He had already done that. The experience had not been pleasant. No one had said a word to him, but he passed by a low drone of whispers wherever he walked, much like a sailor might be forced to walk a gauntlet.
A firm believer that pain should be endured all at once, rather than suffer a thousand small cuts, he decided he would risk a few sword thrusts this evening, before calling for Marianne and her mother. Hopefully the more stupid of the men would not be foxed yet, and keep their distance.
Alas, it was not to be. No sooner had he walked into the hall than a clutch of men at the faro table noticed him. They watched him, grinning, jabbing each other and mumbling in ways that had them roaring with laughter soon.
“Please do not go over there,” Gareth said at his side.
“Of course I won’t. Now go ask them not to come near me, why don’t you?” He took his place at the wheel. The others there eased away, and not out of respect for his station.
As if that were not bad enough, he kept losing. Within a quarter hour he dropped five hundred pounds.
“Are you done?” Gareth asked. He stood back a little and to the side. Lance suspected that position was to try to intercept anyone looking to make trouble.
Unfortunately, the trouble came from the other side, and not the kind either of them expected.
“Aylesbury.” The deep voice sounded lowly, and seriously.
He did not look over, but kept his gaze on the wheel and the bets. “Carlsworth. Odd to see you here.” The Baron Carlsworth had political ambitions of the sort that were not enhanced by being seen in democratic gaming halls. Especially not at a time when democracy was not popular with those wielding power.
“I accompanied a nephew at his father’s request, to keep an eye on the family purse.” Carlsworth deigned to place a bet of his own. A very small one.
“You have never met my brother.” Still playing, he made the introductions. Carlsworth, a stiff man by nature, got stiffer.
“I would like to have a word with you, Aylesbury. Privately.”
“I cannot imagine why. It would be the first such word we have ever had. If you want to complain about my votes on the stupid laws passed in December, I promise you that better men have already burned my ear about it.” Few of the lords had liked his vote, or his speech, the only one he had given yet in Parliament. That bill had been the only time he wished he had lived a better life. His opposition might have carried more weight if he had.
“It is in your interest, I promise you.” Carlsworth murmured the words right into his ear, like a lover.
He pushed Carlsworth away. “Oh, hell, fine. Gareth, keep an eye on my winnings.”
“There are no winnings.”
No, there were not. He was down by hundreds more.
He strode off, gesturing for Carlsworth to follow. He found an isolated corner.
He did not dislike Carlsworth. He simply never much noticed him. He did now. Thin and frail and middling in height, Carlsworth’s most notable feature was a very large forehead that loomed above eyes a tad too small to carry it. Since his red hair had begun receding, that forehead grew larger by the month.
“I want you to know that I speak as a friend,” Carlsworth said. “I hope you will think of me as one. I risk the displeasure of important men by telling you what I am about to reveal.”
He wanted something. Lance half expected to hear an overture to blackmail next.
“I have learned—please do not ask me to tell you from whom—that the recent discussions about your brother’s death have brought the matter again to the attention of the prime minister and others in high station.”
“It is said the king is on his deathbed, and they worry about me? Better they should be planning the transition to a new monarch.”
“They worry about the perception of the matter, as it happens, not about you.”
He did not like how Carlsworth said that. So seriously. So confidentially. “Go on.”
“Liverpool has asked Eldon to consider appointing a lord high steward.”
A thickness lodged in Lance’s chest. The Lord Eldon was the lord chancellor. He presided over the House of Lords. If a lord high steward were appointed, it would be for a trial of one of the peers. Most likely Eldon would be given that role, too, for the duration.
“Go on.”
“He—Liverpool—thinks that the death of a peer should not go unresolved so long. Nor, considering the mood abroad in the land, should it be thought that a peer can escape judgment due to his rank.” Carlsworth made a face of both apology and regret, as if he wished he did not bear such unfortunate news.
“Why are you telling me this?”
Carlsworth flustered. “I thought you should know. Once the king dies—that is, soon after, a move may be made.”
What do you want in return for warning me? He did not have to ask. Like so many people, Carlsworth wanted a duke as a friend. As a connection. Or, in this case, maybe in his pocket should he catch a cold that only a ducal handkerchief would alleviate.
“Your consideration will not be forgotten.” With that, Lance strode back to the roulette table.
“Did you win anything?” he asked Gareth.
“I am not going to gamble with your money.”
“You could have gambled with your own.” He picked up what was left on the table.
“I have a family now. I don’t gamble.”
“You don’t do lots of things anymore. How can you stand it?”
Gareth just smiled like a man with a secret he would not share.
Lance aimed for the door, and his coach. The pleasant mood he had worn leaving his house this evening deserted him with each step.
He did not know what disheartened him more—that the lord chancellor might begin advocating for a trial in the House of Lords, or whether Gareth Fitzallen, infamous sensualist and curse of aristocratic husbands everywhere, had been thoroughly domesticated.
