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  According to Madame du Clair, she would resemble a princess when properly dressed. She’d better. He’d paid the modiste extra to deliver them promptly. He wanted Pixie fit to accompany his sister into society soon. Her impending marriage interfered with his immediate plans for that.

  Jack lowered his gaze to her feet. Sensible shoes did not hide the curious turning of her ankles. As he watched, her feet fidgeted. He slowly, ever so curiously, raised his eyes back to her face. Fury blazed in her eyes. Jack enjoyed the gooseflesh that raced down his spine as she held his gaze.

  “Jack, are you paying me any attention?”

  Jack chuckled. “Forgive me, sister, my mind wandered onto a vexing topic.”

  Pixie’s face pinked.

  “Hmm, I was just suggesting that you should help Pixie straighten out those papers. Will you?”

  When his sister put herself out to ask him to do something, he invariably did as she bade, but on this matter he paused before answering. He wasn’t Pixie’s guardian any longer. He had no right to get involved in her financial affairs again.

  But perhaps helping her sort through this mess would convince her to trust his instincts about this marriage. Although he didn’t know this Cullen fellow, Jack doubted he could be the right man for her. Any fellow who’d let her out of his sight for longer than two seconds had no idea what he was getting himself in for. She attracted trouble.

  Although Pixie might come to resent his renewed interference in her life, he did want to know the size of the mess she and her mother had made of their finances in so short a time. Their affairs had been secure when he’d had the management of the estate. Pixie should have had a comfortable life ahead of her.

  Jack gave Virginia his most charming smile. “As long as Miss Grange has no objections, I would be happy to offer my humble assistance.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  CONSTANCE WAS THINKING of poisons. Not poisons to kill, but poisons to make the marquess very, very sick. She could not understand why he took such perverse pleasure in tormenting someone so far beneath his notice.

  She struggled not to clench her fists. Virginia would notice her anger if she conducted herself as she wanted. The term box his ears had always rung with resounding finality, and Constance longed to do precisely that to the insufferable man. Maybe she could just blacken the eyes that skimmed so insultingly over her gown.

  It wasn’t possible for everyone to be as well dressed as the Marquess of Ettington and his elegant sister. Virginia did not notice the extent of her shabbiness, but Constance was uncomfortably aware of how outdated her wardrobe had become. The new gowns were supposed to replace them, but now she had no means to pay for them. She would have to pen a note to the modiste to cancel her order. With luck, Madam had not commenced work already.

  Seeing no way out of the awkward offer, Constance turned a sunny smile on the marquess. His smug smile slipped.

  “If his lordship has the time, I’m sure I could find something for him to tally.”

  Such as the number of occasions he thought himself better than others. That could keep him busy for hours.

  Virginia rose, excused herself with an assurance she did not normally show, and made her way from the room. Left alone with the arrogant man, with only a self-effacing maid as chaperone, the silence was deafening.

  The marquess stood and held out his hand. “Shall we adjourn to the library?”

  Constance looked the impeccable marquess over as insultingly as she could, but didn’t get the response she was after. He looked pleased.

  Botheration.

  Ignoring his outstretched hand, Constance stood and preceded him from the room, grumbling under her breath at how easily he got what he wanted. His low chuckle followed her, but she ignored him, placed the box on the long reading table, and lifted the lid on the catastrophe.

  Lord Ettington edged close and unfolded the paper he held. The scent of cinnamon wafted over her again, and she struggled to ignore the impulse to inhale deeply.

  “Sweet, merciful heaven,” he said. “Did you read this?”

  “Of course I did. Do you believe me incapable?”

  “I commend your acting skills. One would think that a woman, faced with almost certain disaster, would react in some feminine fashion. Fainting springs to mind.”

  Absurd comments like that reminded her why she didn’t like him. She turned to deliver a retort, but found him untidily slumped against the table devoid of his usual satisfied expression. “I don’t faint.”

  Constance snatched the paper from his lax grip. He retaliated by dragging the box across the smooth table surface. At the loud screech, they both glanced down at the ruined wood, but the marquess dismissed the long scratches with a shrug in favor of turning out the contents of the box.

  After an hour of sorting, Constance was numb. With the notes spread thick across the dark mahogany tabletop, the scale of debt looked worse. “Where are the December bills?”

  “What is that one?” The marquess queried, squinting at the paper Constance held. “A tradesman’s bill or another gambling debt?”

  “Gambling.”

  “Just put it right in front of you.” Ettington suddenly straightened. “Good God, how can one spend eighteen shillings on a single pair of gloves when in the country?”

  “Show me that.” Constance moved to his side and scanned the bill. “Ah, I remember. They were to match a lovely gown of Mama’s. I’m surprised you didn’t object to the price of the silk stockings, not to mention the number.”

  Ettington tugged the note from her fingers slowly. “I had hoped your mother would have sent at least a few of those in your direction. I certainly couldn’t complain about that, since I’m partial to touching silk stockings.”

  Constance stared.

  The marquess clenched his jaw, and then shook his head as if tossing the comment away. He lowered his gaze to the paper as if the shocking words had never passed his lips.

