Chapter Three

Pledwick Manor, Yorkshire

"I should know better than to concoct schemes with you." Niles sat slumped in a chair in Pledwick Manor's formal drawing room. "Every time we have done so in the past, it has ended in disaster."

Digby Layton, whose estate Niles had essentially been hiding at, scoffed in the overly dramatic way he had long ago perfected. "On the contrary, we've had some brilliant schemes. Don't forget that time we ‘borrowed' Timothy Baker's chaise-cart. That didn't end in disaster."

"No. It ended with the cart on the roof of the library at Trinity Hall."

Digby's smile turned into an absolutely wicked grin. "Yes, it did."

"Stanley was so proud of that." Niles laughed lightly at the memory.

"Rightly so. The man was an inarguable genius in matters of mathematics and physics. Being able to not only calculate how to do that but to execute it flawlessly..." Digby shook his head, clearly still in awe of what they'd managed.

Niles's spirits fell a little. "I miss him."

"So do I." Digby's gaze unfocused, and his mouth turned down a bit. But his quiet contemplation didn't last more than a moment. "No matter that we aren't the planners he was, I think Stanley would approve of you doing all you can to avoid a path you fear will bring you misery. And not only for your own sake. He would remind you that Miss Seymour, no matter that she is agreeing to this arrangement, would not be rendered happier by having a husband who is miserable."

Niles rubbed at his forehead. "But to simply refuse to go home... that feels rather cowardly."

"Oh, it is."

"That's very helpful, thank you." Niles made the dry comment as he stood. "I think I would be more at ease if I'd heard from my family. I can't imagine they would simply shrug upon reading my letter and say, ‘Well, that is that.' And Miss Seymour will have been in Cornwall for at least a week now. Some word should have arrived."

"Perhaps they did send word, but the letter went astray."

"Or," Niles countered as he began to pace, "they are so angry with me that they cannot put it into words and are simply waiting for me to return so they can murder me."

"Murder? The Greenberrys?" Digby clicked his tongue and shook his head. "You certainly have the numbers to kill swaths of people, but I don't know that your vast family has enough of a violent streak."

"They might not be violent, but they will be disappointed. That is worse."

"Worse than being murdered?" Digby's theatrical scoff returned and, as it always did, helped a little.

"Somehow, you've managed to avoid being roped into a match of your family's choosing."

"A person's family must care at least a little about him to bother making such arrangements. Since what family I do have doesn't care if I live or die, I suspect there will be very little familial interference in my life." Digby almost never spoke of his family. The Gents knew just enough from what Society whispered and the hints he let slip now and then to be fully aware that the Layton family was in the midst of a decades-long internal war, with Digby being too often used as cannon fodder.

"The Gents consider you family," Niles reminded him. "And we absolutely care if you live or die."

"Do you intend to arrange a marriage for me?" Digby eyed him sidelong.

"Heavens no."

"And I don't intend to simply give up and let your family force this one on you." Digby's tendency toward the dramatic meant a lot of people underestimated him. But he was one of the cleverest people Niles had ever known.

"Miss Seymour is probably a perfectly lovely person, and I've just caused her no end of embarrassment," Niles said. "And for the record, I do not begrudge any lady her wish to retain possession of a property she has inherited."

Digby rose and crossed to him, setting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You're entitled to hold fast to your ambitions and hopes for the future as well. What you need and what she needs are in conflict. That would make a terribly shaky foundation on which to build a life together."

It was a logical argument, yet it didn't entirely assuage Niles's guilt. "A gentleman is not meant to break an engagement."

Digby's gaze narrowed ever so slightly. "You said the arrangement hadn't been finalized."

"Miss Seymour and her brother were traveling to Cornwall so the marriage contracts could be signed and so she and I could meet. Grandfather was at least considerate enough to allow that before requiring that the match go forward. He left open the possibility of us not proceeding if we discovered we despised each other."

"See there? You are simply taking the exit he allowed for."

"But I still feel badly."

Digby tugged at his lace cuffs. "That is because you, Niles Greenberry, have a conscience. I do not recommend it, as it causes such inconvenience."

Niles laughed. Digby had a knack for dredging up humor even in the most difficult of situations. "Perhaps I could try selling my conscience. If I received enough blunt for it, I could simply buy the land I want. Then Grandfather could marry me off to any lady he chose."

But he inwardly winced at that. Giving up his hopes for his life's work was a harrowing prospect, but marrying someone he didn't love would be a far more difficult pill to swallow.

"I stand by the first plan I suggested," Digby said. "Don your yellows, resurrect The Cornish Duke, and win the rest of the money you need."

"I don't fight anymore." Niles was firm about that.

"But, Niles, you were so blasted good."

He couldn't help a satisfied smile. "I know."

His fists, after all, were what had gained him entry into the Gents. And those fists had won him enough purses to be achingly close to having land of his own. But there were risks in pugilism that he could no longer justify.

The butler entered a few minutes later. "A visitor has arrived, Mr. Layton."

Digby offered Niles an explanation. "I wrote to the Gents to tell them you were in a bit of a bind. No doubt they've jumped at the opportunity to scheme with us a little."

No doubt.

