“I’m rather more selective.”
Nick leaned forward. “I know a widow. Delightful woman. Rounded in all the right places and quite lovely.”
“A former mistress of yours? No thank you.” Colin drained his glass.
Nick shot him an insulted look. “I should say not. As it happens, she’s just come out of mourning, rather like yourself. Her husband was a business associate. Quite ancient. Died shortly after the wedding. Since you will be at my grandfather’s ball—”
“I never said I would go.” Just the thought of being amongst the ton filled Colin with dread. “I don’t dance.”
“Have you not just told me you need an introduction to one of Lord Robert Cambourne’s closest associates?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps if you told me why—”
“No. Stop pestering me.”
Nick held his hands up in supplication. “As you wish. Though I’m not sure why you would want the assistance of a stranger rather than myself.”
Because you would try to manipulate things. “I’ll tell you in good time. I promise.”
“Well then, Lord Cambourne will be at my grandfather’s ball. As will everyone else in London. No one dares defy Henry’s invitation. And I will make sure my widow friend is in attendance as well. She adores brooding men awash in anguish. Which you most definitely are. The Irish are such a dreary race.” Nick wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “She’s a lovely bosom as well.”
“Shut up, Nick. God, you can be annoying. Why have I never noticed before now?”
“Careful, you’ve only got two friends, Hartley, and you can’t afford to insult me since Cam is absent.”
“My glass is empty and so is the bottle.”
“Very helpful, Colin. Where do you suppose that little rodent’s gotten off to?” His shaggy head turned slowly about the room until it stopped. “Never mind.” He lifted his glass in the air to signal to another servant who stood near the far wall.
“Have you heard from him?” Colin asked.
“Who? The rodent?” Nick gave a short laugh. “I’m sure he’s giving his notice as we speak.”
“I meant Cam.” Colin rolled his eyes. “God, you are awful.”
“Not for some time. Cam is terrible at letter writing as you well know. I suppose there’s a lack of paper and ink in the jungles of Macao. I do hope he hasn’t gone and gotten himself killed, although I’m certain that was what she was hoping. I certainly can’t fault you for not wishing to call on Cam’s father at Cambourne House with that bitch in residence.”
The bitch in question being the Marchioness of Cambourne, wife to Lord Robert. Cambourne. Cam’s stepmother made his life a living hell, and Nick was certain she’d had something to do with her stepson’s sudden journey to Macao.
“Cam will be home soon, rest assured. If he’s still—,” Nick sighed “—and I’m certain he is. The Dowager has asked my assistance and the use of a Dunbar ship. He’s coming back even if I have to go and bring him back myself.”
“Indeed. No one dares disappoint Cam’s grandmother.” Colin smiled at the thought of the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne. “I would enjoy renewing my acquaintance with her.”
“You’ll get your chance. Miranda’s just made her debut so I’m certain the Dowager will be in attendance.”
“Miranda? In a gown making a debut?” Colin snorted thinking of Cam’s younger half-sister. “God, she was so incredibly annoying as a child. Always covered in mud and chattering incessantly until one wanted to put cotton in their ears. Trailing behind me and begging for attention. If she’s grown into anything like her mother, I’ll keep my distance.”
“I’m sure you will.” An odd smile crossed his friend’s face.
Another servant, this one made of sterner stuff than the previous man, returned with a fresh bottle, setting it gently on the table between Colin and Nick, before bowing and sliding away.
“Now,” Nick filled Colin’s glass before his own, “let me tell you more about my widow friend.”
* * *
“I can’t believe I let Nick talk me into this.”
The ballroom before Colin was filled with the overindulged, pampered gentlemen and ladies of the ton, hovering in groups around the vast room like the vultures they were. He had a distinct dislike for society, having always been a member of it, but only allowed to exist on the fringes. The Earl and Countess of Kilmaire were certainly not sought after. Their third son, even less so.
It didn’t matter a bit to Colin. He found the people humming about him like wasps about to sting to be dreadfully boring. The gentlemen spoke of their horses and their mistresses, usually in that order. The women were vapid bits of flesh encased in silk and taffeta who gossiped and pouted while flapping their fans and filling their dance cards.
