“I am told you studied at the Sorbonne, Miss Teague.” The count’s eyes gleamed from beneath his dark brows.
“You are well informed,” she replied.
“With your charming friends, the Countess of Mont Claire and the Duchess of Redmayne?”
Ramsay noted that the Italian’s expression was entirely too keen for such a casual question, and his eyes narrowed. A man unused to criminals and liars might not have noticed.
“Alex was not a duchess at the time, but yes, we attended the Sorbonne together, and the Ecole de Chardonne institute for girls on Lake Geneva before that.”
“Where you formed a society, I understand, Rastrello Rosso.”
“Not rakes, dear Count,” she corrected with a pleased smile that rivaled that of the flames. “Rogues, we were the Red Rogues.”
“She speaks Italian!” the count marveled.
“Only terribly,” she demurred. “And where did you learn of the Red Rogues, sir? We were a trio of little renown.”
“On the contrary.” The count slid closer, until his knee touched hers. “University-educated women are still a rarity, even in France. And a trio of such belle donne as you do not go unnoticed, especially ones with a penchant for pastimes only allowed to men.”
To her credit, Miss Teague gracefully tugged her knee away and tucked a forelock of hair back from her brow in a self-conscious gesture. “We are determined to live extraordinary lives, my lord.”
Ramsay couldn’t help himself. “And make extraordinary marriages?” He nodded toward the duchess.
Her expression dimmed, a crease appearing between her brows. “We actually vowed never to marry, though Alexandra’s circumstances changed.”
“You’re saying your friend the Countess of Mont Claire does not plan to wed?” the count inquired. “Does she not need an heir to her fortune and title?”
“That is not her primary concern at the moment,” she answered vaguely.
“And what about you?”
Cecelia adjusted her spectacles, nearly squirming with discomfort. “What about me?”
“Forgive my crass foreign manners, are you not in need of an advantageous marriage? It is not common for a mathematician to make a fortune.”
Cecelia shook her head, her skin whitening from cream to a ghostly shade. “I—I don’t…”
Ramsay found a man of his size rarely needed to raise his voice. When he offered a rebuke, he spoke low and even, but he leaned forward to emphasize the breadth of his shoulders. “If ye ken it isna appropriate to discuss finances in our society, Count, then it is not an ignorance of manners that prompts ye to ask, but a breach of them.”
To his credit, the count didn’t retreat, but he certainly changed tactics. “You must forgive me, of course. No offense was meant.”
What an arse. Not to beg for forgiveness, but demand it.
“None was taken,” Cecelia said with a solicitous hand on his cuff, though she did cast a grateful look in Ramsay’s direction.
His own arm twitched with absurd jealousy.
“So chivalrous, Lord Ramsay.” An undercurrent of malice lurked beneath the pleasant, silken tones of the count’s Continental accent as he turned his gaze to Ramsay. “Tell me, Miss Teague, as you are so fond of numbers. What are the odds that the Lord Chief Justice here is as morally unimpeachable as he claims?”
Cecelia let out a nervous laugh, her color deepening slightly as she slid her gloved finger against her cheek in an oddly shy gesture. “That is an easy equation. Odds are divisible by the number of outcomes, and in this problem, there are only two outcomes possible. That a man is good, or that he is wicked. Thereby there is a fifty percent probability that any man is one or the other.”
“And what would be your assessment?” the count pressed. “What are people but a collection of choices? Would you say Lord Ramsay is good? Or wicked?”
Ramsay shook his head, grappling with his temper. “She’s known me all of five minutes—”
“Forgive me, but you are mistaken, Count Armediano.” Cecelia surprised both of them by interrupting. By daring to correct a member of the aristocracy. By talking over a man.
“I’ve always believed people are more than just a collection of choices. It is why their worth—their worthiness—cannot be calculated mathematically. A person is a complicated amalgamation of their experiences, education, environs, illnesses, and desires. And one cannot ignore more physical variables such as nutrition, traditions, ethnicities, nationalities … and, yes, actions. But that is why we may not quantify them so easily.” She cast Ramsay a meaningful look he couldn’t begin to define, one brimming with a haunted sadness that tugged at a primitive protective instinct.
“It is also why I would find your position so daunting, Lord Ramsay. I could not condemn another human being, even as a High Court justice. I feel as though I would never truly know what punishment or mercy a person would deserve.”
The Count Armediano took a contemplative sip. “Is it your experience, Miss Teague, that people get what they deserve, one way or another? Do not good people suffer, and evil people achieve success?”
“That is unfortunately so.”
Ramsay watched her throat work around a dainty swallow as she slid a sidelong look toward Lady Francesca and Lady Alexandra.
She continued, “I still try to believe that good ultimately triumphs in the end. Especially when there are those who work so diligently to keep evil at bay, such as Lord Ramsay, the duke and duchess, and Lady Mont Claire.”
“Not you?” the count drawled.
This elicited a laugh from her. “Of course I desire to be good, to do good works, but Alexandra is a doctor of archeology, and so she preserves the lessons of history and the legacies of those who have gone before us. The duke has his tenants and employees, and he sees to the livelihoods of many. Francesca—”
Miss Teague cut off sharply, and Ramsay watched the count’s spine straighten as if he’d been skewered.
“Well, Francesca has her life’s mission, and it’s a worthy cause,” she finished vaguely. “But I’m afraid I have not found what it is I’m going to give to this world to make it better.”
“Miss Teague, you are an unpredictable, exquisite creature.” Armediano spoke to her, but also affixed his eyes upon the collection of nobles in the middle of which Francesca Cavendish sparkled like a rare ruby, her crimson hair shining brilliant in the light of the chandeliers.
“Thank you, my lord.”
“And you, Lord Ramsay, disabuse me of the notion that the Scots are nothing but hedonistic barbarians.”
Ramsay’s blood froze and his muscles iced over, hardening into shards of tension.
Barbarians?
The count had no idea what barbaric was. For certainly this pampered princeling would have been crushed by the conditions in which Ramsay had been whelped and forged. He had the swarthy complexion of a man raised beneath a forgiving sun. Had he ever known cold? Or hunger? Abandonment? Cruelty?
Had he ever killed to eat, or to live?
Ramsay would have staked his fortune against it. Aye, his bleak upbringing, or lack thereof, would have crushed the elegant man.
But as he opened his mouth to flay his skin with his cutting tongue, Cecelia beat him to it.