"Begging your pardon, sir," the butler said, "but it is not one of your friends."

"Then, who?" Digby clearly had no better idea than Niles did.

"Mr. Liam Seymour and Miss Penelope Seymour."

Miss Seymour. Niles's entire body froze. He didn't move. Didn't blink. Didn't breathe.

Digby turned slowly to face him and mouthed, "Miss Seymour?"

That snapped Niles back into motion. He crossed directly to Digby and, in a low voice, said, "Her Christian name is Penelope."

"This scheme was a bad idea," Digby whispered.

"You just said it was brilliant."

"What do I know about brilliant ideas?" Digby threw his hands up. "I'm not the strategic Gent; I'm the handsome one."

"Where was this humility when we were concocting this no-longer-brilliant scheme?" Niles demanded in a harsh whisper.

"We were both a little cup-shot," Digby said.

"I was not drunk."

Digby shook his head. "Then, this is to be laid at your feet, because I was definitely bousy."

Niles knew perfectly well that Digby was resorting to ridiculousness in an attempt to defuse a tense moment. But the man's usual approach wasn't going to help just then.

"What do we do?" Niles asked. "She is here . Now."

"First things first, we get our story straight." Digby held his gaze. "What did you tell your parents in your letter?"

"I said I wasn't feeling well and needed to delay my return trip."

Digby's brow pulled low. "You told them you were unwell, and they didn't even send well-wishes? That doesn't sound like your parents."

It didn't, actually. But that was hardly the most pressing issue at the moment. "Miss Seymour is here , Digby. What do we do?"

"You can start by pretending to be dying," Digby suggested.

Niles sighed. "I didn't say I was dying, only a little unwell."

"Then, lie weakly on the chaise longue or something. Try to look pale."

"I cannot simply will myself to be pale."

Digby gave him a look of overblown reprimand. "Well, if you spent less time riding horses or playing cricket or beating people to a pulp—"

"I haven't beat anyone to a pulp in—" Niles shook his head. "We don't have time for meandering conversations. Miss Seymour is here, no doubt looking for me. What do we do?"

His friend, thank the heavens, grew serious at last. "Look as though you've been through something harrowing."

"Which I have," Niles quickly added.

Digby nodded. "And we'll navigate this as best we can." That was not terribly reassuring. To his butler, Digby said, "Show them in, please."

Though Niles had protested the request that he grow pale, he felt the color drain from his face. He was not a dishonest person, nor was he irresponsible, yet he'd exaggerated his feelings of unease to give the impression of being unwell, and he had, for all intents and purposes, run away from home rather than do what was expected of him.

Niles should have gone to Norwood Manor instead of Pledwick. Aldric was the strategic Gent; he would have formulated a plan that might have actually worked.

Digby smoothed his clothes and fussed a bit with his hair. Niles didn't bother with either. It was taking all his mental capacity to simply remain on his feet. He'd have no difficulty appearing to be worse for wear.

The butler returned and announced, "Mr. and Miss Seymour."

Niles spared only a glance for Mr. Seymour, all his attention falling on the man's sister.

She was tiny, no more than an inch above five feet tall, if that. There was a wispiness to her that made her seem almost otherworldly. And she was shockingly beautiful. Shockingly.

"Welcome to Pledwick Manor, Mr. and Miss Seymour." Digby's manners were, as always, flawless. "How kind of you to make so significant a journey out of concern for Mr. Greenberry."

"Concern?" Mr. Seymour sounded genuinely confused.

"Surely," Digby continued, "his family told you he had been delayed due to having fallen unwell."

"They did not," Miss Seymour said. "All they could tell us was that Mr. Niles Greenberry hadn't returned home and they'd not the first idea when he intended to do so." She had that unique mixture of an Irish and English accent so often heard among those in Ireland who were either educated in England or had English governesses.

"I did send a letter." Niles sounded like a child standing in front of his parents, having been scolded for some misbehavior or another.

Miss Seymour's gaze shifted from Digby to Niles. She studied him silently. He was so seldom the focus of anyone's pointed attention that he hadn't the first idea what to do. When one drew about as much attention as the furniture, one didn't need to worry about scrutiny.

"It seems you ought to send another letter, Niles," Digby said. "Your first one appears to have gone astray."

"That would explain why they didn't write back." Niles could feel Miss Seymour's gaze still on him, though he'd turned to Digby. Embarrassment kept him from looking back at her. Instead, he addressed her brother. "Was my family terribly worried?"

"I would say they were more confused than worried." He wasn't scrutinizing Niles the way Miss Seymour was. And he didn't really sound Irish at all. "They were very apologetic."

Niles had put his family in an untenable situation. "You didn't have to journey all this way."

"I think we did," Miss Seymour answered.

He made the mistake of looking at her again. Shockingly beautiful was an inadequate description. She was gorgeous. Breathtaking. Bewitching. And clearly disappointed in him.

Her brother spoke to Digby once more. "We are hopeful that you will not begrudge us your temporary hospitality, Mr. Layton."

"Of course," Digby offered with perfect and, no doubt feigned, equanimity. "You are welcome to remain at Pledwick Manor for as long as you wish."

For as long as you wish.

This scheme was, without question, turning into a disaster.