* * *
Lance sat in the library of Radley’s hired house, thinking he would not mind getting drunk. Sir Horace sat with him. They awaited the ladies’ descent from above after the ladies completed all the things ladies did to prepare themselves.
“I will be returning to Gloucester tomorrow,” Radley said.
“To consult with Peterson?”
Radley looked aghast. “What do you mean?”
“According to a Mr. Tewkberry, the coroner thinks the question over my brother’s death will be resolved soon.”
“Who the hell is this Tewkberry, that is what I’d like to know.”
“Not more than I would.”
Radley tried an appeasing smile. “I assure you that if Peterson has some intention, he has not informed me of it.”
“You said you could influence him. Since it sounds as if he thinks developments are afoot, I simply wondered if you had done so.”
“See here. I am a man of my word.” He looked at the door to make sure it was closed and no one was about to enter. “I will confess that I wish you had given my niece more attention than one dance at that assembly. However, when I learned of this dinner party—I am not an impatient man, and it appears matters are progressing nicely.”
“You may not be impatient, but others are. As for this Tewkberry, he should pray I never meet him.” After leaving Gareth at his house to make his own way to the dinner, he had spent the time mentally detailing the indignities he would visit on the troublemaker when he found him.
“The talk will die down. It always does. And once things are settled with my niece—”
The door opened then. The ladies entered.
Mrs. Radley could not be described as anything but handsome. Today she had taken great care with her dress and appearance, most notably in a patterned silk shawl that dripped expensively down her shoulders to her knees, over a dress the color of parchment.
>
She entered first, obscuring her daughter. Once inside the chamber she stood aside, in a bit of theater, to reveal Marianne.
Even his mood could not defeat his reaction to seeing her. She looked lovely in the same ice blue dress she had worn to the assembly. It had been enhanced with silver trims. A thin wrap hung in a liquid flow on her arms, its color changing from gray to blue as she moved.
His whole being warmed. An arousal simmered, threatening to become more.
He walked forward, and offered one arm to each of the ladies.
* * *
Two sons of the old duke had married very interesting women. Marianne guessed that other words were used to describe them in some drawing rooms.
Mr. Fitzallen’s wife, Eva, visibly pregnant, refused anyone’s attempts to treat her like a fragile decoration or, worse, an invalid. Except for the obvious effects on her silhouette, one would never guess she was well along. She painted, her husband mentioned, and they had even visited Italy so she could study with some famous artist. She still took lessons, despite her condition.
Lord Ywain’s wife might be considered odd in every way, although it could not be clearer that her husband adored her. A very tall woman, she did not appear to notice that her unusual stature might be thought unattractive. Indeed, unless Marianne had not seen correctly, she stood taller than normal tonight. Marianne had noticed little heels on her shoes.
Mama commented on Padua’s given name before dinner, and received a brief explanation of how her parents had met in that city, and fallen in love, while her mother studied at the university there.
“She wants to do the same thing,” Aylesbury said, joining the conversation as he walked by. “You have convinced my brother that it is a splendid idea, haven’t you, Padua?”
“As it happened, your brother insisted we go, and that I devote myself this winter to preparing for my studies there.” Her dark, glittering eyes did not waver under the duke’s gaze. “He even demanded it be part of our marriage settlement.”
To conclude they did not like each other would be putting too much weight on such a brief exchange. All the same Marianne sensed a fragile truce between them, as if there had recently been a row.
Aylesbury moved on. Padua shook her head. “He is like a boy sometimes,” she said. “He thinks I am taking his brother to the ends of the earth, and he will never have the use of Ives again.”
“‘Use of him’ is a harsh way to put it,” Eva said.
“Is it? The duke keeps getting into scraps and Ives keeps getting him out. Or trying to.”
“They are comrades as well as brothers. Aylesbury is going to miss him, that is all. He won’t admit it, but that is the source of any pique with your plans.”
Padua began to say something, looked at Marianne, and thought better of it. “See how informal we are, Miss Radley? We bicker in front of new friends, we are so at ease in each other’s company.”
“I think it is wonderful. It is rare for me to meet so many new people and have them act so naturally in front of me. I think even a bit of bickering reflects warmth and care.”
Just then a melodic laugh drifted to them. They all looked at its source. Mama sat with Mr. Fitzallen, and he had her all aglow with delight.
Eva cast a sidelong look at Padua. They both bit back smiles. Marianne felt her face getting red.
Eva noticed. “Please do not look so embarrassed. He charms ladies without intending to, and ladies respond in the normal way. I certainly did.”
“I was not familiar with either of you at the time, but I think it is safe that any charming he did of you was most definitely intentional,” Padua said.
Mama had launched into some story. Mr. Fitzallen listened closely, as few men ever did to women. That was part of his charm, Marianne guessed. He actually listened.
They went down to dinner. Padua mercifully put Mama at the end of the table away from Marianne. Unfortunately, she found herself sitting right next to Aylesbury.
“What a fascinating family you have,” she said.