Colin’s arrival aroused little fanfare in the ballroom. The barely murmured announcement of his arrival from a dutiful footman didn’t even merit a glance from the crowd.
He immediately took a glass of wine from a passing servant and slid into a deep alcove where he could observe the ball unseen. His only companion in the alcove was a rather large urn which looked appropriately ancient and priceless. A large potted plant sat inside the urn. A closer inspection of the large green fronds springing from the plant indicated it was a palm.
“Thank God I don’t have to make attending affairs such as these a habit,” he whispered to himself. “Ian or Thomas must fetch punch and converse with these nitwits.”
There were few advantages to being born a third son, and even fewer if you were the third son of an impoverished earl and his addled wife. But one obvious advantage was that the continued lineage of the Kilmaire’s would not be Colin’s responsibility, but the responsibility of his brothers. Ian, the heir, and Thomas, the spare, would have to dance attendance on some virgin with a large dowry.
A very large dowry.
The state of Runshaw Park, the ancestral seat of the Earl of Kilmaire was a well-known fact amongst the ton. Every piece of property not entailed had been sold in bits over the years, probably to many of the people in this room. The Kilmaire jewels were gone. The paintings and tapestries that once hung in splendor had been sold to the highest bidder. Even the once magnificent Kilmaire library had been sold, book by book, to a London bookseller.
The sale of the library especially pained Colin.
But being an impoverished title wasn’t the reason the Kilmaire’s were considered beneath most of the ton. After all, plenty of titles needed the infusion of a rich dowry. No, it was more the Irish blood running through their veins. While the earldom was English, the origins of the title were Irish, and the Kilmaire earls continued to show a marked preference for women from Ireland. And of course, most of the Irish were papists. The taint was nearly more than the ton could tolerate.
And, of course, there’s Mother, the Mad Countess.
Carefully tugging at a loose button hanging from his nearly threadbare coat, Colin grit his teeth at the thought of his mother. He wondered how he could possibly avoid her if he visited Ian and Thomas. There likely wasn’t a way to do so. Just the sight of Colin would set off the Mad Countess, terrifying everyone on the premises.
Why did Rose McBride Hartley detest her youngest child? Even in hindsight, it still remained a mystery to Colin. When he’d been younger, before he’d simply grown to accept her hatred, Colin would lie in bed and replay every action he’d had with his mother. How had he angered her to the point where she could no longer stand the sight of him? Her distaste for Colin increased during his years at Eton, to the point where he stopped visiting Runshaw Park all together, instead spending the holidays with the Cambourne family at Gray Covington.
On the rare occasions that Colin did visit Runshaw Park and his brothers, the Mad Countess would sit perfectly still, dark eyes so like his own, tracking his every movement. She barely blinked, reminding him of a cat stalking a defenseless mouse.
Bloody unnerving.
Lord Kilmaire, on the other hand, ignored his youngest son, only taking notice of Colin’s presence if Colin managed to truly disturb Lady Kilmaire’s mental state. Uncle Gerald took Colin’s father to task once over his treatment of Colin, but Lord Kilmaire refused to defend his son or show him an ounce of affection. The earl would brook no disparagement of his wife, even from her younger brother. For though the Mad Countess was…well, mad, Colin’s parents had been a love match. Lord Kilmaire’s adoration for his wife bordered on obsession.
Colin’s glance fell back to the ballroom and the entitled swirl of the ton. Mulling over his parents and his lack of finances was depressing. While Colin never expected much from Lord and Lady Kilmaire, Uncle Gerald was a different story. Uncle Gerald mortgaged away the only home Colin had ever really known, without so much as a warning to his nephew.
I must succeed, for there’s no other way for me.
“Damn.” Colin poured the remainder of his wine into the dirt around the palm, wondering if the liquid would have an adverse effect on the plant, for wine certainly did on Colin. He detested wine, no matter how fine and French the vintage. Possibly one of the servants would bring him a whiskey.
Not bloody likely.
