Scandal in Spring (Wallflowers #4)(22)

Both Annabelle’s and Evie’s eyes widened.

“The same Mr. Swift you described as a bag of b-bones?” Evie asked.

“The one you said was about as exciting as a dish of wilted spinach?” Annabelle added.

Lillian’s frown deepened into an outright scowl. Ripping her attention from Swift, she dropped a lump of sugar in her tea. “I suppose he may not be quite as hideous as I described,” she allowed. “But don’t let his appearance deceive you. Once you are acquainted with the inner man, it will change your impression of the outer one.”

“I th-think there are quite a few ladies who would like to become acquainted with any part of him,” Evie observed, causing Annabelle to snicker into her teacup.

Daisy threw a quick glance over her shoulder and saw it was true. Ladies were fluttering, giggling, extending soft white hands to be taken and pressed.

“All this fuss just because he’s American and therefore a novelty,” Lillian muttered. “If any of my brothers were here, those ladies would forget all about Mr. Swift.”

Although Daisy would have liked to agree, she was fairly certain that their brothers would not have the same effect as Mr. Swift. For all that they were heirs to a great fortune, the Bowman brothers did not have Swift’s carefully cultivated social finesse.

“He’s looking over here,” Annabelle reported. Anxiety lent subtle tension to her posture. “He’s frowning, along with everyone else. The baby is making too much of a fuss. I’ll take her outside and—”

“Do not take her anywhere,” Lillian commanded. “This is my home, and you’re my friend, and anyone who doesn’t care for the baby’s noise is welcome to leave at once.”

“He’s coming this way,” Evie whispered. “Hush.”

Daisy stared steadily into her tea, tension coiling in her muscles.

Swift came to the table and bowed politely. “My lady,” he said to Lillian, “what a pleasure it is to see you again. May I offer my renewed congratulations on your marriage to Lord Westcliff, and…” He hesitated, for although Lillian was obviously pregnant, it would be impolite to refer to her condition. “…you are looking quite well,” he finished.

“I’m the size of a barn,” Lillian said flatly, puncturing his attempt at diplomacy.

Swift’s mouth firmed as if he was fighting to suppress a grin. “Not at all,” he said mildly, and glanced at Annabelle and Evie. They all waited for Lillian to make the introductions.

Lillian complied grudgingly. “This is Mr. Swift,” she muttered, waving her hand in his direction. “Mrs. Simon Hunt and Lady St. Vincent.”

Swift bent deftly over Annabelle’s hand. He would have done the same for Evie except she was holding the baby. Isabelle’s grunts and whimpers were escalating and would soon become a full-out wail unless something was done about it.

“That is my daughter Isabelle,” Annabelle said apologetically. “She’s teething.”

That should get rid of him quickly, Daisy thought. Men were terrified of crying babies.

“Ah.” Swift reached into his coat and rummaged through a rattling collection of articles. What on earth did he have in there? She watched as he pulled out his pen-knife, a bit of fishing line and a clean white handkerchief.

“Mr. Swift, what are you doing?” Evie asked with a quizzical smile.

“Improvising something.” He spooned some crushed ice into the center of the handkerchief, gathered the fabric tightly around it, and tied it off with fishing line. After replacing the knife in his pocket, he reached for the baby without one trace of self-consciusness.

Wide-eyed, Evie surrendered the infant. The four women watched in astonishment as Swift took Isabelle against his shoulder with practiced ease. He gave the baby the ice-filled handkerchief, which she proceeded to gnaw madly even as she continued to cry.

Seeming oblivious to the fascinated stares of everyone in the room, Swift wandered to the window and murmured softly to the baby. It appeared he was telling her a story of some kind. After a minute or two the child quieted.

When Swift returned to the table Isabelle was half-drowsing and sighing, her mouth clamped firmly on the makeshift ice pouch.

“Oh, Mr. Swift,” Annabelle said gratefully, taking the baby back in her arms, “how clever of you! Thank you.”

“What were you saying to her?” Lillian demanded.

He glanced at her and replied blandly, “I thought I would distract her long enough for the ice to numb her gums. So I gave her a detailed explanation of the Buttonwood agreement of 1792.”

Daisy spoke to him for the first time. “What was that?”

Swift glanced at her then, his face smooth and polite, and for a second Daisy half-believed that she had dreamed the events of that morning. But her skin and nerves still retained the sensation of him, the hard imprint of his body.

“The Buttonwood agreement led to the formation of the New York Stock and Exchange Board,” Swift said. “I thought I was quite informative, but it seemed Miss Isabelle lost interest when I started on the fee-structuring compromise.”

“I see,” Daisy said. “You bored the poor baby to sleep.”

“You should hear my account of the imbalance of market forces leading to the crash of ‘37,” Swift said. “I’ve been told it’s better than laudanum.”