Of course, it didn’t hurt that he was such a treat to look at. Jonathan thought the man a “bounder,” and though she wasn’t certain just what that British term meant, it was clear her guardian hadn’t intended it to be a compliment. But regardless of what Jonathan thought of it, Marjorie was as happy as the next girl to bask in the attentions of a man with flashing dark eyes, a dazzling smile, and impeccable manners.
Sadly, such delights never lasted as long as one might wish. The dessert course had just been cleared away when the men began rising to depart for the smoking room, and Marjorie found her guardian at her elbow, hovering like a black cloud about to dump rain on a picnic. Even worse, he had company.
“Miss McGann,” he said, gesturing to the gray-haired Englishwoman by his side as Marjorie and her companions stood up. “The Countess of Stansbury has expressed the desire to make your acquaintance.”
“Lady Stansbury,” she murmured, glancing at Jonathan as she offered a curtsy. “You two know each other?”
“We didn’t, but then we found ourselves seated side by side at dinner,” the countess explained, “and discovered we have acquaintances in common. The Duke and Duchess of Torquil are my neighbors in Hampshire. I also know Mr. Deverill’s other sister, Lady Galbraith, and their grandmother, too. So, Mr. Deverill and I were able to have a most pleasant chat over dinner. Baroness,” she added coolly, giving the woman beside Marjorie a brief nod before turning to the count. “De la Rosa,” she greeted him, her manner growing even colder. “I thought you were still on the Riviera.”
He bowed. “I had a fancy to see New York, Lady Stansbury. Now, I go to London.”
“Indeed? How lovely.” With that polite, dismissive remark, she returned her attention to Marjorie. “Miss McGann, please allow me to offer you my sympathies on the death of your father.”
Without warning, a lump formed in Marjorie’s throat, a reaction she didn’t understand at all, and she forced herself to say something. “Thank you, Lady Stansbury.”
“I was devastated to learn of your situation.”
“My situation?”
“Why, yes. Losing your only relation, going into mourning...” She paused, one gray eyebrow lifting in well-bred censure as she glanced over Marjorie’s gown. “This must be such a difficult time for you. Not, I fear, a good time to be without help and guidance.”
The one difficulty with her situation as far as she could see was her interfering guardian, but Marjorie didn’t say so. “Thank you, ma’am,” she murmured, “but I’m managing well enough.”
“Of course you are. But Miss McGann, let me reassure you that you are not alone in this awful time.”
“That is true,” Baroness Vasiliev put in. “Dear Marjorie has me to look out for her.”
“Yes,” Lady Stansbury drawled, managing to insert a wealth of skepticism into the word. “Quite so. But Mr. Deverill has asked for my assistance as well.”
Marjorie stiffened in alarm. “He has?”
“Yes, indeed. I have many friends aboard, and we shall see to it that you are chaperoned at all times.” She beamed complacently at Marjorie. “By the time our voyage is over, we shall be the best of friends, I’m sure.”
Oh, that impossible man.
“How nice,” she said, forcing a happy note into her voice even as she turned to give Jonathan a scathing glance over her shoulder.
It was wasted on him, however, for he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking at Lady Stansbury, but there was a tiny smile curving the edges of his mouth that told her he knew quite well how she felt at this moment.
“Forgive me, ladies,” he said with a bow, “but with Marjorie in your capable hands, I shall adjourn with the other gentlemen to the smoking room for a glass of port. Count? Shall you join me?”
De la Rosa shook his head. “No, thank you. I do not care for port. I prefer to remain with the ladies.”
“Of course you do,” Jonathan murmured, and it struck Marjorie with force just how accomplished the British were at making the most innocuous words sound like an insult.
A provoking smile still hovering on his lips, Jonathan bowed and turned away to join the other men filing up the grand staircase to head for the smoking room.
Marjorie watched him go through narrowed eyes, hoping he could feel the daggerlike stare she was giving his back, but somehow, she doubted it. Daggers couldn’t penetrate granite rock.
All in all, Jonathan was satisfied with his arrangements. Lady Stansbury had been sympathetic over his partner’s death, appalled that the girl had no one but Baroness Vasiliev to chaperone her until they reached London, and happy to tell him just how inappropriate the other woman was as chaperone for an impressionable young woman.
“Charity ball, my eye,” the countess had said with a disdainful sniff. “She and her friends intended to pocket most of that money for themselves, Mr. Deverill, don’t tell me otherwise.”
Jonathan, who’d already formed a similar theory about the incident the baroness had related, had possessed no desire to contradict her. Instead, he’d expressed the proper amount of astonishment at the countess’s information, concluded with sad resignation that the baroness’s connection to his sister the duchess must have been exaggerated, and expressed his abject shame at having been deceived.
Lady Stansbury had forgiven him for his lapse as a guardian. As a mere man, he’d been told, he couldn’t be expected to watch over a young lady, especially not one who’d been subjected to American notions of good society. Their dinner together had concluded quite satisfactorily, and now, with Marjorie in the care of the right sort of chaperone and a glass of excellent vintage port at his elbow, Jonathan began to feel his worries were at bay.
That thought had barely floated across his mind before a flash of scarlet caught his eye, and Jonathan looked up to find Baroness Vasiliev passing the open doorway of the smoking room, her steps hurried as she walked along the promenade deck.
