His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen #4)(47)

Lily turned from the view of the garden below, which was lit with torches and occupied by strolling couples, any pair of whom might overhear the wrong words.

“You’ll excuse me, please. My uncle does not like to keep late hours.” She must put distance between herself and the temptation to learn more of her mother, for Mrs. Braithwaite had had years to make Lily’s acquaintance.

This was a carefully planned ambush, and Lily should have known better than to remain anywhere private with this woman.

Mrs. Braithwaite snapped her fan open. “I have letters. From your dear mama, revealing the extent of her indiscretion. One cannot fault her for half measures. Your sister, if she survived, would be little more than two years your junior.”

Oh, Mama. “That is preposterous.” And very close to the truth. “Take your allegations to my uncle if you seek to gain by them.”

Through a sheer curtain, Lily could see Hessian in earnest discussion with the evening’s pianist, a ducal son turned composer. The pianist had his lordship’s whole focus, as did any matter—or person—to whom Hessian gave his attention.

Daisy, for example, and on a few precious occasions, Lily.

She had never expected a fairy-tale future. Food, clothing, shelter, a measure of safety in exchange for hard, hard work had been her fondest dream. Then Walter Leggett had come along, making promises and threats, and more promises.

“You are a sensible creature,” Mrs. Braithwaite said. “So am I. We women must manage as best we can, and your uncle has nothing I want. You, however, do.”

“I haven’t even pin money,” Lily said, “and I refuse to discuss this situation where anybody might overhear.”

Another tap to her arm. “Such dignity. Your mother would have been proud of you. The more public the venue, the greater the privacy. You’d know that, if you had a tenth of your mama’s penchant for mischief. In any case, you have influence over Lord Grampion.”

Lily’s mother would not be proud of her. Her mother would be endlessly ashamed, as Lily was ashamed.

“Say what you have to say, then, and be done with it.”

“Grampion has recently become guardian to my niece, a dear little creature by the name of Amy Marguerite. I want the rearing of her, and he’s being contrary. I respect his sense of duty, but that girl belongs with me.”

Mrs. Braithwaite spoke like an ambitious horse trainer: I want that filly. She’ll fetch a pretty penny once she’s schooled over fences.

Nothing about Roberta Braithwaite was remarkable, for London in spring abounded with pragmatic widows. Her eyes, though, struck Lily as her most honest feature. Calculation gleamed from their depths, and a coldness that would destroy a child like Daisy.

Hessian had taken Mrs. Braithwaite’s measure better than he knew. “If you seek a role in your niece’s life, you should approach Grampion. He’s nothing if not reasonable.”

Mrs. Braithwaite slapped her closed fan against her palm, like a testy headmaster with his birch rod.

“I’ve tried to reason with Grampion, and he was nearly rude. I’m to await his consideration while the little imp gets her hooks deeper into his sense of honor. My sister was the same way—had an instinct for how to wrap a man around her finger.”

Bitterness lurked in Mrs. Braithwaite’s words, perhaps the bitterness of a woman scorned.

“I have no influence with his lordship,” Lily said. “He is a man of independent judgment.”

Mrs. Braithwaite’s smile would have been well complemented by a forked tongue sampling the evening air.

“Nonsense, Miss Ferguson. You are your mother’s daughter, and she never wanted for male attention. You curry the earl’s favor, grant him a few liberties, compromise him into marriage, and then insist he evict a troublesome child from your nursery before his heir arrives. I’ll be loyally standing by, ready to dote myself silly over the girl.”

The violinist, a willowy brunette with dark eyes and dramatic brows, had joined the conversation with Hessian and the pianist. She was a gorgeous woman, the daughter of some Italian count and an Englishwoman. Men had been giving her appreciative glances all evening, while Hessian, his profile to Lily, gave the violinist a respectful bow.

Mrs. Braithwaite had an asset Lily lacked. Why hadn’t Mama bequeathed Lily even a dash of ruthlessness? A hint of a spine? Surely a woman who flouted convention so boldly could have passed on some courage to her daughter?

“You want money.”

“I need money, vulgar though the admission is. Grampion has money, his brother has even more money, and they can spare a bit for Amy Marguerite’s widowed aunt. In exchange, I’ll take adequate care of the girl, and Grampion can send her flowers on her birthday. Your task is to convince him that Amy Marguerite is better off with me, which she will be.”

“And if I cannot convince him to surrender the girl to you?”

Mrs. Braithwaite snapped open her fan again. The pattern painted on the panels was a knight serenading a damsel, thorny pink roses vining around the damsel’s stone tower.

“Personal correspondence is so easy to mislay,” Mrs. Braithwaite said. “Who knows what might happen to your mother’s old letters, or to your sister, should those letters fall into the wrong hands? Your sister is the by-blow of a man with a respected title, you know. Your mother let that much slip, though she didn’t name names. I have my suspicions, though.”