lord—there’s a young woman living there from what I could find out…a Mrs Daventry …
Good Lord! Julian stood at the top of Christmas Steps and wondered if he was insane even thinking of descending the alley. Modbury had thought so, and Julian could see his point. The alley was positively medieval, and so steep someone had actually built steps. According to Modbury it led down to the old quay, and at least once had housed the sort of establishments sailors on shore leave frequented—brothels and taverns.
You can’t visit, my lord!
The hell he couldn’t. Gripping his