A Perfect Gentleman by Bárbara Metzger Page A

call.”
    Ellianne frowned. Even she knew that proper morning calls were made after twelve o’clock. “So early?”
    “Actually, I was going to ask Timms the best hour to stop by. But this is better. May I accompany you on your errand, whatever it is?”
    What, let him walk her to his own house? Ellianne crumpled the letter into a ball in her fist. “Oh, we were just going to the park,” she replied, the maid’s start of surprise giving away the lie.
    “Excellent,” he said, “that was my next stop.” He placed her gloved hand on his arm and turned in the opposite direction from where she had been headed. “Unless you mind my escort? I wished to know how you were getting on in town, and if matters were working out to your satisfaction.”
    He meant Mr. Lattimer or Baron Strickland, she knew, and was being diplomatic for the maid’s sake. Ellianne could be diplomatic, too. “They are now.” For the rest of the walk to the park, Lord Wellstone kept up a steady stream of conversation, pointing out this notable garden, that impressive architecture. He remarked on the Thoroughbreds being ridden past for their morning gallops, and the drayhorses pulling their loads. Since Ellianne only had to nod and add the occasional “Oh?” she had a chance to think. If she was going to engage his services, she ought to be honest with the man. After all, she expected nothing less in return. And what happened to her resolve to be masterful, assured, in command? She refused to turn into a fluttering, flea-brained fool just because her companion was tall and handsome and charming and intelligent and built like a Roman warrior and….
    “Millie,” she addressed her maid as soon as they were on the pedestrian path in the park and near some benches, “why do you not sit and enjoy the rare sunshine awhile? His lordship and I will stroll a bit farther, but not out of sight.”
    There, she was acting decisively, while showing her acceptance of the rules for polite behavior, rules she expected the viscount to follow. Proud of herself, she held her head high and marched down the path until she found another bench, set on a higher rise, away from the foot traffic. “This offers a lovely view, does it not, my lord?”
    All Stony could see was that wretched black bonnet, but he agreed, and took his seat beside her, not close enough to be suggestive, not so far away that their words could be overheard.
    There were no words. Miss Kane was staring at the vista, wadding her handkerchief in her hands.
    Finally Stony said, “Perhaps we should start anew.”
    “Yes, I would like that.”
    He nodded. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Kane. I am Aubrey, Viscount Wellstone, but my friends call me Stony, and I am at your service.” He held his hand out, and she dropped her handkerchief into it. Deuce take it, the woman still had no idea how to shake hands, or offer her fingers for a polite tribute. No, it was a letter, crumpled into a ball.
    He looked at her, or what he could see under the brim of her bonnet, but found no answers there, only pale cheeks and shadowed eyes, so he smoothed out the folded, sealed page and saw his own name on the outside.
    “I was going to call at your house to deliver this.”
    When he broke the seal with his finger the bank draft fell out, much creased and crumpled, but still legible, still worth one hundred blessed pounds. Stony raised one blond eyebrow.
    “I need your help,” was all she said.
    “You have it.”
    “But there are conditions,” she said at the same time he added, “Depending on your requirements.”
    “That is only fair,” Ellianne agreed. “You should not commit yourself until you know what is expected of you.”
    “Nothing illegal, I trust,” he said with a smile, to think of this sober-sided spinster asking him escort her to gaming hells and bordellos, the worst he could think of her expectations.
    “I cannot promise that.”
    Which wiped the smile right off his face.