"They have yet to learn that social chatter is the… comme ca va?-oil that makes the ton's wheels go around?"
"Oil that greases the ton's wheels." Celia turned to the speaker, a strikingly beautiful older lady who had strolled up in her wake.
Alathea curtsied deeply. "Your Grace."
Serena, still seated in the carriage, bowed and echoed the words.
Smiling, Helena, Dowager Duchess of St. Ives, put out a gloved hand to tip up Alathea's face. "You grow more attractive with the years, ma petite."
Through her frequent visits to Quiverstone Manor, the Dowager was well known to the Morwellans. Alathea smiled and rose; the Dowager's brows rose, too. "Not so petite." Catching Alathea's eye, she lifted one brow even higher. "Which makes it even more of a mystery why you are not wed, hein?"
The words were uttered softly; Alathea smiled and refused to be drawn. While she was used to such queries, the intelligence behind the Dowager's pale green eyes always left her with the uncomfortable feeling that here was one who suspected the truth.
The carriage rocked as Serena rose, clearly intending to join them. Helena waved her back. "No, no. I will ascend and we can chat in comfort." She gestured at Celia and Alathea. "These two must stretch their legs in the service of propriety."
Alathea and Celia looked in the direction of Helena's nod; the four girls, heads together, arms linked, were already strolling the lawn.
Celia sighed resignedly. "At least we can stroll together and chat."
Leaving Helena settling in beside Serena, Alathea and Celia followed the four girls, but with no intention of joining them. They only needed to keep the girls in sight, leaving them free to talk without reserve.
Celia immediately availed herself of that freedom. "Have you spoken to Rupert since coming up to town?"
"Yes." Alathea mentally scrambled to recall the meeting-the one with Rupert, not Gabriel. "We met briefly while the girls and I were out walking."
"Well, then. You'll have seen. What am I to do with him?"
Alathea swallowed the observation that no one had ever been able to "do" anything with Rupert Melrose Cynster.
He was as malleable as granite and always on guard against manipulation. As for Gabriel… "I saw nothing unusual. What worries you so?"
"Him! He!" Celia's fists clenched on the handle of her parasol. "He's even more infuriating than his father. At least, by his age, Martin had had the good sense to marry me. But will Rupert turn his mind to the same task?"
"He's only thirty."
"Which is more than old enough. Demon has married, and Richard, too-Richard's only a bare year older than Rupert." A minute later, Celia signed. "It's not so much the marrying as his frame of mind. He doesn't even look at ladies properly, at least not with a view to any legitimate connection. And even the other sort of connection-well, the reports are hardly encouraging."
Alathea tried to keep her lips shut, but… "Encouraging?"
Ahead, the four girls burst out laughing; glancing their way, Celia explained, "It is apparently common knowledge that Rupert is cold-even with his mistresses he remains distant and aloof."
"He always was…" About to say "reserved," Alathea reconsidered. "Guarded." That was much closer to the mark. "He always keeps his feelings under very close control."
"Control is one thing-true disinterest is another." Celia's concern shadowed her eyes. "If he can't catch fire even in that arena, what chance is there for any acceptable lady to set tinder to his wick?"
Alathea fought to keep her lips straight. By any standard, their conversation was exceedingly improper, but she and Celia had a decade-long habit of discussing her sons-Alathea's childhood companions-with a frankness that would have made their subjects' ears burn. But Rupert cold? It wasn't an adjective she'd ever associated with him, not as Alathea Morwellan and even less as the countess. "Are you sure you're getting the true picture? Mightn't you be hearing solely from those ladies he hasn't been…"-she gestured-" 'interested in?'"
"Would that that were so. But my information has frequently come from disgruntled ladies he has been 'interested in'. One and all, they've despaired of making any serious impression on him. If half the tales told are true, he barely remembers their names!"
Alathea's brows rose. Rupert being vague over a name was a sure sign he was not paying attention, which meant he was not truly "interested" at all. "Perhaps," she said, steering the conversation away from her nemesis, "Alasdair will marry first."
"Hah! Don't be fooled by all that easygoing charm. He's even worse than Rupert. Oh, not that he's cold-quite the opposite. But he's feckless, footloose, and overindulged. He's busy enjoying himself without any long-term ties-he's developed a deep-seated conviction he doesn't need any shackles on his freedom." Celia's humph was the definition of disapproving. "All I can do is pray some lady has what it takes to bring him to his knees." She looked up, checking the girls still strolling ahead. After a moment, she murmured, "But it's really Rupert who worries me. He's so detached. Uninvolved."
Alathea frowned. Gabriel hadn't treated the countess as if he were detached or uninvolved. Far from it, but she could hardly reassure Celia with that news. It seemed odd that the portrait Celia was painting was so different from the man she knew, let alone the man she was discovering, the man who had held her in his arms last night.
Celia sighed. "Put it down to a mother's concern for her firstborn if you will, but I can't see how any lady is going to break through Rupert's defenses."
It was possible if one had known him for years and knew where the chinks were. Nevertheless, Alathea inwardly admitted that she could easily see him steadfastly refusing to let any lady close, not in the emotional sense. He didn't like close-he didn't like emotional. He and she had been emotionally close all their lives, and look how he reacted to that. If Celia was correct, she was the only female he had ever allowed within his guard…
Everything within her stilled. Had his experience with her, of her, hardened him against all women?
Then she remembered the countess. With the countess, he was intent, attentive, certainly not distant and cold. Perhaps distant and cold came later? After…?
Inwardly frowning, she shook aside her thoughts. Looking ahead, she saw the four girls nearing a group of budding dandies. "Perhaps we'd better catch up."
Celia looked; her gaze sharpened. "Indeed."
Where in London was he to find a suitable sheep?
Leaving Lucifer and the friends with whom they'd lunched in the smoking room of White's, Gabriel scanned the occupants of the rooms through which he passed. None fitted his bill. It had to be someone with no obvious connection to the Cynsters, yet someone he could trust. Someone sharp enough to play a part but appear vacuous. Someone willing to take orders from him. Someone reliable.
Someone with money to invest and some hope of appearing gullible.
While he had contacts aplenty who would qualify on most counts, that last criterion excused them all. Where was he supposed to find such a someone?
Pausing on the steps of White's, he considered, then strolled down and headed for Bond Street.
It was the height of the Season and the sun was shining-as he'd expected, all the ton and their relatives were strolling the fashionable street. The crowd was considerable, the traffic snarled. He ambled, scanning the faces, noting those he knew, assessing, rejecting, considering alternatives-trying to ignore the female half of the population. He needed a sheep, not a tall lady.