No Earls Allowed (The Survivors #2)(112)

“That is very wise of you, my dear, but not necessary.” Collette had not been allowed paper or pen in her private chamber, and Lady Ravensgate did not seem inclined to make any exceptions. “In the meantime, we shall keep our eye on Mr. Beaumont. If we are fortunate, we will not see him again.”

“On the contrary, I hope very much we do see him again. He could prove useful.”

“Only if you do not allow him to seduce every last secret out of you,” Lady Ravensgate bit out.

Ah, so that was why the lady had not mentioned Beaumont’s connection to Draven. She worried Collette would succumb to his charms. “He will not seduce me.”

Lady Ravensgate snorted. “We shall see.”

Collette looked down at the hand Beaumont had held. It still tingled from his touch. What had he meant when he said he would remedy the situation with Montjoy? And why could she not stop imagining what it would be like to dance with him?

*

A family dinner at the Earl of Haddington’s town house was no small, intimate affair. Rafe had stepped into the fray little more than a quarter hour ago and his coat was already sticky from little fingers and his ears ringing from children’s shrieks. Hell’s teeth but his siblings were a fertile lot.

The monthly dinners were a staple from March until late fall, when the earl and countess retired to the country for several months. The earl’s property was not large and he did not have many tenants to oversee. The land was quite rich in minerals, and the income from those provided Haddington with a comfortable lifestyle and the ability to ensure his children were also well taken care of.

Tonight, six of the eight children attended the dinner. John, Viscount Beaumont and the earl’s heir, always attended. His wife and their five children were also present. George, Rafe’s second eldest brother and his wife and brood were also present. They only had three children, but his wife looked to be expecting again, although a formal announcement had not been made. Rafe’s two other brothers were in the navy and presumably away at sea. But his three sisters more than made up for Harold and Cyril’s absences. Rosamund, Helen, and Mary had ten children between them. Mary was the closest in age to Rafe, only three years his senior, and her children were the youngest and loudest. Rafe could also admit—if only to himself—that three-year-old James and eighteen-month-old Sophia were adorable. Sophia had the prettiest dimpled smile, which she bestowed quite liberally. James had the same violet eyes as his uncle, and he babbled about horses nonstop. Rafe hardly even minded when the lad smeared an unidentified substance on his lapel.

“Admit it,” his stepmother said as she made the rounds in the drawing room, while the brood waited to be called to dinner.

“Admit what, madam?” he asked, still nodding to James who prattled on.

“You love children.”

“I do,” he agreed. “I love to send them home with their parents, preferably far, far away.”

She thumped him lightly on the head, an action that caused Sophia to giggle.

“Ouch!” she scolded. “No, no, no!”

“That’s right,” Lady Haddington said. “No hitting. Ouch!”

“And what was that for?” Rafe asked.

“Because I don’t believe a word you say, dear boy. I think, deep down, you want children of your own.” She scooped up her youngest grandchild and kissed her cheeks, making the little girl shriek with laughter. Rafe winced.

“Yes, why wouldn’t I want to surround myself with squealing children rather than beautiful actresses or a talented opera singer?”

His mother sighed. “One day you will have to settle down and marry.”

Rafe looked shocked. “Why?” He gestured to the overflowing drawing room. “Surely the family line is secure without my assistance. Presumably that is why there was no objection when I joined the army to fight against Napoleon. You could afford to lose a son or two with the heir and spare safely at home.”

“We would never wish to lose you, dear boy,” his stepmother said. “Then we would have no one to read about in the gossip section of the papers.”

“Speaking of which,” his sister Mary said, leaning over to intrude in their conversation. “I read you are smitten with a young Frenchwoman in Town.”

Rafe wished if his sister was determined to stick her nose into his business—something she had been doing since he was born—that she would at least keep the information to herself. Either that or blackmail him with it as she had when they were children. “Well, you know the papers are full of lies,” Rafe said easily. “I smitten with a Frenchwoman? What rubbish.”

“Is it?” his stepmother asked. “Whatever gave the papers that idea, Mary?”

“Apparently, Rafe begged an introduction to the lady at a salon a few days ago.”

His stepmother’s brows rose.

“And then he called on her at home.”

His stepmother’s brows reached new heights.

“With flowers!”

“Aha!” Rafe pointed at Mary. “Lies, I tell you. There were no flowers. None.”

“But you called on her,” Mary accused. “Why would you do that if you were not interested in her? Romantically interested.”

Rosamund and Helen, always with an ear tuned for gossip, moved closer.