“After all,” Lady Helen continued, “I hardly see gentlemen flooding you with offers—at least, not of the matrimonial variety.”

Diana took two steps forward of her own; there were now scarcely six inches of space between them. “I’ve already played that game and won,” she said softly. “I’ve found my freedom; I merely thought to offer you help in finding yours. Clearly, I was mistaken.” For a brief moment, some unidentifiable emotion flickered across Lady Helen’s face, but it was gone before Diana could put a name to it.

Without another word, Diana turned and left the room, uncomfortably aware that, whatever her earlier hopes, Lady Helen seemed to be just as odious as she appeared. Which, in turn, begged the question: how was Diana possibly going to convince Willingham to marry the lady?

Fourteen

Jeremy had planned to visit Diana’s bedchamber again as soon as everyone had settled in for the night, but the evening’s entertainments had stretched into the wee hours of the morning. Dinner had been a long, chatty affair that had endured well past the traditional hour as they lingered at the table, and the trend had continued for the rest of the evening. The gentlemen dawdled over their port and then upon rejoining the ladies had been drawn into a highly competitive game of charades.

The dowager marchioness, as it turned out, was a surprisingly adept actress. He’d had no idea that one could so clearly convey the idea of a sheep without emitting a single baa.

His grandmother was, incidentally, the reason he was so late in visiting Diana. Just as the party finally dispersed for the evening, the dowager marchioness had crossed the room to join him where he stood, placing a hand on his arm with a surprisingly firm grip for a woman in her seventies.

“A word, Jeremy,” she said tremulously, and he was instantly on alert—many adjectives could be used to describe the dowager marchioness, but frail was not one of them. If she wished to project that appearance, she was clearly up to no good. He had learned long ago that where the dowager marchioness was concerned, one could not let one’s guard down for a single second.

He, of course, said none of this, but instead gave her his best and most charming smile, as well as a smooth, “But of course, dearest Grandmama.”

She gave him a dark look in response, but was forestalled from further conversation until the rest of his guests had bade them good night. Diana, he saw, cast a look at him, standing there with his arm still in his grandmother’s grasp, and offered him a small but decidedly smug smile. Jeremy was beginning to wonder if monks weren’t on to something—women were nice, but he questioned whether they were quite worth all the bother.

As soon as the last guest had left the library—which was where they had assembled, as it offered the largest expanse of open floor, an important consideration when playing charades—the dowager marchioness crossed to the sideboard and unstoppered his decanter of brandy, pouring sizable splashes into two tumblers, one of which she handed to him. He had imbibed less than usual that evening, wanting to keep his wits about him—and all body parts appropriately functioning—for his rendezvous with Diana later on. But he had no doubt at all that he was not going to enjoy whatever his grandmother had to say.

“I must confess, Jeremy, that I recently heard some unflattering gossip about you back in London,” she said, diving straight to the heart of the matter, as was her wont. “The Countess of Cliffdale is one of my dearest friends, you know, and her granddaughter is married to—”

“Lord John Marksdale, yes,” Jeremy said, in as bored a tone as he could manage. He could already tell where this conversation was going, and he did not like it one bit. He would not have liked to be having it with anyone, but having it with his grandmother, of all people, was particularly mortifying.

“I will spare you the specifics of Lady John’s complaints, which I am certain are already known to you, but needless to say, the lady in question is less than pleased with your behavior of late.”

“I am aware,” Jeremy said quietly, casting wildly about in his mind, wondering if he’d ever heard any rumor of a sinkhole beneath Elderwild. It would be a highly convenient time for one to develop.

“I have to say, Jeremy, I tend to turn a blind eye to your behavior—you are young, and heaven knows your father sowed his fair share of wild oats when he was your age. It seems unfair to hold you to an unrealistic standard, when I know that most gentlemen your age act similarly.” She paused. “Furthermore, I am not unsympathetic to the difficult path you have traveled these past few years, after your brother’s death.”

Jeremy felt his chest tighten at the mention of David. He managed to avoid discussing him as much as possible—he avoided even thinking of him. West’s presence at this house party made that difficult, of course—West had been the other participant in the curricle race that had killed David. Not that Jeremy blamed West, not even initially—both men had been caught up in the heat of the moment, young and, on that occasion, uncharacteristically reckless. And West himself had been terribly injured in the ensuing crash, walking with a limp to this day.

But still, the sight of West’s face tended to bring back memories of that day, and the days that had followed—what little Jeremy could remember of them, that was. He had drowned his sorrows so thoroughly in spirits that it was a miracle he could even remember a single detail from that—how long had it been? A week? More? Even now, he was unsure.