Toby halted, his expression horrified. “Saints preserve us all,” he said. And proceeded to tell Sophie the story.
“That’s iniquitous!” Sophie was incensed. “The man’s worse than a mere bounder.”
“Undoubtedly. He’s a dangerous bounder. That’s why I want to wait until Papa gets back to lay this before him. I think it would be best for all concerned if Gurnard is stopped once and for all.”
“Unquestionably,” Sophie agreed. After a moment, she added, “I don’t think it would serve any purpose to tell Clarissa. She doesn’t like the man as it is; I can’t see her doing anything rash.”
Toby nodded.
“And I really don’t think telling your mama would be a good idea.”
“Definitely not.” Toby shuddered at the thought.
“I suppose,” Sophie suggested, “we could seek professional assistance.”
“The Runners? And risk a brouhaha like they made over Lady Ashbourne’s emeralds?” Toby shook his head. “That’s not a decision I’d like to make.”
“Quite,” Sophie agreed. “Still, at least we know Gurnard’s unlikely to make a move before the gala.”
“Precisely.” Toby’s blue gaze rested consideringly on Sophie. “All we really need do is hold the fort until then.”
* * *
AN HOUR LATER, Jack sat in his chair in his parlour in Upper Brook Street, the table before him spread for an early luncheon, and attacked the slices of sirloin on his plate with an air of disgruntled gloom. “Permit me to warn you, brother mine, that this wooing business is definitely plaguesome.”
Harry, who had looked in on his way down to the country, raised an amused brow. “You’ve only just discovered that?”
“I cannot recall having wooed a lady—nor any other kind of female—before.” Jack scowled at a dish of roast potatoes, then viciously skewered one.
“I take it all is not proceeding smoothly?”
For a full minute, Jack wrestled with a conscience that decreed that all matters between a lady and a gentleman were sacrosant, then yielded to temptation. “The damned woman’s being noble,” he growled. “She’s convinced herself that I really need to marry an heiress and is determined not to ruin my life by allowing me to marry her.”
Harry choked on his ale. Jack rose to come around the table and thump his back but Harry waved him away. “Well,” he said, still breathless, “that was the impression you wanted to give, remember.”
“That was then, this is now,” Jack answered with unshakeable logic. “Besides, I don’t care what the ton thinks. My only concern is what goes on in one partic
ular golden head.”
“So tell her.”
“I’ve already told her I’m as rich as Croesus, but the witless woman doesn’t believe me.”
“Doesn’t believe you?” Harry stated. “But why would you lie about something like that?”
Jack’s expression was disgusted. “Well might you ask. As far as I can make out, she thinks I’m the sort of romantic who would marry a ‘lady of expectations’—her words—and then valiantly conceal the fact we were living on tick.”
Harry grinned. He reached for the ale jug. “And if things had been different? If we hadn’t been favoured by fortune and you’d met her—what then? Would you have politely nodded and moved on, looking for an heiress, or would you do as she suspects and conceal the reckoning?”
Jack shot him a malevolent glance. “The subject doesn’t arise, thank God.”
When Harry’s grin broadened into a smile, Jack scowled. “Instead of considering hypothetical situations, why don’t you turn that fertile brain of yours to some purpose and think of a way to convince her of our wealth?”
“Try a little harder,” Harry offered. “Be your persuasive best.”
Jack grimaced. “Can’t be done that way; believe me, I’ve tried.” He had, too—twice. But each time he resurrected the subject, Sophie turned huge eyes full of silent reproach upon him. Combined with a brittlely fragile air, such defences were more than enough to defeat him.
“I need someone to vouch for me, someone she’ll believe. Which means I have to wait until her uncle returns to town. He’s off looking over the Indies Corporation’s next venture at Southampton. The damnable situation is that no one has any idea of when he’ll be back.”