A Man without a Mistress (The Penningtons Book 2) Page 5

  With a huff of frustration, Sibilla half rose from her crouch. Aunt Allyne’s reticule was nowhere in sight. Glancing over her shoulder to ensure none of the gentlemen were looking in her direction, she scampered back to the dining room door.

  When she put a hand down to help her rise, though, instead of soft carpeting, her fingers lit on the smooth, polished surface of a man’s evening slipper. A blush, half embarrassment, half amusement, suffused her face. She hoped the footman would not give her away.

  But when her head tilted upward, it wasn’t a footman or other manservant whom she found. Instead, her gaze was captured by eyes of the deepest blue, dark and unsettled as a stormy winter sea. Familiar eyes, she realized with a stifled gasp—the man from the park, the one who had pulled her from her horse and insulted her so abominably. He hadn’t been present at dinner. What could a man of his ilk be doing at Lord Milne’s?

  “I wonder if the reverend intended that women also be given the right to marry more than one man?” he asked in a quiet voice as he crouched down beside her. “Surely, the incorrigible need for variety extends to the female sex? Women are far more libidinous than men, or so I have always heard . . .”

  Before she could reply, she felt his hand, bare, warm, grasp hers. He stood, pulling her to her feet, as a blush of awareness warmed her fingers. She dropped his hand, unnerved, and stepped into the passageway. Why had she not put her gloves back on after removing from table?

  He stood taller than she remembered, and slimmer, though large enough to shield her from the gentlemen in the dining room. Realizing she was staring, Sibilla jerked her own eyes free from his, only to find them flying to his other features—a thin blade of a nose, nostrils slightly flared, as if scenting for danger; high, narrow cheekbones; a shock of midnight hair in danger of tumbling into short, spiked lashes. Only the shape of one eyebrow, curved at both ends like a tilde, hinted that humor might occasionally lighten that sober countenance.

  “Are you unfamiliar with Reverend Madan’s work, then?” Sibilla whispered, determined not to be intimidated. “Perhaps that gentleman would lend you a copy of the relevant volume, so that you might satisfy your curiosity on the subject.”

  “You have no opinion on the topic yourself, then?” the man asked, as coolly as if they were discussing a performance of the latest opera rather than mankind’s sexual proclivities.

  “Certainly I have an opinion. Though my aunt frequently tells me that a lady’s opinions on political matters are unlikely to be of interest to a gentleman.”

  “The question of whether a man or a woman is more libidinous is a political one? In what regard?” he asked, his eyes crinkling with curiosity.

  “In too many ways to number. But if you would like a specific example, then I would point to the discussion in which the gentlemen are currently engaged, on the subject of suppressing harlotry. If the female of the species is more driven by libidinous desires, then laws regulating streetwalkers would be the most efficacious route to dampening the trade. But if the male’s drives are more at fault, then the laws should be reframed to regulate male, rather than female, behavior.”

  “What if both are driven by such desires?” the man asked. “Should both the woman who prostitutes herself and the man who buys her wares be subject to arrest?”

  “Should not the focus still be on the man, as he is the one with the means? Women would not prostitute themselves if there were no financial gain to be had from the transaction. Do you not think—”

  Sibilla stopped abruptly, realizing that the sounds of conversation from the dining room had grown silent as their voices had risen. Viscount Dulcie stood by her interlocutor’s side, a curious expression playing about his handsome features.

  “You are kind to come and retrieve your aunt’s reticule, Miss Pennington,” he said, holding out the article in question. “May I escort you back to the drawing room?” Cutting a quick look at the man beside him, Dulcie offered his arm with a gracious nod.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she replied. The flush that had faded during her sparring with the dark-haired man burned again across her cheeks. “Sir.” She nodded to him before turning to take the viscount’s arm.

  She struggled to slow her pace to Dulcie’s, quashing the urge to flee. Her awareness of the silence, and of the male gazes focused on her retreating back, made it surprisingly difficult. One gaze in particular seemed to burn right through her, and not the one belonging to her brother. No, the scrutiny sending prickles of awareness trailing up and down her spine belonged to the cool blue eyes of the imperturbable stranger. The first, and perhaps only, man to deem her worthy of intelligent conversation this entire evening.

