She was a menace; God only knew what potential dangers might have lurked.
“It occurs to me.” He paused until, alerted by the cool steel in his tone, she glanced at him; he caught her eyes. “That your brother clearly fails to exercise sufficient authority, let alone control, over you. Being let out of a carriage in Jermyn Street late at night, rushing up to me wielding a cosh—you had no idea what might have happened. Someone might have seen you, and rushed to my assistance—Imight have seen you sooner and struck out with my cane.” The thought made him feel ill. He scowled at her. “Your brother has no business letting you run amok.”
She studied his eyes, then humphed and looked ahead. “Rubbish. My plan worked perfectly well. And as for Luc—he’s the very best of brothers. Even if he is sometimes priggish and stupidly overprotective. He’s always insisted that we could go our own ways, make our own decisions on how to live our lives. He’s allowed us to—even encouraged us to—make our own choices, and because of that you are not allowed to say so much as one word against him.”
He eyed the tip of her nose, which had risen significantly higher; he continued to frown. “That’s a…rather unconventional attitude. I’ve met Luc. He doesn’t seem the sort to be so lenient.”
“You mean he’s the sort who ought to have locked his four sisters in some tower—or at least confined us to Calverton Chase—to be allowed out only after our weddings?”
“To attend your weddings, but not before. Something along those lines.”
She smiled. “I daresay he would have been like that—you’re correct in thinking that’s more his true nature—but Luc himself was almost forced to marry to rescue the family fortunes years ago. He didn’t—he couldn’t—so he worked like the devil at finances and rescued us that way, and then Amelia proposed to him and he’d always wanted to marry her, so everything turned out perfectly in the end, but only because he stuck to his guns and did what he felt he should, not what society thought he ought.”
Barnaby’s frown remained. “Don’t you mean he proposed to Amelia?”
“No. She proposed.” They walked on a few paces, then she added, breaking into his bemusement, “If you must know, that was where I got the idea of rescuing you on your doorstep in order to end in your bedroom with you, alone. Amelia waylaid Luc one night as he was coming home.”
He stared at her. “Did she hit him with a cosh, too?”
She shook her head. “She didn’t have to. Luc was five sheets to the wind at the time, after celebrating freeing the family from debt.”
“Three sheets.”
“What?”
“It’s three sheets to the wind.” Looking ahead, he paced on. “That’s the saying.”
“I know. But Luc was definitely five sheets, or so Amelia says. He collapsed at her feet.”
Barnaby decided he now knew more than he needed to about Luc and his wife. Yet the man he knew as Viscount Calverton…had as sharp and shrewd a brain…as his sister. And according to Penelope, who could be trusted to know the truth, Luc had always wanted to marry Amelia. So when Amelia had proposed…
Calverton, Barnaby decided, was a lucky dog.
Not having to go down on bended knee and beg, not even metaphorically.
Indeed…now he thought of it, having a lady propose marriage had a great deal to recommend it—specifically and importantly because it excused the gentleman involved from having to declare his lovelorn state.
The more he considered that, the more he saw it as a highly significant, indeed strategic, benefit—especially if the lady involved was Penelope.
As they left Berkeley Square and turned into Mount Street, he glanced at her face—serene, confident, the face of a lady who knew what she wanted and, as she’d had demonstrated on several occasions, that night being the most recent, wasn’t in the least reluctant to act to satisfy her needs.
Recalling his earlier assessment of where they now were, and where he wanted them to be, as, fingers tightening about her elbow, he turned with her up the Calverton House steps, it seemed that, courtesy of her most recent plan, he’d just discovered the very best way to realize his ultimate goal.
“Thank you, Mrs. Epps. I’ll let my da know.” With a smile, Griselda disengaged from the old lady who’d claimed her attention to ask about her widowed father.
Playing his part, Stokes grunted—a universal male “about time” sound—cast Mrs. Epps a frowning nod, and hand locked about Griselda’s elbow, hauled her away.
Five paces on, Griselda smiled. “Thank you. I thought I’d never get free.”
“So did I.” Continuing to frown, Stokes scanned the street along which they were walking. Although the original cobbled width was reasonable, the houses had encroached in myriad ways, deep overhangs above, enclosed and extended porches at street level; with the crates and boxes piled outside various abodes, the route was now little more than a winding passage. “You’re sure it’s this way?”
Griselda threw him another of her amused glances. “Yes, I am.” Looking ahead, she added, “It’s not that long ago that I used to live in the area.”
He snorted. “It has to be at least…ten years.”
Her smile grew. “How tactful of you. It’s sixteen. I left at fifteen to start my apprenticeship, but I’ve visited often enough so I’ve never completely lost touch—let alone lost my sense of direction.”
Stokes humphed; just as well—in the close, winding streets, with the smog above blocking the sun, he was having difficulty knowing which way was which. But he’d finally learned her age—fifteen plus sixteen equaled thirty-one—a few years older than he’d thought her. Which was excellent, given he was thirty-nine.
