His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen #4)(37)
“Very embarrassing. As an old and dear friend, Lady Nadine could of course rely on my discretion, though others would not have been so kind. I never learned what became of the girl, and either the Leggett money or a belated dose of discretion kept the situation from becoming common knowledge.”
Roberta rose, because this recitation of ancient history was stirring her imagination, and an active mind could be aided by an active body.
“I suppose,” Penelope said, “these things happen in the best families. My papa always says a title is no guarantee of sense.”
And lack of one no guarantee of brains. “Dorie Humplewit would not have kept Lady Nadine’s confidences as I have.”
“You are a very loyal friend.”
Dorie Humplewit would have turned the whole situation to coin somehow. She would have blackmailed Walter Leggett, compromised him, blackmailed him and compromised him…
“Walter is a cold fish, for all he smiles and nods at the right times.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Walter Leggett. He has pots of money.”
Penelope finished her second sandwich and her lemonade while Roberta paced the parlor.
“I have no wish to become Mrs. Walter Leggett.” She would not mind in the least having his money, though. “I’d have to entertain, put up with Walter’s wastrel son, and share a household with Miss Lily Ferguson.”
“Is Mr. Leggett attempting to court you?” Penelope asked around a mouthful of tea cake.
“He would be if I wanted him to be, but one shudders to contemplate fulfillment of one’s wifely duties. The colonel, God rest his soul, was all the husband I could ever need or want.”
Roberta took another turn around the parlor, mentally assessing relationships, assets, and what information she had.
“Did Grampion appear to favor Miss Ferguson?” For this was key to the plan taking shape in Roberta’s mind.
“I would say that, well, in my opinion, he did. Nothing improper, of course, but they were on a picnic blanket, sitting rather close, and Miss Ferguson didn’t seem to mind.”
“Grampion is a widowed earl on the prowl for a countess. Lily Ferguson would not have minded if he’d ripped off his clothing and sat in her lap.”
Penelope’s pale brows drew down. “Whyever would he—?”
“Fetch your workbasket, before you drive me daft, please.”
Penelope dutifully trotted off, and must have fetched her workbasket by way of King’s Cross, for she was gone long enough that Roberta’s thoughts could organize themselves. Grampion had the girl, Grampion had money. Roberta wanted the girl, because Roberta wanted Grampion’s money.
Not a huge sum, a few hundred pounds a year would do. Maybe a thousand. Amy Marguerite must not want for anything.
Grampion also, apparently, had taken a liking to Miss Lily Ferguson, and she to him. Neither parti had caught the eye of any other marital prospect—the society pages would have mentioned an heiress or an earl paying notable attention to a prospective spouse.
So the plan became quite simple: Miss Lily Ferguson must convince Grampion that Amy Marguerite—and a portion of the earl’s money—belonged with Roberta, or Roberta feared Lady Nadine’s letters might fall into the wrong hands.
Not even Dorie Humplewit on her most bold, ingenious day could have come up with such an elegant, effective solution.
Chapter Nine
* * *
I will kill Walter Leggett.
Lily played endless rounds of catch while both girls stood between the adults and tried to snatch the ball, and the earl ensured they occasionally could.
While Lily smiled, laughed, and hid a growing sense of despair. Hessian Kettering had been sorely betrayed by a woman’s deceptions before. Now Lily was inveigling herself into his good graces, and he probably thought her very brave and forthright for disclosing Uncle’s agenda.
She was a lying coward, and that had never bothered her as much as it did now.
Daisy made a great leap for the ball, missed, and collapsed in a heap.
“You nearly got it!” Grampion called, though his good cheer had no effect.
Daisy sat in the grass sniffling, Bronwyn standing over her worriedly. “Did you break your ankle, Daze? Maybe you broke your leg, or your ankle and your leg.”
Grampion knelt in the grass. “I doubt it’s broken. Daisy is a robustly healthy young lady, with strong bones and nimble reflexes.”
He passed Daisy a handkerchief and unlaced her little half boot. “There, you see? A perfectly whole, pretty little foot.”
“And a stocking,” Bronwyn said, crouching. “Does it hurt like blazes, Daisy?”
“Y-yes, and I fell.”
“You took a graceful tumble,” Grampion retorted. “Can you wiggle your toes?”
She wiggled them.
“Can you wiggle your foot?”
Another wiggle.
He held his palm near her sole. “Can you kick my hand?” He made a production out of flinging his hand back when Daisy kicked his palm. “We have a mere field injury, which should come right with rest and a little cosseting. As it happens, Miss Ferguson has brought lemonade and cakes, also a storybook.” He scooped Daisy up and got her situated piggyback. “Shall we to the blanket, Miss Ferguson?”