A Gamble on Love (4 page)

But, first . . . a diversion.

Mr. Saunders sat forward in his chair and
made an elaborate inspection of the walls of Thomas’s spacious
office, a well-appointed suite of rooms in a building close by the
Royal Exchange. “You’ve acquired another Turner, I see.”

“
A good investment,” Mr. Lanning
returned shortly, as he swirled his signature with a bold hand at
the bottom of a long piece of parchment.

“
Can’t say as I understand what you see
in his work. It’s like someone draped a
houri
’s veil over a perfectly good landscape. Or
like a mist came down, obscuring all the good parts.” Charles shook
his head. “Take my word for it, Thomas, in twenty years’ time they
won’t be worth ha’penny on the pound.”

“
If you have nothing more to say,
Charles, you may leave.”

“
Don’t be a nodcock, Thomas. This is
important!”

Slowly, Thomas Lanning rose to his full
six feet, one inch. He placed his large hands flat on top of his
desk and leaned down to glare at his friend. “I am a man of the
City,” he declared, biting out each word as if they were bullets.
“I do not
want
a country
house. I do not
need
a country
house. And, most particularly, I do not need an heiress who is such
an antidote she cannot find a husband.”

“
Sir Gilbert swears to me she is not an
antidote,” Charles protested. “Her mother was ill for some time
before she passed on, and then her father, so she was unable to
make her come-out—”

“
No! Stop nattering, Charles. I won’t
have her.”

“
Her grandfather was a marquess. Old
Huntsham. Fine family.” Mr. Saunders was growing
desperate.

“
If I wanted a wife, there is no lack
of candidates. I scarcely need you to play whoremonger.”

Charles Saunders shot up out of his chair.
Though not as tall as his friend and employer, he still managed to
direct a lightning bolt of anger straight into Thomas’s stormy gray
eyes. “Miss Trevor is a lady of spotless character, with some of
the finest bloodlines in England. Her estate is considered a
gem—well-cared for, productive. You have no call to insult her . .
. or my judgment.”

Thomas subsided into his chair, waving
Charles back into his as well. Idly, he tapped a finger on the
papers he had just signed, while he reined in his temper. “I have
heard all your arguments, Charles, but—for the last time—I have no
interest in marriage.”

“
You didn’t let me get as far as
why
Miss Trevor is in immediate need
of a husband.” Mr. Lanning drew a harsh breath, which subsided into
a resigned wave of his hand. “She had two guardians, you see,” Mr.
Saunders began, “but one—Marcus Yelverton—passed on quite
unexpectedly. Dropped dead at an Assembly, straight in the middle
of a country dance. So now Miss Trevor and all that goes with her
are under the control of her uncle, Lord Hubert Trevor, who is not
about to let such a treasure slip through his fingers. He’s
pressing her to marry his son Twyford—”

But Thomas wasn’t listening. “Yelverton?
Marcus Yelverton, the MP? Lives somewhere between Maidstone and
Tunbridge Wells?”

“
That’s the one.”

Thomas steepled his hands, his lips twitched
into a faint smile. “Your genius is usually infallible, Charles,
but in this instance I had begun to think you fit for Bedlam.” Mr.
Lanning’s smile broadened into a feral grin. “But you have redeemed
yourself. You may tell Miss Trevor’s solicitor that I will be
delighted to meet with her at her convenience.”

Of course
.
Silently, Charles swore at himself. What an idiot he had been to
think that a wealthy heiress with excellent bloodlines and a fine
estate would be of interest to Thomas Lanning. His friend’s
ambitions ran much higher than those of ordinary men. Thomas
already had wealth. It was power he craved.

The Pevensey Park ladies waited. They
shopped, waited, strolled through Hyde Park, and waited. Miss
Trevor’s digestion reached the point of revolt. She could hear
generations of noble ancestors hissing furiously in her ears.

Late on their third day in London, the
summons came.