  “Well, Sayre, missed dinner, did you? Really shouldn’t allow your mentor to drive you so hard, eh?” Lord Milne laughed as he clapped a friendly arm across Per’s shoulders. “Care to join the ladies, make your apologies to the countess?”

  Per gave a start, embarrassingly aware that he had been staring as if bewitched at the retreating figure of the young woman on Dulcie’s arm. Saybrook’s courtesan, at a respectable dinner party? But Dulcie had called her Miss Pennington . . .

  Per had thought to embarrass the woman with his salacious talk of multiple marriages and the libidinous nature of the sexes, to goad her into revealing her true identity. But she’d overthrown all his intentions, turning a lewd conversation into a political debate. A debate that proved her not only remarkably well-informed, but intelligent, well-spoken, and assured.

  “Bit of a shock to discover a female in the midst of that conversation,” Milne continued as they made their way to the drawing room. “A bit too forthcoming with her opinions for a political man such as yourself, but Dulcie seems to find her of interest. Still, a damned shame, when all the brains in a family end up with the girls instead of the boys.”

  Per’s eyes cut toward where Dulcie stood, doing the pretty with the woman he’d led from the room. “What family?” he asked.

  “Ah, Saybrook’s sister felt free to jabber at you even without the benefit of a proper introduction, did she? Dulcie will have to teach her to curb her tongue if she has any hopes of joining this family. But come, here is General Pittsford and his daughter, both of whom I particularly wish you to meet.”

  Per bowed and chatted politely with the general, but all his awareness remained fixed on the forward young lady in the amber-colored gown who stood across the room. Not Saybrook’s mistress, but his sister?

  Not Miss McGinnis, reformed prostitute, but Miss Pennington, the latest lady whom the earl hoped would wed his son. The gorgon on whose behalf Dulcie had wheedled Per into attending this party. No courtesan, as he had thought, nor twittering miss from the country, as Dulcie had feared, but a vibrant, passionate lady with a wit sharp enough to interest even the mercurial earl’s son.

  Per’s eyes drifted across the room to where his friend stood chatting amicably with Saybrook’s sister. The look Dulcie shot him made it all too clear that Per’s dubious charms would no longer be required.

  Lord, he had accused Miss Pennington of being a strumpet! Would she tell the earl of his offensive faux pas?

  Damnation and double damnation!

  Her hair, which he had only caught a glimpse of during their moments together in the park, proved to be a wheat-tinged blonde, with the most amazingly springy curls he had ever seen. Even cut short as it was, it seemed a mass of wild exuberance in the midst of Milne House’s staid dining room. While she debated so earnestly with him, he’d had the maddest urge to take a curl between his fingers and pull on it, then watch as it sprang at his touch. Why had she allowed him to mistake her for someone—something—she obviously was not?

  “Sir Peregrine?” Milne’s daughter, Lady Wilhelmina, offered him a teacup.

  Per shook his head and took the saucer from her. Clearly, Milne wanted him to look elsewhere for a prospective bride. To the general’s daughter? Or even, perhaps, to his own? Lady Wilhelmina was eyeing him with the thoughtful expression he had once seen her give another woman’s bonnet, as if judging both its provenance and its price.

  “My lady,” he said as the general and his daughter left to refresh their teacups. “I find myself at a disadvantage. Might I beg your assistance?”

  Dulcie’s sister smiled up at him. “Of course, Sir Peregrine.”

  “As I arrived so tardily, I find myself unacquainted with all your guests. Might you introduce me to the gentleman over by the window? The one with the exquisitely tailored coat?” He did not mention the lady standing beside him, the true object of his inquiry.

  “Viscount Saybrook?” Lady Wilhelmina asked. “He resembles his late father so, I’m surprised you didn’t realize who he is. But he has not involved himself in politicking as his father did, has he? Please, allow me to make the introduction.”

  Per set down his cup and followed her across the room. How could he convey an apology to Miss Pennington without revealing his misstep to her brother?

