“I think such a notion was disproved centuries past by any number of Scottish people such as John Galt, Robert Burns, and Joanna Baillie, and the tradition continues with Robert Louis Stevenson,” she stated. “That is, if the notion ever held merit at all.”
Ramsay wished he knew what to say. Never in his life had anyone come to his defense.
He’d fought his own battles.
“I must beg your pardon a third time, Miss Teague.” The count put a hand over his heart and bowed his head in contrition. “Might I entice you to walk with me in the gardens?”
“Surely ye’re aware that for her to do so is not appropriate in our society, Count Armediano,” Ramsay explained. “To ask her is crude and unseemly.”
The count’s dark eyes flashed, but his manner remained pleasant as he blithely answered, “I was not aware.”
What horseshit. Ramsay’s eyes narrowed. “She is unchaperoned and therefore not allowed to share the private company of one man.”
Especially that of a handsome, unmarried Continental aristocrat with a gaze only meant for the boudoir.
Cecelia stood, obliging them to do the same. Her eyes flashed with the whisper of a distant sapphire storm that never truly surfaced. “As a sovereign entity, I am allowed to do what I wish,” she said stiffly.
Count Armediano sent him a glance of masculine victory. “Does that mean your wish is to walk with me in the garden? I vow to keep your reputation intact.”
Ramsay’s blood went very still, his lungs constricted as he waited for an answer that should mean nothing to him.
As if summoned by an invisible distress signal, a dapper older gentleman in dinner dress appeared at Cecelia’s elbow and murmured what sounded like rapid French into her ear.
Her features instantly melted into an expression of keen relief as she took his proffered arm, reaching across her body to rest her free hand on his in a gesture of easy fondness.
“Some other time, perhaps.” Her features became still, carefully placid. “Thank you for the … stimulating conversation, gentlemen, but I must bid you a good evening.”
Cecelia didn’t bother with a curtsy, and Ramsay couldn’t bring himself to blame her as he watched her bustle sway with the enticing movement of her wide hips as she glided away from them both. Her head tilted toward her shorter, stocky companion’s in rapt conversation as the Frenchman gestured expansively.
“Bad luck for you, Count,” Ramsay said wryly. “It seems the lovely Miss Teague’s affections are spoken for.” The Frenchman must be wealthy, indeed, as he was nearly old enough to be Cecelia’s grandfather, and was as weathered as an old leather boot.
“Not so. That is Jean-Yves Renault. He’s something of a mascot to these Red Rogues. Miss Teague hired him away from their finishing school at Lake Geneva, and they famously go nowhere without him. He’s essentially Miss Teague’s valet, if a woman can have such a thing.” The count’s black brows drew together. “I am surprised you did not know that.”
Ramsay turned to contemplate the man. “I’m surprised you do.”
The count gave a Gallic shrug. “It does one good to know with whom he is getting into business, and into bed with. The duke and I have many shared pursuits.”
“Indeed.” Ramsay found himself expelling a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding. He’d heard of Jean-Yves Renault but had never met the man. He knew his brother Piers was grateful to him for a service to Alexandra and her friends in their younger years, but was also disinclined to speak of it.
He’d never been more than passing curious until tonight.
“These Red Rogues, they are like three rosebuds, conspiring to bloom with such brilliance, they’ll never be challenged by any other in the garden.” Armediano’s voice was touched with awe as he watched Cecelia gather with Lady Francesca and Lady Alexandra to press their heads together in a strictly feminine collaboration. “They are fascinating women, are they not?”
“They’re frightening,” Ramsay said darkly. “I’d avoid them, lest catastrophes befall ye.”
He, too, walked away from the distasteful count, but not before he caught the flash of understanding on the man’s features. To anyone nearby, his words might have sounded like a flippant warning.
But they both knew the intent.
A threat.
CHAPTER TWO
Miss Henrietta’s School for Cultured Young Ladies, London, 1891—Three Months Later
It took Cecelia entirely too long to arrive at the realization she’d inherited a gambling hell.
In her defense, Miss Henrietta’s School for Cultured Young Ladies seemed perfectly innocuous from the outside.
Number Three Mounting Lane was located in West London, tucked several streets away from the fashionable side of Hyde Park.
The rectangular white mansion reminded her of a Greek pantheon complete with imposing pillars and resplendent arborvitae leading up the circular drive.
A solicitous white-wigged butler met her at the massive front door and ushered her into a lavish parlor done in varying shades of red and gold. Cecelia marveled at his uniform of a century past and did her best not to giggle at his high-heeled shoes and the falls of lace at his wrists.
Even as the reign of Queen Victoria gave rise to Gothic glamour and intriguing innovations, everything about Number Three Mounting Street boasted the overdone opulence of Versailles in the days of King Louis XIV.
And all of it now belonged to her, passed on by her mysterious benefactor, who’d turned out not to be her father but, in fact, her mother’s sister. Henrietta Thistledown.
The reading of the will had been short and terse, whereupon Cecelia was granted everything in Henrietta’s name, including her School for Cultured Young Ladies, a selection of other properties, and a staggering fortune.
Henrietta’s solicitor had handed a sealed letter to Cecelia after their appointment with strict instructions not to read it until she was secured in Henrietta’s office at Number Three Mounting Lane. So she’d taken a carriage straightaway.
Cecelia couldn’t bring herself to sit on the receiving room furniture that appeared too delicate to support her weight, so she paced, comforted by the clack of her boots against the marble floor.
She studied the missive, turned it over in her hands, stroked the fine striations in the expensive paper. An ache bloomed in her heart and a stone lodged in her throat as she battled an emotion akin to loss.
All this time, she’d assumed her father had been the silence on the other end of her letters.
For years, she’d been expected to write a monthly correspondence before her allowance was released to her accounts. Updates regarding her education, travels, and health. She’d dutifully penned this paternal shade who’d begun to take shape over the years. Some man in a mansion much like this one, lonely and bound by the strictures of society. Loving her from afar. Pining for her company.
The revelation of her maternal aunt would have been less disappointing, she supposed, if she’d not gleaned the knowledge of her relation only after the woman’s sudden death.
As such, she mourned two people.
Two people she’d never had the chance to love properly.
Emitting a melancholy sigh, Cecelia drifted to the window overlooking the square garden in the throes of its vibrant late-summer bloom. It was situated in the middle of the manse, surrounded on all sides by tall white stone walls boasting long windows from which to enjoy the view of—