And now the fateful moment was at hand. Miss
Trevor was armored in the best half-mourning gown a London modiste
had hastily remodeled to fit her petite client, whose golden
guineas took precedence over the reluctant payments offered by the
countess for whom the dress had been intended. Of lavender
lustring, with hem and matching spencer piped in black, it was far
more flattering than Miss Trevor’s previous mourning gowns. Her
lustrous dark hair was piled high on her head. Pearl drops with a
lavender cast depended from her ears. Leather slippers, dyed to
match her gown, adorned her small feet. She was, in short, as ready
as a young woman could be to interview a possible candidate for the
position of husband.

Sir Gilbert, wishing to give Miss Trevor the
advantage, requested that she arrive at his office early, so she
might be on hand to greet the proposed suitor for her hand. Much as
if she were interviewing a prospective butler, sniffed Miss
Aldershot. But both ladies were forced to conclude that Sir
Gilbert’s suggestion had merit. Now, however, Relia was sorry. For
she had been twenty minutes early, and the miserable Cit was late.
Late to a meeting so vital to his future! Miss Aurelia Trevor could
not, in fact, imagine what had made her accept Sir Gilbert’s
suggestion. Marry a Cit? A man her friends and neighbors would
scorn. A vulgarian who actually had to earn his keep. A man of no
land, no family, a mediocre education . . .

Good Lord, what if he truly
smelled of the shop?
For how Lord Hanley could say the
country smelled when London was positively
rank
with odors, Aurelia completely failed to
understand. What if Thomas Lanning were one of those self-made men
who had pulled himself up out of the coal mines, the textile
factories, the merchant fleet, or a
butcher
shop
? What if he wore a moleskin waistcoat
or—horrors!—what if his accent was simply
impossible
?

The office door opened. One of Sir Gilbert’s
clerks announced, “Mr. Thomas Lanning.”

What had she done? Relia had to call on every
ounce of family fortitude before she could force her eyes to
look.

Dear God, here was a
man
. A man who made Viscount Hanley
look like the shallow boy he was. A man who caused her toes to
curl, her stomach to feel as if she had swallowed a swarm of
butterflies. A man who awakened parts of her she had not known
existed.

Thomas Lanning stood, slightly
slouched, as if refusing to display himself to full advantage for
the ladies’ delectation. Yet it was clear he was tall, impeccably
dressed, without any of the excesses found in young men of
the
ton
. His warm brown hair
was uncompromisingly short, allowing only a slight wave to dangle
toward his ears. Gray eyes, veiled at the moment, looked
indifferently down from a face so much stronger than Lord Hanley’s
that it nearly took Relia’s breath away. Handsome, yes, but only if
one cared for a man of granite.

Yet Thomas Lanning was the stuff of dreams.
Everything a girl might desire.

Or nothing. Relia could not imagine this man
giving up control of anything.

Somehow the introductions were over, Mr.
Lanning seated in a chair across the table from Miss Trevor. Sir
Gilbert, looking vastly pleased, and perhaps a trifle sly, bowed
himself out. Miss Aldershot promptly effaced herself to a chair in
the farthest corner of the imposing conference room, leaving Miss
Trevor and Mr. Lanning to gaze at each other in open, and slightly
hostile, assessment.

Young, so
young
, Thomas thought. Too young to be entering into a
hard-headed marriage of convenience. And lovely. Surprisingly so.
Petite. She would scarcely reach his shoulder. And arrogant as a
duchess, by God. The chit was examining him with narrowed eyes and
considerable skepticism, as if she had fully expected someone who
had just crawled up out of the gutter. Did she think he had made
his fortune selling pasties from a barrow?

Thomas, nobody’s fool, had made a condition
for his attendance at this most unusual confrontation. Miss Trevor
would be told only what she needed to know. Mr. Lanning was a Cit
of acceptable fortune with no country estate. His business
interests were in London, where he could be expected to spend a
goodly portion of his time. At this preliminary, and highly shaky,
stage of their negotiations, this was quite enough information for
Miss Aurelia Trevor.

The silence was becoming oppressive. Mr.
Lanning leaned back in his chair, stretched out his long legs
beneath the conference table and drawled, “I understand you are in
need of a dragonslayer, Miss Trevor.”

Drat the man!
She should have spoken first, of course. It was she, Aurelia
Trevor, who had a position, however unorthodox, to offer. She was
the employer; he, the supplicant.