  “Lord Saybrook, may I introduce Sir Peregrine Sayre?” Lady Wilhelmina said, touching a small hand to the viscount’s sleeve.

  Saybrook’s forehead puckered as he rose from his bow. “Ah, Sayre, was hoping to find you here tonight. Where was it we last met? The Pigeon Hole? The Two Sevens? Ah no, you’re a chum of Dulcie’s; the Club House, then—only hell lofty enough for that dandy, eh?”

  Per’s nostrils flared. Even if Saybrook had not had the poor taste to mention three of the city’s most notorious gaming hells in front of the ladies, the heavy odor of spirits that hung over him like a fog suggested he did not have complete hold over his faculties. The earl rarely served more than a glass or two of port after a meal; Saybrook must have been imbibing long before dinner. Did he not realize how people would talk if he often ventured ou
t cup-shot in polite society? How disappointing to find the new viscount so different from his quick-witted, decorous father, one of the most accomplished political opponents against whom Per had ever strategized.

  “Sir Peregrine and my father work together quite closely on matters in Parliament,” Lady Wilhelmina said, breaking the awkward silence. Her tone, one designed to quell, suggested that she understood the impropriety of Saybrook’s words, if not their specific meaning. But Per had little attention to spare for the lady’s displeasure, for it was now Miss Pennington’s turn to receive his bow.

  “Sir Peregrine, how pleasant to make your acquaintance,” she said with elegant restraint, as if their meeting in Hyde Park and their conversation in the Milne dining room had never taken place. “You are in Parliament? In the Commons?”

  “Sibilla, really. Must we ever be speaking of politics? Men want to get away from the cares of the day, not hash them up all over again over tea,” Saybrook chided.

  “Perhaps if you did anything during the day that would give you such cares, I’d be more inclined to help you ease them away,” his sister replied with the same withering scorn that had animated her during their encounter in the park. Yet the tentative, tender hand she placed on her brother’s arm suggested she felt something more. Could she care for him, even though he appeared to be little better than a wastrel?

  “Unlike my brother, however, Sir Peregrine must be given the benefit of the doubt.” Miss Pennington gave him a considering look. “In fact, he seems just the sort to take on the cares of the world. Are you like a knight of old, sir, in constant search of imperiled villagers to rescue and maidens fair to succor?” She cocked her head to the side, her mouth lifting just a hint at each corner. A corkscrew curl, escaped from the bandeau that circled her head, bounced temptingly by her ear.

  “Ah, but there are so few maidens in need of rescue these days, don’t you find?” he replied, her words of repudiation in the park coming swiftly to mind.

  “I believe ladies are more in need of protection now than they were during the days of chivalry,” Lady Wilhelmina murmured. “So many carriages rushing by! So many footpads! Why, a gentlewoman can hardly walk down a public way without being accosted!”

  “Well, on some streets it’s a man who can’t walk without being importuned by a member of the other sex,” Saybrook said, glancing at his sister. Lady Wilhelmina seemed oblivious to the nuances of the viscount’s claim. But he could see by the glower Miss Pennington gave her brother that she surely understood his reference to the earlier dining room conversation.

  Per cleared his throat. “Miss Pennington, I understand from Lady Wilhelmina that you have recently suffered a loss. Please allow me to offer my condolences. Your father was reputed a fine orator, and I congratulate myself on having had the privilege of hearing him speak several times in Lords.”

  The uncomfortable pause that followed showed him that his words, intended to ease the awkwardness, only made the situation worse. Saybrook shuffled and his sister blinked, neither of them quite able to look at the other. Cursing his stupidity, he tried again.

  “And here we are, back at Parliament and politics. It seems as if we cannot escape them. Perhaps it is no surprise, given our host’s predilections. Lady Wilhelmina, what methods do you employ to ease your father’s cares when he returns after a day at Westminster?”

  “Play for him, do you not?” Saybrook said before the lady had a chance to respond. “And see, your mother calls to you from the pianoforte to do just that. I dare say we all could use something to soothe the cares of the day, even if politicking is not our pursuit of preference.”