Why hadn’t his uncle told him the true state of affairs? They’d been close, close enough that Uncle Gerald did not mince words when speaking of the madness of his sister. Uncle Gerald even hinted that Mother had accidently killed a housemaid in a fit of rage and Colin’s grandfather shushed the incident. Upon bringing Colin to Ireland, his uncle had taught him how to defend himself with a knife. He’d gifted Colin with a wicked long blade that could easily be stowed in the front pocket of a coat, or in one’s boot.
‘Just in case, lad. My sister’s as mad as they come. And you might end up in London one day, a city full of murderous intent. Not one of them fops can be trusted.’
Rose McBride Hartley was indeed as mad as they came. A beautiful woman whose appearance was completely at odds with the chaos that dwelled within her mind. Though Uncle Gerald always spoke of his sister with love, there also was an everpresent undercurrent of fear.
A stir at the end of the ballroom ended Colin’s musing. A hum, the sound of many voices all whispering at once, filled the air as if a hive of bees had been let loose. Several men bowed low, the ladies at their sides falling into deep curtsies. The musicians put aside their instruments and lowered their heads as if the king himself were making an appearance.
Not the king, of course, but close.
His Grace, the Duke of Dunbar, entered the nearly silent ballroom, daring anyone with an icy blast of his azure blue eyes, to notice the slight limp in his stride. Stubbornly, he made his way to the dance floor, slowly moving towards the center of the room, enjoying the homage he was paid.
None dared to meet his eyes.
The ballroom was eerily silent, the guests struck mute with respect for and fear of their host. The curse that lingered over the Devils of Dunbar gave one pause, for who among them knew if it was true or not? Treason hovered like a filmy cloud over the Dunbars. One would think London society would cut the entire family.
Nick once told Colin that his grandfather knew the secrets of everyone in London. Horrible secrets. Secrets that would ruin a family. While the ton may wag their malicious tongues behind the duke’s back, none were foolish enough to incite his wrath or risk his displeasure.
The Duke, his large form towering over the mere mortals who packed his ballroom, looked out from a once handsome face made craggy by old age, lips twisted downward in disapproval. His hand clasped that of a pretty dark-haired woman wearing a gown of midnight blue silk. Tiny diamonds sparkled across the dress, reminding one of stars in the sky, as well as the wealth of the woman who could afford such a garment. The Dunbar jewels, sapphires and diamonds, dripped from her ears and throat.
Lady Cupps-Foster. The Duke’s thrice widowed daughter.
Nick’s aunt, Colin mused, was still a handsome woman in her prime, though there wasn’t a man alive in all of England who would marry her. Not anymore. She’d buried three husbands, all of whom had died prematurely. Nick’s cousins, Lady Cupps-Foster’s two sons, inherited titles from their fathers and were an earl and a baron, respectively. Her last husband, Lord Cupps-Foster, died before an heir could be produced.
Lady Cupps-Foster smiled merrily up at her father with eyes just as blue as his, but where the Duke surveyed all those around him as if inspecting an inadequate supper buffet, hers were warmer. Graciously nodding to her guests, she gave the musicians leave to begin playing and gave her father a stern nod. Lady Cupps-Foster was a force to be reckoned with in the Dunbar family, and indeed in all of London. Her father rarely denied her anything.
The Duke grimaced.
A man, taller than the Duke but with a build so similar none could doubt they were related, sauntered in behind the pair. He surveyed the crowd with odd mismatched eyes, one brown, one azure blue. Nick’s lips twisted in amusement, for he knew the stir his appearance caused, and he gave a mock bow to the room.
Viscount Lindley, the Devil of Dunbar had arrived.
The lords and ladies of the ton murmured among themselves, pushing back from him as if he were a leper and not the heir to Dunbar. Several ladies opened their fans with a flick of their wrists, hiding their faces behind the painted façade, some flicking their eyes up and down the man’s expensively clad form.
“Finally. Bloody big idiot. Leaving me here to fend for myself when he knows how much I detest it.”
Following behind her brother, chin tilted arrogantly, was Nick’s sister, Lady Arabella. Arabella wore a gown of light rose and matching ribbons threaded through her dark hair. She looked young and sweet until one caught sight of her face, for Arabella wore a perpetual grimace.