“
If I had control of my finances,”
Aurelia informed Mr. Lanning in glacial tones, “I would not need a
dragonslayer.” Mr. Lanning examined her with such leisurely
impertinence, Aurelia felt her skin begin to heat. Desperately, she
hoped she was not blushing.

“
You are what—seventeen?” he
inquired.

“
Twenty!”

“
Ah!”

To Aurelia, Thomas Lanning’s raised eyebrow
was as good as a red flag to a bull. “I reach my majority in a
week’s time,” she declared from between clenched teeth, “but little
good it will do me without the funds to run the estate. “If I were
a boy—”

“
If you were a boy, you would still
have a guardian, and marriage would not be the least bit of
help.”

True. But she would never acknowledge it.

Aurelia forced herself to examine Mr.
Lanning with the same leisurely intensity he had turned on her. But
she was a newcomer to the game. Her fingers and toes seemed to
freeze into ice, while her insides swirled into scorching flames.
Her mind threatened to panic. She had trusted Sir Gilbert to find a
man who met all her qualifications. (Well . . . possibly she had
had a few qualms.) But
this
.
. . this confident Cit with his almost insolent manner . . . this
too-perfect imitation of a London gentleman, with an accent as
pure, if perhaps more precise, than Aurelia’s own . . . No, no, no!
This was not at all what she had imagined.

He was the epitome of every woman’s
dreams.

He was terrifying.

And he was laughing at her. From the lofty
height of male superiority and what must be close to ten more years
on earth, this Cit—beneath his bland, maddeningly quizzical
façade—was amused. Relia’s temper and the Trevor family pride
surged through her, sweeping away both maidenly fears and female
flutterings. She was Miss Aurelia Trevor of Pevensey Park, Kent,
and she had a task to complete. A husband to find. Who was Mr.
Thomas Lanning to find her amusing? His only advantage was that
while she might find this experience unique, Mr. Lanning must be
quite accustomed to offering his services for hire!

Miss Trevor squared her shoulders,
folded her hands on the shining surface of the conference table.
“Pevensey Park comprises some five thousand acres,” she informed
him. “In addition to a fine park, we grow wheat and hops. Our sheep
are the finest merinos. Our dairy farm, in addition to fulfilling
our own needs, supplies milk to much of Tunbridge Wells. Most of
the produce from our market gardens—vegetables, fruit, and
flowers—goes all the way to London.” Miss Trevor looked Mr. Lanning
straight in the eye. “Since Pevensey Park is a
business
—though most landowners eschew such a
title—I am willing to consider a man of business as
my—ah—dragonslayer.”

With satisfaction, Aurelia noted that, as she
talked, a quiver of emotion had shaken Mr. Lanning’s bland
expression. He had not known Pevensey Park was one of the most
profitable estates in England, she was sure of it. And no man was
so wealthy, he was not attracted by the thought of augmenting his
assets.

Dear God in heaven!
With something akin to horror, Aurelia recognized what she
had done. In her mind, she had already chosen him. This one would
do.

Thomas Lanning. When just looking at him
caused her heart to pound, her stomach to churn—

The women of Pevensey Park were made of
sterner stuff!

“
You will, of course, wish to visit the
Park,” Aurelia announced, “to make certain I have not painted too
rosy a portrait. That is”—she broke off, mortified by her possible
misinterpretation of his silence—“that is, if you have any interest
in proceeding with a possible—ah—contract.”

Brave girl!
Almost, Thomas applauded. There were men of forty and fifty
who quaked in their boots at thought of negotiations with Thomas
Lanning. But did she truly have any idea what she was doing? Any
thoughts beyond her precious Pevensey Park? Had she considered what
marriage would mean? Did she think him a tame tabby to lie down and
purr for the sake of an occasional pet?

Had she thought as far as children? And how
they were made?

He doubted it.

From the corner of the room Thomas heard a
slight sound. The companion—he’d forgotten all about her. Had that
been a sob or a prayer? For surely she, too, recognized this was
the crucial moment. Would he go to Pevensey Park, or would he get
up, say, “Thank you for considering me, Miss Trevor,” and walk out
of her life forever?