1
In Which Simon Darby Receives
Undesirable News

28 Park Lane
London

Some men turn into walruses when they're angry: all bushy and blowing air. Others resemble pigs, with pillowy cheeks and small eyes. Simon Darby turned into a Cossack. His eyes took on a slanted look. High cheekbones that spoke of generations of Darbys turned formidable, angular, and altogether foreign. To Gerard Bunge's mind, the man looked positively savage.

The last time the Honorable Gerard Bunge himself could remember being so enraged was when his doctor informed him that he had caught the pox. Even remembering the moment made him queasy. There was that uneasy sense of heavenly retribution, not to mention the unpleasant treatment lying ahead.

But even less would he like to be told that his inheritance had disappeared. After all, diseases come and go, but life is so expensive. Even handkerchiefs are prohibitive.

Darby was probably in shock. So Bunge repeated himself. "There's no question about it. Your aunt is increasing."

When Darby still didn't answer, Bunge strolled over to the litter of china dogs lining the mantelpiece and thought about poverty versus the pox again. Definitely syphilis was preferable.

"I said, Lady Rawlings is enceinte. I mean to say, the Countess of Trent paid her a visit in the country, and described the lady as waddling. Did you hear me, Darby?"

"They likely heard you in Norfolk."

Silence.

Bunge couldn't stand silence himself, but it wasn't every day that a man had his inheritance snatched out from under his nose by an unborn babe. Tossing back his deep cuffs, he pushed the china dogs into a neat row. There had to be fourteen or fifteen of the lolling, garishly painted little things.

"I suppose these belong to one of your sisters," he said over his shoulder. The thought of Darby's sisters made Bunge feel a bit uncomfortable. After all, if Esme Rawlings's child was male, they had just lost their dowries.

"Actually, the dogs belonged to my stepmother," Darby remarked.

Quite the mortality rate in Darby's family, Bunge reflected: father, stepmother, uncle, gone in under one year. "I wish your aunt weren't increasing, damned if I don't," he said, displaying a rare flash of generosity.

He swallowed a curse as the sharp edge of his starched linen collar nipped him in the neck. He had to remember not to turn his head so quickly. The new high collars were the devil to wear.

"It could hardly be construed as your fault. I gather my uncle and aunt had an unexpected rapprochement before his death."

"Startled me to the gills when I heard he died in his wife's chamber," Bunge agreed. "Not that Lady Rawlings isn't a beautiful woman. But your uncle hadn't lived with his wife for years. He was snug in Lady Childe's pocket when I saw him last. I thought Rawlings and his wife weren't even on speaking terms."

"As far as I know, they rarely spoke. Presumably they engaged in heir-making without speech."

"Some are saying the child isn't Rawlings's, you know."

"Given that my uncle died in his wife's bedchamber, he and his wife likely engaged in activities that led to this child. You will please me by squashing any such rumors." Darby's eyes now wore their customary expression of detached amusement.

"You're going to have to get married," Bunge pointed out. "Course that won't be too difficult for you, catching a rich one. Heard that there's a wool merchant putting his daughter on the market this season—everyone's saying she's a woolly breeder." He erupted in a cascade of high-pitched laughter.

Copyright © 2003 by Eloisa James