Colin had yet to ever see Arabella smile. Humor was not her strong suit.
Arabella tried unsuccessfully to lead her brother to the dance floor, tugging on his sleeve as Nick shook his head.
“The Devil of Dunbar does not dance.” Colin informed the palm. “Only Cam.”
Cam was the dancer.
Would he ever see his friend again?
Regardless of Nick’s determination to retrieve him, if Cam didn’t wish to come back, he wouldn’t. Not unless he were forced.
Colin peered out from his hiding place, searching for the Marquess of Cambourne. He only needed a few moments with Lord Robert, to prevail upon his connection and secure an introduction to Lord Wently.
Pulling at his too tight neckcloth, Colin only succeeded in poking his finger through the thinning silk. Hastily, he twisted the silk so that the hole wouldn’t show. Good God, my clothing is falling apart even as I wear it. If I’m not careful I’ll end up partially naked in the Duke’s ballroom.
Desperation was a horrible feeling. Nick would advance him funds, of course, any amount Colin wished. But then what? How to ever pay it back? Would he spend his life dependent on his friends?
“No. No. No.” He repeated to himself.
Nick assured him last night that Lord and Lady Cambourne would be in attendance. Lady Miranda’s debut would insist upon their presence. With so many eligible bachelors hovering about the ballroom, Lady Cambourne would be salivating over the sheer opportunity offered her eldest daughter.
Poor Miranda, who preferred catching frogs to learning deportment, had often trailed her older brother and his friends. Fascinated with stories that Colin told her of the wee folk, she became convinced the woods of Gray Covington were full of fairies and trolls. She could often be found crawling about the woods on her hands and knees, all the better to spy a stray fairy that might be hiding. She had also adored sweets, Colin remembered, particularly raisin cakes, which led her to be a bit chubby.
Lady Cambourne had not cared to have her daughter dirty or plump. How well Colin remembered her ladyship declaring at an evening meal when Lord Cambourne’s business kept him in London, that Miranda not be served anything but water and boiled turnips. Miranda wa
s stout, Lady Cambourne decreed in her silken voice as she patted down her wheat-colored coiffure. While Colin, Cam and Lady Cambourne dined on roast, Miranda sat silent in her chair, tears running down her cheeks. When dessert was brought to the table, Lady Cambourne made sure the tray was set directly before her daughter. On the tray lay at least half a dozen freshly baked raisin cakes—Miranda’s favorite.
‘You are a little piglet, Miranda. You already possess an inordinate amount of detriments to your deportment and character without looking like a cow. You’ll see someday that I am doing this for your own good.’
Cam objected, of course, and threatened to tell his father, but Lady Cambourne whispered something in his ear, silencing him.
“Bloody bitch,” Colin hissed out loud. The first time he’d seen her, Colin imagined her to be a fairy princess. Lady Jeanette Cambourne sparkled and shone like the finest diamond. Unfortunately, her ladyship was akin to a perfect, flawless apple, which once bitten into, revealed a rottenness that caused you to fling it away in horror. Her cruelty to Miranda was the least of the woman’s sins. Colin well remembered the discovery of her cuckolding her husband with Gray Covington’s head groom.
The night her ladyship had withheld the raisin cakes from Miranda, Colin had waited until the Marchioness retired to her rooms, then went directly to the kitchens and wrapped half a dozen raisin cakes in a napkin. He wasn’t sure why he’d done it, only that Lady Cambourne’s treatment of her daughter reminded him of the Mad Countess.
Unfortunately, his act of kindness held consequences.
Miranda’s round, plump face lit up with a toothless grin and her eyes turned worshipful as she thanked him. The next day she marched up to him, Nick and Cam while they were building a fort and asked Colin to marry her.
For the next several years, Miranda followed Colin every time he visited Gray Covington. Talking incessantly, she buzzed around him like a gnat he could not rid himself of. Miranda begged for more tales of the wee folk and as she grew older, Greek or Roman myths. He would never have admitted it to Cam, but Colin secretly enjoyed the way she worshipped him. It had made Colin feel important. Needed.
MY WICKED EARL: The Wickeds Book 3 Page 2