Part 9 (1/2)
She bit back a laugh. Sometimes he was the Portuguese version of Lord Devonmont.
As he strolled to the sideboard, she took her seat and tried to ignore what he wore, but his outrageous attire was one of his few flaws. She understood that fas.h.i.+ons were different in Portugal, but really, she'd never seen such a peac.o.c.k!
Still, she could tell that a fine form lay beneath his red velvet waistcoat and green satin breeches. Fortunately his coat was brown, which helped to mitigate the vividness of the other colors, though he did wear his cravat in an elaborate and rather old-fas.h.i.+oned knot.
Unbidden, Mr. Pinter's remark about him flitted into her head: Basto is a Portuguese idiot who's too old for you and clearly trawling for some sweet young thing to nurse him in his declining years.
She scowled. Why on earth would Mr. Pinter think the man so old? Lord Basto's hair was black as night, where even Oliver's was starting to show threads of gray. She would guess him to be Oliver's age-late thirties at most. That was only fifteen years older than she, certainly not out of the realm of possibility for a husband.
She did wish he wasn't quite so hairy, though. He kept his full beard and mustache neatly trimmed, and she understood that it was quite common abroad, but no man in England wore full whiskers. The first thing she'd do if they married was persuade him to shave.
He sat down next to her at the table with a plate full of eggs and sausage and cast her a serious glance. ”I must apologize, my lady. I wish that I could join you here in the evenings as well, but it is very hard on the ... how do you say it ... company ... for my ailing sister.”
”Company? Oh, you mean a companion?”
He smiled gratefully. ”Yes, that is the word. The companion must speak Portuguese, and that is not so easy to find. I could only hire the one lady, and she can only come in the day.”
”Yes, I suspect there are few Englishwomen who speak Portuguese. You're lucky you found one who did.”
”I am sure that is true.” He slanted a glance at her. ”I do not dare to hope that you speak it.”
”I'm afraid not.” When he looked disappointed, she added, ”But your English is very good, so there's no need.”
His eyes twinkled. ”You are too kind, my lady. Indeed, you are the most amiable Englishwoman I have ever met.”
She laughed. The viscount was rapidly rising on her list. ”Some people don't find me amiable.” Like a certain unfeeling Bow Street Runner.
He struck a hand to his chest. ”I cannot believe that! You are such an alma brilhante ... a bright soul. How can anyone not see it?”
She grinned at him. ”They must all be blind.”
”And deaf.” He tapped his temple. ”And not very right in the head.”
”Excellent, my lord,” she said. ”You grasped that idiom quite well.”
He looked surprised by that, then smiled. ”I have to learn if I am to impress the senhora.”
She cast him a coy glance. ”And why would you want to impress me, sir?”
Picking up her hand, he pressed a kiss to it again and this time didn't release it. ”Why would I not?” His wistful expression tugged at her sympathies.
”You'd better eat your eggs before they get cold,” she said, gently withdrawing her hand.
He sighed and did as she bade. After a moment, he said, ”I understand that your father's family is foreign, like me. Is that true?”
”Yes, Papa's mother was from Tuscany.”
”So he was half-Italian. Is that why your mother married him? Because she liked foreigners?”
He said it so hopefully that Celia snorted. ”I think she liked that he was a marquess but didn't realize what that meant.”
He frowned. ”I do not understand.”
”My father was used to living how he pleased, to being fawned over as a marquess. He didn't change his behavior once he was married.”
”What do you mean?”
”He wasn't faithful to my mother. But she'd married him because she thought they were in love. So his infidelities broke her heart.”
”I see. And you know for certain that he was not faithful?”
We can meet at the hunting lodge.
No, that was too personal to speak of. ”I only know because my siblings speak of it. I don't remember anything of those years. I was too young.”
”That is good,” he said.
She glanced at him, eyebrow raised.
He cast her a searching glance. ”No child should have to witness their parent's-how did you say it?-infidelities.”
”I quite agree.” She gave him a sad smile. ”Though I'm surprised you feel that way. I a.s.sumed that being from the Continent and of a privileged cla.s.s-”
”I would approve of such behavior?” He sounded insulted.
But she persisted. ”Perhaps. Many n.o.blemen marry for money, to make sure that their estates are taken care of. Mama fancied herself in love with Papa, when all he wanted was her fortune.”
”And you fear that a man will marry you for your fortune,” he said, surprising her with his insight.
”Can you blame me? I want a man to like me for myself, not for what I can provide him.”
”That is very wise of you. And you have a right to expect it, too.” He turned pensive. ”But sometimes people want many things, not just one. Money, an amiable wife ... peace.”
Peace? What a strange choice. ”And what do you want, sir?”
As if realizing he'd revealed too much about himself, he cast her a bland smile. ”I want everything, of course. Who does not?” He patted her hand. ”But I will settle for an amiable wife.” It was as close to making a declaration of his intentions as he'd come.
So of course Mr. Pinter chose that inopportune moment to enter the breakfast room. ”And whose amiable wife are you settling for, sir?” he said in a snide tone.
His gaze dropped to the viscount's hand resting on hers, then darkened. She resisted the urge to s.n.a.t.c.h her hand free.
The viscount bristled, tightening his hand almost possessively on hers. ”Do I know you, sir?”
”Not yet. The name is Jackson Pinter.” He came to stand directly across the table and bent forward over it to offer his hand to Lord Basto, forcing the viscount to release her hand to take it. ”Some would call me Mrs. Plumtree's 'lackey,'” he added with a side glance at Celia. ”Though I work for Lord Stoneville.”
She colored, remembering the conversation they'd had a few months ago, when she'd called him that. He was clearly spoiling for a fight. No doubt he was still smarting over her pulling a pistol on him last night. ”Mr. Pinter does investigations of all kinds,” she explained. ”For money.”
Mr. Pinter's slate-gray eyes bore into her. ”Some of us cannot live on our family's fortune, my lady.”
”While some of us are very fond of biting the hand that feeds them.” If he could throw her past words at her, then she could throw back what he'd said to her months ago.