“You mean my brothers’ wives? My mother would not have approved of either one. My father would have raised some objections too. Poor as church mice they both were. Not at all appropriate, but Eros was busy, and here we are.”
“Did you object too? Both unions are recent, and you were the duke. I would think your opinion would matter too.”
“Someday I will tell you about my parents’ marriage. Most appropriate, it was. No one objected. Indeed, machinations were involved to arrange it. Gareth’s existence is testament to how well that worked. No, I did not object. Either brother would have ignored me, and possibly broken with me, if I had.”
“They were too in love to listen or care, you mean.”
“They were both certainly in lust. If there was love, too, I would not recognize it.”
Eva, who sat to her left, leaned forward. “Are you gossiping about me, Aylesbury?”
“I was explaining to Miss Radley how you and Gareth were so enthralled by passion that neither one of you would hear the slightest negative about the other.” He pretended to whisper to Marianne. “They are still enthralled, by the way. It turns out, I was surprised to learn, that a woman being in the family way does not interfere with—”
“Aylesbury!” Eva glared at him. “Miss Radley is a guest, not a male friend with whom you have gotten foxed. What will she think of us if you speak of such things at this dinner?”
“She will think I am rude as well as bad, I suppose. My apologies, Miss Radley. And apologies to you, too, Eva.” He poured more wine, took a sip, then looked over at Eva. “Didn’t you say, upon meeting her tonight, that you saw Miss Radley in the park the other day?”
Eva frowned, perplexed. “No—”
“I am sure I heard you telling Padua that. You were in the park taking some air, and you noticed this attractive woman with a blond girl and a fair gentleman. An officer, I think you said.”
“Oh. Yes.” Eva gave a half smile. “That is right.”
Marianne had to give Eva credit. She was loyal enough to tell a lie if cornered into one by the duke.
“Who was he?” Aylesbury asked Marianne. “The officer.”
He obviously knew about that meeting with Vincent. If he did, and Eva had not seen it, that meant he had.
Had he followed her? For what purpose? As for his impertinent question—
“He is an old friend. He came up to town for a few days.”
“Is that why you came up to town? To see him?”
Eva had turned her attention and conversation to Ives, on her other side. Marianne kept her expression calm, but Aylesbury’s inquisitiveness vexed her.
“I do not see how my friends are of any interest to you, sir, let alone cause for such persistent curiosity.”
“Your friends are not, but your lovers are. If I am going to seduce a woman, I prefer she not be in love with another man. That is so complicated.”
“Do not trouble yourself about complications. There will be none, since there will be no seduction.”
A slow smile. A warm glance. “You know that is not true, pretty flower.”
With that he turned his attention to Gareth, across the table.
* * *
Seeing Marianne banished the melancholy that Carlsworth’s revelation had induced. However, as the night wore on, that dullness seeped back into Lance’s spirit like a fog. Damp and gray, it muted his perceptions, and his attention on the others. Only sitting beside Marianne kept it from overtaking him completely.
After dinner, while he and his brothers shared some port before joining the ladies, Ives brought up the health of the monarch.
“The end is near, that is the word out of Windsor,” Ives said. “It is said he raved for fifty-eight hours nonstop in December, and then lapsed into his current illness.”
“He has been in misery a long time,” Gareth said. “Passing may be a blessing. I suppose Prinny will make a decent king.”
No one voiced an opinion on that. Lance assumed Ives would not want to, since he had the prince’s favor. It is never wise to criticize such a patron, even within the privacy of your family.
“How long?” Lance asked. “After he passes, how long before the government and its actions return to normal?”
Ives shrugged. “It has been so long since a transition occurred, I doubt anyone knows. I would expect it to take at least a month before anything like normal is seen again, and probably a year before Prinny is crowned. The most important matters must be addressed, of course. I expect much will wait, so no one appears so busy it might appear he is not mourning.”
A month. Not long. Probably not long enough to find out the truth about Percy. He had made damned little progress so far.
His brothers rose and began the path to the drawing room. Lance followed. The port had only increased the fog. It wanted to settle low on all of him, much as it did on London’s streets at night.
In the drawing room, Marianne sat with the other ladies. Their conversation sounded merry, and they all looked happy. His brothers joined them, and Ives and Gareth drew laughs and smiles from Marianne, along with the others.
Lance stood beside the group, watching. Mostly his gaze rested on Marianne. He envied her bright spirit and admired her self-possession. Even as the second son of a duke, women had fawned over him. She had not, even now that he held the title.
He respected that. He liked her. In his dull mood and facing possible humiliation or worse, Sir Horace’s proposed bargain did not sound nearly so insolent.
He could do worse. She was not appropriate, but who was he to care about that? She was as poor as his brothers’ wives, but that was the least of it. He was rich, after all.
His mother would probably haunt him for it, and even his father’s rest might be disturbed. And Percy—well, he could hear what Percy would be snarling from within that ugly mausoleum. The chance to irritate Percy even in death made the idea more appealing.
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