Incomparable Lord Meath Novella: A Rebellious Sons prequel (Rebellious Sons .5)(10)

“You!” Harrow shouted. “How dare you set foot in my presence? Belden, that man is a thief and worse. Call the magistrate! I’ll have him up on charges.”

The marquess raised a bored eyebrow. “You accuse Viscount Meath, Harrow? Of what, winning a wager?”

Obviously, Belden was no fool and grasped the nature of his guest after yesterday’s disastrous incident. Evan stepped to one side so the older man did not shield him and raised his cudgel in wry salute. “Ah, the stone-wielding abuser of horses and young ladies. I had thought you would have fled with your tail between your legs by now.”

“You would not dare to say that without a weapon in your hand,” Harrow declared, advancing with fists raised.

“Of course not,” Evan agreed honestly. “Even Lady Isabell could knock me over without my stick. You do realize it was an earl’s daughter who nearly broke her neck because of you?”

Harrow’s ruddy face flushed deeper. “No lady rides astride in breeches. Such behavior defies nature. The Irish are savages who need to be whipped into place.”

Belden emitted a sigh of impatience. Before he could speak, however, Miss Hoyt made her presence known. Apparently listening from the landing, she started down the stairs.

“Don’t concern yourself, my lord. I’ve set Harrow’s man to packing, and they’ll be on their way after Mr. Harrow has broken his fast. I believe he means to rusticate in the country a few months, don’t you, sir? It really wouldn’t do at all if word of your debts spread to your creditors in town. My maid is a terrible gossip, and I greatly fear if I let a few words slip, word will be all over in a trice.”

Evan’s grin spread across his face as he admired the subtle blackmail of the termagant sweeping past the frozen gentleman. Really, women didn’t fight fair at all. “Good morning, glorious one,” he said, bowing before her.

“Excellent tailor, my lord,” she said haughtily, tapping the arm of the new blue frock coat he’d worn just for her. “Lady Isabell is waiting for you.”

To hell with Bell. Evan wanted to follow Miss Hoyt, but duty first. He blocked Harrow from harassing Miss Hoyt, then waited to see if the sot was coward enough to throw punches at a cripple.

Belden didn’t bother waiting. He brushed impatiently past his humiliated guest and up the stairs, a very focused man—or attentive suitor. Evan kept his grin to himself.

Scowling, Harrow stomped past Evan as if he didn’t exist. If the lout had any clout at all, he’d blackball Evan from every club in England. Unconcerned, Evan whistled as he trailed in the wake of the marquess.

“It really does behoove me to make reparations for the company I keep, does it not?” Belden asked as Evan limped up.

“Miss Hoyt believes so, and I take her judgment for gospel,” Evan agreed with a straight face. Had Belden not been interested in Bell, the marquess would have dismissed the entire incident. He was simply looking for an excuse for what he wanted to do anyway—now that he’d been made to see the opportunity.

“Honora has a sound head on her shoulders. She would make some fortunate man a good wife.” Without even turning to look at Evan, Belden continued on his own path.

Had Evan been capable of performing a jig, he would have done so now. He had not actively been looking for a wife. He wasn’t certain he needed an interfering hen if he chose one. But being given permission to challenge the lady’s formidable intransigence added spice to his admittedly boring days.

Rather than feeding his impatience by imagining the enchanting pocket Venus melting in his arms, Evan strengthened his backbone by picturing her thumping his bachelor household into order.

He couldn’t wipe the smile off his face, even after he entered the parlor to see his neighbor pale and stiff but dressed like the beautiful young lady she ought to be. Bell deserved a whirl about London. She’d bring the old farts to their knees.



* * *



Honora was no longer hungry. She could barely force her toast down. She spoke when spoken to and tried not to think of what was happening upstairs. She’d prepared Lady Isabell for Lord Meath’s visit, not for her uncle’s sake! It was intolerable enough that she had to imagine the viscount turning his exciting kisses to the beautiful equestrian. Even if Honora had never been kissed like that before, she knew the charming viscount meant nothing by his attentions. Lady Isabell needed him, and he should do what was proper.

She hadn’t expected staid Belden to eagerly break his routine and leave his breakfast to join Meath.

Now she had to consider her uncle actually marrying the lady.

She could hope her uncle was simply being proper and acting in Wexford’s place until the earl arrived—except Belden had looked unusually dapper this morning. He’d almost smiled at Lord Meath’s foolishness. What were they up to? Her uncle never confided in her.

Even her tea curdled in her stomach.

Perhaps she should go up there for the sake of propriety. Sally was a sensible companion but lacked authority.

At least Lord Meath had come looking like a proper suitor, instead of playing the part of shabby country squire as he had yesterday. His blue frock coat had been of the finest quality, and his doeskin breeches had been cut in a manner that any London tailor might hope to duplicate. He hadn’t had his abominable hair cut, but he’d tied the thick blond mop at his nape, which, she had to admit, enhanced his ruggedly handsome features.