  Constance was relieved, because when the marquess spoke of personal matters she had no idea how to answer. Part of her wanted to continue the discussion, the other part blushed. She hated blushing, so she retreated to the window to keep from asking him how he had gained such strong opinions.

  All afternoon, she had suffered through his highly improper comments on their expenses, but he seemed fascinated by the fashionable purchases. Constance wasn’t particularly interested in fashions. She’d had the worst time with the modiste a few days ago. Rifling through fashion plates and trying to imagine wearing such stunning creations was so hard that she had asked Virginia to approve the final choices.

  But it had been the best thing for Virginia. She had radiated with animation and purpose, almost her cheerful self again. Constance couldn’t remember what dresses she’d ordered, but she did know how much they were going to cost.

  China clattered behind her back and then boot heels tapped in her direction. She braced herself for yet another argument, but the marquess’ arm curved around her, presenting a cup of tea. The scent of cinnamon swamped her again, and she allowed herself to be lulled by the delicious smell.

  “Take a break. There are still a lot of papers to go through.”

  Constance accepted the cup and sank into the nearest chair, relieved for the distraction from her problems. Ettington joined her and they sipped tea in silence. At a loss for something to say, Constance kept her eyes on the bustling world outside the window.

  London astounded her. She’d never visited Virginia here before and, after close to a week of watching, the variety of unfamiliar sights hadn’t lost their appeal. An orange seller’s cart rolled past the townhouse, its ragged owner calling out her wares: “oranges, cheaper by the dozen, or five pence a pair”. She almost dug in her pocket for the coins.

  The marquess cleared his throat. “That is a very rude habit you have acquired. Have my features grown so fearsome that you cannot meet my gaze? I do hope you will behave better when we are out and about in society.”

 
Constance blinked at the rebuke. He knew. She turned her gaze away from London’s busy street to find him smiling at her. Smiling? What on earth was there to smile about on a day like today?

  “Much better.”

  “Do my manners really matter so much when I will be leaving, my lord?”

  “You are not leaving.”

  Constance shook her head. Of course he would demand she stay. When word circulated that the Sunderland Grange’s had pockets to let, society would think she was the marquess’ charity case. She did not think she could bear that.

  “My sister has made great progress since your arrival. I need you to extend your stay for at least a month—possibly longer.”

  “You cannot be serious. I am to be married next month.”

  Ettington set his cup aside. “About that. I fear you will have to give me further particulars about Mr. Cullen. I don’t believe we are acquainted.”

  Constance considered laughing at his mistake, but thought better of it. “Of course you know Mr. Cullen Brampton.”

  The marquess shook his head. “The details please.”

  Constance bit her lip to hold in her protest. How typical of the marquess to forget anyone without a rank to match his own. It must truly surprise him to remember her name. Although, he had forgotten the nickname he gave her. She couldn’t quite remember when he’d ceased using it either.

  She shook her head. “I was only to stay for two weeks. Virginia never gave any indication in her letters that anything was wrong with her at all.”

  Ettington shrugged. “Virginia has not been herself for a long time. I would not worry too much about the content of the letters. Please stay. She needs your company.”

  Constance glared at the unusually insistent lord, but her annoyance dimmed at his expression. He was pleading. He must truly be worried about his sister.

  “Ah, there you are, my dear,” Ettington exclaimed as Virginia rejoined them. “Did the housekeeper give you any trouble today?”

  “Heavens, yes. I don’t know how you tolerate her absent-minded ways.” Virginia’s face scrunched in irritation. “She never remembers from one day to the next that you do not like fowl. She’s always trying to slip it somewhere into the menu.”

  The marquess stretched for his teacup, eyes flickering to Constance as if to promise the discussion wasn’t over. “I’m sure you cleared the misunderstanding up. Miss Grange was just telling me of the sights she wanted to see in the coming week. It sounds as though there are a great many places she wishes to visit.”

  “Oh, what places were they?” Virginia’s voice trembled.

  Constance scrambled to think up something suitable and non-threatening to put her at ease again. “Well, I must take Falentine riding in the park soon or she’ll grow so fat from idleness that your brother will take her back. And I long to see the theatrics of Astley’s Amphitheatre.”

  “Hopefully we’ll not find you perched on one of the performing horses,” Ettington murmured softly. “You mentioned attending the Huntley Ball? Since they are part of your mother’s set, they will expect your presence for at least a short time.”

  Constance blinked. Was it too late to box his ears? She couldn’t argue with him about staying in Town in front of Virginia, and he was right about Lady Huntley’s expectations. “Mama will have written them about my stay in London. She will look forward to Lady Huntley’s letter mentioning my attendance. May we go, Virginia?”

  Constance left the decision in Virginia’s hands, but from the way her toes tapped beneath her gown, her friend did not want to agree. Constance felt wretched, but it was not right that Virginia hide from society.

  Across from her, Ettington closed his eyes while they waited on his sister’s answer.

  “I suppose we should attend,” Virginia murmured. She gave a half smile, then rose and hurried out again.

  Constance didn’t watch her exit. She was fascinated by the marquess’ reaction. He carefully moved his cup to a table and raised one hand to caress his chest. She had never witnessed the twins sharing pain before, but she was almost certain that’s what she was witnessing now.