  Per bowed as Saybrook led Milne’s daughter across the room, his mind scrambling for the most appropriate apology one might offer a lady one had mistaken for a whore.

  But Miss Pennington did not give him the chance. As soon as her brother was out of earshot, she murmured, “Might I inquire, Sir Peregrine, why you were in search of my abigail? Or is it not a topic appropriate to discuss at the home of one’s mentor?”

  “Just as appropriate as asking why you chose to adopt her identity,” Per said, taking a step closer so their words would not be overheard. Might he use her strange impersonation as a bargaining chip, to ensure she wouldn’t tell Milne of his mistake? “Why did you do it?”

  “Come, you must admit that a lady has cause for suspicion when she finds a rake asking after a dependent woman entrusted to her care.”

  “A rake? What, you thought me a danger to her virtue?”

  “Perhaps. It did seem unlikely such a man would need any proper services a lady’s maid might provide,” Miss Pennington said, the demureness of her tone only increasing the provocation of her words. “Mistaking ‘Bridget’ for a courtesan only confirmed my suspicions.”

  “When I discovered a girl whom I expected to find in respectable employment gallivanting around on a horse, bedecked in garments far above her supposed station, can you blame me for suspecting the worst?” Per asked, taken aback by the heat of his words. Why could he not bring himself to offer her his apology and be done with it?

  “If you expected to find her in respectable employment, why were you in pursuit of her? Do you commonly poach other households’ domestics?”

  “I do not poach the servants of others,” he said, his mouth tightening. “Not to see to my domestic, or any of my other, needs.”

  “Perhaps, then, your search had something to do with that mysterious Guardian Society you mentioned,” she persisted, undeterred by the hint of irritation in his voice. “Tell me, is it a group bent on the reform of public morals? Or perhaps more likely, a brothel?”

  Had he been foolish enough to mention the Guardian Society to her? “Miss Pennington, I beg you, please do not speak—”

  “Miss Pennington.” A male voice heavy with condescension interrupted before Per could finish his warning. “You had not finished telling me your opinion of the Egyptian Hall’s exhibition on Lapland when the ladies were called to remove from table. I am eager to hear whether you think it might be of interest to my younger brothers.”

  Lord James Dunster, third son of the Marquess of Tisbury, moved between them. He spared nary a word for Per, only crooked his arm in expectation toward Sibilla Pennington.

  The young lordling had been a mere schoolboy when Per had been drawn into his elder brother’s orbit. But his disdain suggested the boy knew some of the old gossip. Now that he was old enough to dabble in politics, did he think it his duty to defend the family honor by dredging up troubles best left forgotten?

  Miss Pennington glanced at Lord James, then at Per, clearly taken aback by the antipathy in the air. “But Sir Peregrine—”

  “Sir Peregrine will surely excuse you,” Dunster said, reaching out to place her hand on his arm. “He would not wish to disappoint any brother of mine, I’m certain.”

  Ah yes, the young lord knew something of the scandal, then. But not the entire story, not if he thought Per had been the disappointer, his brother the disappointee. Better to keep the boy from speaking further on the subject, particularly in front of a lady.

  He bowed his assent, a bow Dunster failed to return. Instead, he hustled Miss Pennington away as if he could not remove her quickly enough from the taint of Per’s presence.

  Per drew in a slow, steadying breath. He should be grateful to Lord James for pulling Miss Pennington away before she could badger him into revealing even more about the penitent search than he already had. But instead, he found himself worrying that Lord James’s reputation for abstemious, upright behavior might be as false as his elder brother’s had been. This Dunster had best not take up with Miss Pennington where his brother left off with Mary Catharine, or he’d be meeting the cur at dawn to put a period to his existence.

  A smooth voice by his ear interrupted his dark thoughts. “A remarkably intelligent creature, do you not think?” Viscount Dulcie, a smile of amusement playing about his lips, nudged Per with his elbow.

  “Who, Lord James?”

  “A pup still wet behind the ears?” Dulcie exclaimed. “And so impressed by his own conversation that he fails to see how tedious the rest of the company finds it? No, handsome though he may be, it’s not Dunster who catches one’s eye.”