Uncle Edward laughed. “Excellent catch, my boy.” He sobered. “But I am serious about this. If you pull this off, then you will have earned your inheritance as well as my respect. There’s nothing I can do about who inherits my title, but I’ll be damned if I’ll leave my money and property to a man I don’t respect. Prove to me you can be that man.”

“I shall try, sir.”

“Then I can ask nothing more. But regardless of how this turns out, I will still expect you to continue to tread the straight and narrower path you have been walking of late.” His grin widened if possible. “I just won’t be such an ass about it.”

“Oh well, that makes it all worthwhile then,” Derek said without thinking, then winced. He hadn’t meant to be quite so glib. Uncle Edward had never taken Derek’s quips particularly well, especially when they were aimed at him.

But Uncle Edward laughed, and Derek had the distinct impression they had just crossed some sort of threshold in their relationship. Helped, no doubt, by Derek’s embrace of his uncle’s edict about reforming his questionable behavior. For the first time, Derek felt like an adult in his uncle’s presence. A feeling strengthened by the look of respect in the older man’s eyes. As well as the laughter.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, sir?”

“Why wouldn’t I enjoy seeing my heir live up to expectations?”

Derek blew a long breath. “I hope I can.”

“As do I. Indeed, you may well be on the way to becoming the man I always thought you could be. A man your father would be proud of.” The earl pinned him with a hard look. “Don’t muck it up.”


CHAPTER SEVEN


There are moments of tedium in the course of travel when one is confined to a train carriage or ship’s cabin that provide the perfect opportunity to study the places one is headed. The clever lady traveler will be prepared with books not only on the current state of one’s destination but on its history, as well. However, fictional tales of misadventure or mayhem are best avoided as they will serve only to make even the most stalwart lady traveler uneasy.

—The Lady Travelers Society Guide


INDIA STARED AT the ornate white ceiling embellished with entwined plaster swags and flowers and, for a moment, couldn’t determine exactly where she was. Of course. She was in Paris, where even the beds were decadent. Although apparently, when it came to blissful slumber, there was something to be said for a certain amount of decadence. She struggled to sit upright in spite of the soft, cushiony mattress that seemed determined to seduce her back to sleep under downy covers and the scent of fresh-washed linen. Pity she was made of sterner stuff.

She couldn’t remember ever having slept so soundly. Perhaps, when she returned to London, she’d look into replacing her firm, sensible mattress with something a bit more self-indulgent. Although her excellent night’s sleep probably had less to do with the bed and everything to do with her overwhelming fatigue. Who would have thought doing nothing more than sitting on trains and steamboats would be quite so exhausting? She’d done nothing of any merit all day yesterday save to change from train to boat and back to another train. Although travel was not without its perils. She had quickly learned Mrs. Greer had an unending reserve of completely inconsequential topics she delighted in expounding upon given the slightest opportunity. In that, she and her husband were well matched, although his chosen topics were of a more intellectual nature—the influence of classical thought on the architecture of the last century as opposed to his wife’s ponderings on whether the French would be relying more on feathers or silk flowers for the decoration of hats this year. India’s hats were sensible, practical creations and in no need of such frippery.

Never in her entire life had India imagined she would be going to Paris—that bastion of sin and debauchery. Whereas Heloise had gone on and on about the delights of Paris—the innovation, art, history and food—and couldn’t wait to sample it all for herself, India was perfectly happy with the impressive history, practical innovation, notable art and solid food of her native England. France held no particular lure for India, nor did the French. She’d never met a Frenchman but had heard they were uniformly rude and condescending. She was not fond of being condescended to by anyone.

While India preferred not to be bothered by idle chatter, she’d had no choice but to engage in conversation during meals with the Greers and Mr. Saunders—Derek, he’d insisted she call him as they were to be traveling companions for the foreseeable future. As Mrs. Greer—Estelle—was already doing so, it seemed rude of India not to. But the rest of the day she avoided unnecessary discussion by claiming to be engrossed in one of the books she had brought with her—although admittedly reading Dyke Darrel, The Railroad Detective, a story of murder, theft and all manner of mayhem may not have been wise when one was actually traveling by rail. Why, such a story might put a less rational person than herself in the position of looking with distrust at every suspicious person on the train. Although there did seem to be a significant number of questionable travelers—especially once they were in France. India would have been much better off rereading her copy of Mr. Bazalgette’s Agent about the indomitable Miss Miriam Lea, although the very idea of a female detective was totally absurd, if oddly compelling.

India drew her knees up to her chest, wrapped her arms around them and studied the room. She’d barely paid any attention to her surroundings upon their arrival last night. Far larger than her bedchamber at home, the room allotted her was colored in muted shades of lilac and blue. It was at once serene and calming and distinctly welcoming. Lace curtains fluttered slightly at the long windows at the end of the room. The furniture was delicate in appearance, colored in aging shades of white, accented with burnished gold. From the pastel Aubusson rug on the floor to small, crystal sconces on the wall, the room spoke of wealth and heritage and feminine grace. It was as far from her own taste as if some obstinate, contrary creature had designed it with annoying her in mind, and yet she rather liked it.