  The way his long-fingered hand rubbed against the stark black of his waistcoat to disappear beneath the coat edge mesmerized her. His lids cracked open and the blue of his eyes flashed bright within his pale face. He caught her gaze and the misery in his pinned her in place.

  “You’re in pain?” she whispered.

  “It’s not as bad as it once was. Your influence has lessened the intensity.”

  “What is it like?” Constance asked incautiously.

  He dropped his gaze. “Like nothing I can explain.”

  Ettington stood, gestured for servants hovering at the door to clear away the tea, and then resumed his chair with the debts laid out before him.

  Uncertain of what to say next, Constance waited until the maid removed the tea things. All was quiet except for the scratching of Ettington’s quill.

  “I apologize. It’s none of my business.”

  ~ * ~

  Jack lifted his pen from the page and thought of a way to respond. Being twins meant sharing more than most siblings—they experienced the other’s pain, and other sharp emotions, too.

  The week he had spent avoiding the house had done him some good and given him a brief reprieve from Virginia. Pixie, however, had no idea of the strain Virginia’s distress caused him.

  But Jack needed her to stay in London. “Have you ever read a particularly gripping novel? A story that made your blood fire, your soul weep, and happiness shake you from your ennui? It is similar to that experience without the ability to close the book and walk away.”

  Jack didn’t bother to turn when Pixie gasped. She had a vivid imagination and a great love of popular novels, judging from the bills before him. She would understand.

  The good thing about sharing his concerns with Pixie was that she would never betray them. She would never risk hurting his sister.

  “So you will stay?”

  Pixie sighed and approached him. “As much as I wish to be of help, I am to wed next month.”

  Not if he could help it. “I am so happy you broached that subject again. Virginia needs you. I cannot even convince her to ride in Hyde Park without me as she used to. I cannot be everywhere with her and society already knows of you as my ward. They will accept your longer presence without a ripple of interest.”

  Constance raised a hand to her throat. “But I am not your ward.”

  “No,” he admitted. “But the assumption will lessen speculation about your longer stay. Together, we can watch over Virginia until she has fully recovered, and prod her to do the things society expects.”

  Jack’s plan made perfect sense from his perspective. How her intended would feel about the delay was quite another matter. With luck, the blighter would go away.

  “Of course I can stay,” Pixie agreed. “But Mama—”

  “Should stop associating with Lord Clerkenwell,” Jack finished, squinting at the note in front of him and changing the subject. Relief that he had succeeded in extending Pixie’s stay for an indeterminate length of time was heady. Jack fought not to smile. She did not appear to trust him when he did.

  “How can I stop Mama from talking to her dear friend? I am not her keeper.”

  “Insulting people works for me. Perhaps you could try that?”

  Jack turned to catch her reaction. Fire burned in her eyes again. He glanced around the room and judged that there were no sharp objects nearby. There were heavy ones, but she might not be able to lift the marble bust of his father too easily. It was life sized, after all.

  “You are suggesting I insult the very people who have made Mama’s grief bearable? She was so lost after Papa died. Lord Clerkenwell and his sister were so concerned for Mama that they called every week, regardless of the weather. I take it you don’t have many friends left, my lord. You must be able to count them on one hand.”

  Pixie’s response pleased him for its accu
racy. True friends were hard to come by but easy to retain. That was the reason she was here. Lord Clerkenwell and his sister would not be his choice for close associates. “And now that her grief has gone, they will deprive her of everything else.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “But the facts are right in front of us. Most of her gambling losses are to him.” Jack indicated to the pile of papers set to the side. Pixie rushed to flick through them.

  When she slumped against the mahogany for support, Jack had to ask one more question. “Does she never win?”

  “Mama’s luck has deserted her,” Pixie whispered.

  Jack ignored the impulse to stand, to give her comfort. He didn’t think she would react well to that. “Luck has very little patience with people. She needs something more complex to occupy her time with.”

  “There is very little to do in Sunderland until the summer months. Maybe we should consider moving somewhere more exciting. Cullen says that Bath has all sorts of diversions. She might be happier there.”

  Jack frowned. “Remind me who this Brampton fellow is?”

  “Lord Clerkenwell’s heir.”

  Jack grimaced when he put a face to the name. “Ah, the sniveling pup is still nosing around, is he? I thought I had dealt with him. No, I am in earnest—you will not be marrying him. I’ll have papers drawn up for your signature today. But while a move to Bath might be good for your mother, I fear you will be bored out of your mind.”

  Pixie appeared to grow an inch taller. Her back stiffened to an alarming degree. “I can find happiness anywhere, my lord. Don’t start on about Cullen, again. He has been my close friend these past years. I won’t stand to hear a bad word spoken against him.”

  Steel had crept back into Pixie’s voice and Jack stilled at the tone. “You’ve long known my opinion of Mr. Brampton, but I am surprised to hear the young pup speak so fondly of Bath. I’m led to believe Bath is the last stop on the trip to heaven for the old and infirm. Do you wish to spend your days listening to the ailments and remedies sprouted by old gentlemen in search of their missing teeth?”