Page 3 of A Perfect Gentleman

It had been something of a shock ten years ago when he returned to her hotel suite the day after their wedding, armed with an apology for his blunt, even rude, assessment of their marriage the night before, as well as a proposal for living politely apart, only to be informed that his wife had checked out that morning. His astonishment was quickly replaced by relief that, just as he’d thought, Abigail had been interested only in acquiring a title. Having obtained that, she has raced back to her own country.

She had remained there for ten years, apparently as content as he to live without the burden of a spouse. He had heard, now and then, rumors of how she reigned in splendor in New York society, her parties the most elegant, her invitations the most sought-after, but, in truth, he had little interest in what she did . . . as long as she did it an ocean away from him.

When he strode into the dining room downstairs a few minutes later, he found the others waiting for him, James standing at the window a few feet apart from the two middle-aged women seated side by side at the table. The sweet-faced woman in black, her brown hair liberally sprinkled with white, was his mother, and she looked up at him with her usual smile. She was a softened, slightly faded, and pleasingly plump version of the woman beside her, whose thick dark hair, startlingly silver eyes, and lush curves still brought men clustering around her.

“Mother.” He went around the table and bent to kiss his mother’s cheek. “Aunt Tessa. How kind of you to visit.” Graeme smiled. One could not help but smile at his aunt.

Aunt Tessa, of course, rose as he turned to her and flung her arms around him. “Graeme! My favorite nephew.” She stepped back, hands on his arms, and tilted her head, studying him. “Handsome as ever, I see.”

“Your only nephew,” he reminded her. “And you are as radiant as ever.”

“Flatterer.” Tessa smiled in her impish way. “Just what I like in a man.”

“Mother, must you flirt with every man you see?” James joined them.

“Don’t be such a stodgy old man.” Tessa turned the same fetching grin on her son. “One has to practice one’s art when one can, you know.”

“Mm. So I’ve noticed.” James sat down beside her, nodding toward Graeme. “Better get yourself a cup of tea, coz. You’ll need it. A dollop of whiskey might help.”

Graeme sat down, accepting the cup of tea the butler poured. He took a sip and gave a nod to Fletcher, who discreetly melted away, closing the door behind him. “Very well. I am braced for the worst. What is going on, and why did Grandmother send you?”

“I told you. Your absent and very unlamented wife has returned to London.”

“Really, James,” Tessa protested. “You haven’t the faintest idea how to tell a story properly.” She turned to her nephew, eyes sparkling. “She appeared last Tuesday at Lady Rochester’s soiree. No one had the least idea who she was. She was wearing this marvelous satin gown of midnight blue, with the most wonderful lace draped—”

“I don’t think Graeme is concerned with the style ball gown she wore,” James interrupted drily.

“Mirabelle and I are.” Tessa addressed her sister, “It was just divine, Mira; you should have seen the satin roses over the bustle. It was made by Worth or I know nothing of fashion.”

“No one would dispute your eye for clothes, Aunt Tessa,” Graeme said with more amiability than Tessa’s son. “But why is Abigail here?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.” Tessa gave a careless shrug. “Neither has anyone else. But of course, everyone is guessing like mad. Lady Crowley is certain she’s come to confront you—but you know Lady Crowley, she is always so dramatic.”

Graeme shot a laughing glance at his cousin at the prospect of Aunt Tessa’s deeming anyone dramatic. “But what would she confront me about?”

“That is why everyone is so interested, darling boy.”

“Surely she could not be angry with Graeme.” Mirabelle frowned. “It was she who left him, after all.” She sighed. “And she seemed such an unexceptionable girl. I rather liked her.”

“You like everyone, Mirabelle.” Tessa took up her tale again. “The most popular theory is that she has come to act as a matchmaker.”

“Matchmaker! What are you talking about?” A sizzle of alarm ran up Graeme’s spine.

“For wealthy American girls, dear. They say she will use her British connections to find noblemen in desperate need of an infusion of cash and match them up with American heiresses. After all, she did it for herself.”

“What connections?” Graeme asked. “She has no British connections.”

“There’s you,” James pointed out.

“I’m not going to help her find her victims,” Graeme said in an affronted voice.

“You know that, but does she?” James retorted. “Personally, I think you should help her if it means she’ll leave the city.”

“Of course, there are those who believe she simply wants to flaunt her, um, friend in your face.”

“Friend?” Graeme’s voice iced over. “What friend?”

“There’s an American who dances attendance on her,” James said. “Apparently he’s a business associate of her father’s.”