By the time they’d actually set foot on Parisian soil, it had been quite late. The professor had arranged for their baggage to be collected from the Salle des Bagages, and insisted upon waiting to accompany the luggage while Derek had found transportation and escorted the two ladies to their lodgings. India had assumed they would be staying at a hotel, but Derek explained, given the Paris Exposition opened its doors last month—as did its remarkably ugly iron tower centerpiece—hotel rooms had been booked for months. He said it was fortunate that he had a relative with a large house in the center of the city. India was far too tired to care at that point, although now she wondered at the wisdom of staying in the private home of a relation of his, even if he was right and they had little choice. They were no doubt lucky to have a roof over their heads at all, let alone one quite as opulent as this.

Professor Greer was probably no more than a few minutes behind them, but neither India nor Estelle could keep their eyes open. They were both whisked off immediately to their respective rooms by friendly, smiling maids who chattered the entire time in a manner reminiscent of finches. Poor Estelle’s French was minimal, but India was quite adept at languages and had studied French, Italian and German. Admittedly, she had never spoken anything but English outside of a classroom.

A knock sounded at her door, and before she could respond, it flew open.

“Good morning, mademoiselle.” A pretty dark-haired girl, one of the maids from last night—Suzette, if India recalled correctly—breezed into the room carrying a tray bearing a plate of pastries, a pot and a cup. “I hope you slept well.”

“Quite well, thank you.” And apparently she was starving. The food they’d purchased from vendors yesterday was no more than adequate, and they had all eaten sparingly. “You speak English?”

“I have been studying the English for some time, mademoiselle.” Suzette set the pot on a side table, then deftly unfolded short legs under the tray and set it in front of India on the bed. India stared at the golden pastries accompanied by a dish of raspberries. It was not at all her usual kind of breakfast—lightly buttered toast, coddled eggs and a small slice of ham. No, this was...French. “My fiancé, Jerome, and I will settle in America after we marry. One of us should know the language. Jerome is a carver of stone. His cousin is in America and writes that there is very much work for a man with Jerome’s skills.”

She filled the cup with a rich, dark chocolate. Good Lord, India hadn’t had chocolate in longer than she could remember. Leave it to the immoral, irresponsible French to have chocolate on an ordinary day. The aroma drifted past India’s nose, and her stomach growled. She picked up the cup and took a sip, resisting the urge to sigh with delight. It tasted every bit as wonderful as it smelled. Perhaps in this, and this alone, the French were on to something.

“He is a true artist, mademoiselle. What the man can do with his hands...” Suzette heaved a heartfelt sigh, and India wasn’t entirely sure if she was still talking about stone. “But he is not, oh...adept at words. So I will translate American for him, and he will earn our fortune.” She beamed at India.

“That sounds like an excellent plan.” India broke off a piece of a croissant and popped it in her mouth. It fairly melted on her tongue. There may well be something to be said for decadence—at least at breakfast. “Tell me, Suzette, where exactly am I?”

“Why, you are in Paris, mademoiselle,” she said cautiously and inched toward the door. “You did not know that?”

“Yes, of course.” She gestured with the pastry in her hand. “But whose house is this? I was so tired when we arrived, I’m afraid that has slipped my mind.”

“Ah.” Suzette’s expression cleared. “I see. This is the home of the Marquess of Brookings,” she announced with a flourish.

“Brookings?” India swallowed the bite of croissant in her mouth. “He’s English then?”

“Indeed he is, but his mother was Parisian.” Suzette smirked with satisfaction. “This was his mother’s family’s house.”

“And he lives here?”

“As well as in England, but he is here as often as possible.”

“But why?”

Suzette stared as if the very question was mad. “Because it is Paris.”

“Even so, he is English,” India persisted. After all, why would a subject of Her Majesty’s choose to live anywhere but England? “It makes no sense to me.”

“And it makes no sense to a Parisian to live anywhere but Paris.”

“But he’s English.”

“I would suggest you ask his lordship why he chooses to live where he does,” Suzette said firmly. “I do not gossip about my employer.”

“Of course not. I never thought—I am sorry.”

Suzette waved off the apology as if India’s comments were already forgotten. “I am to assist you during your stay. Please call for me at any time. Is there anything else you need at the moment?”

“Yes, actually, I was wondering...” India held her arms out. Her sleeves dripped with delicate lace, an extravagant lace-trimmed ruffle plunged down the center of her chest, far lower than any nightgown she’d ever even imagined wearing. “Whose gown is this?”

As their luggage had not arrived with them last night, she had been provided with borrowed nightclothes. She’d paid no attention; she’d practically fallen into bed and was asleep in minutes. The gown was as decadent as the bed. Pale peach in color—to complement the room no doubt—silky against her skin, with no weight to the fabric at all, and far sheerer than anything any respectable woman would ever wear, even in the privacy of the bedroom. She could see more than the mere shadow of her arm in the sleeve and was afraid to get out from under the protection of the covers for fear of what she might reveal. “The marquess’s wife perhaps?”

Suzette scoffed as if India had just said something absurd. “The marquess is not married.”

“Then whose gown is this?”

“I am not entirely certain, mademoiselle.” Suzette frowned thoughtfully. “Probably a mistress but I do not know which one.”

India stared in shock. “He has more than one?”

“Oh no, not at the same time,” Suzette said matter-of-factly. “That would be...difficult.”

India snorted. “One would think.” She did need to get out of bed. “Has my luggage arrived?”