Katherine froze, giving one soft, exasperated gasp as the sandy-haired man stepped into view. Lord Benjamin? At one of her papa’s exclusive card parties?
At every card party he’d ever held in Bexley, Papa had only invited the prime of Society, those of good birth, good family. Papa’s parties had a certain luster: The elite company was at least as important as the deep play. Which could only mean one thing: that Lord Benjamin had extremely well-lined pockets, for he certainly did not have the highest ton.
“I should never have guessed him to be well-heeled,” Katherine murmured to herself, even as she thought back to their one and only meeting, in the horse stall. He’d been in gentlemanly garb, but had lacked any particular flair in his appearance. There had been no diamond stud to hold his cravat, no rings on his fingers, no fancy fob or watch tucked into his waistcoat pockets. He had not even sported a beaver hat or gloves—but those might have been left in his box or carriage, she’d been forced to concede.
He had looked . .. understated. Katherine had to admire understatement as being in good taste . . . but Lord Benjamin could learn a thing or two from Mr. Cullman on the subject of dressing so as to quietly proclaim the depth of one’s purse. Mr. Cullman was always dressed to a nicety, even for a simple picnic. His waistcoat was always of the finest fabric, usually shot with silver or gold threads. It would not occur to Mr. Cullman to appear in public without some manner of dash about his person, Katherine felt sure.
Although, to be fair, there was more than one way to give a first impression. Dress was not everything. Manner surely must be considered more important—and in that Lord Benjamin did not fare so poorly. In the horse stall, he had been gruff and critical, but there had also been an unmistakable flash of compassion in his eyes when he’d learned she’d had to surrender her horse, that she had agreed to give it up because giving it up would most benefit the animal.
Too, given the opportunity now to take a second glance at Lord Benjamin’s more sober style of dress, Katherine admitted frills and furbelows would not have suited him, where simple lines and uncomplicated fabrics did. Whereas Cyril Cullman’s masculinity was only accentuated by the lace at his throat, Lord Benjamin’s plain stock better suited his square jaw. The highest shirt points would have covered that jawline, which was what provided balance in his face—so perhaps Lord Benjamin did not so much lack for style, as he chose his own.
Certainly something—or someone—had caused the man to be invited to Papa’s first card party in London, a significant feat for someone whose name was being busily bruited about by the gossipmongers.
Katherine came down the stairs, and saw the answer to her question as soon as she stepped into the parlor now bedecked with card tables: Mr. Cullman was engaged making introductions for the newly arrived Lord Benjamin. It was impossible from their cordial air to think anything other than that Mr. Cullman had to be the man’s sponsor tonight.
Her heart sank—for if she was right she could hardly avoid her betrothed’s protйgй. And how would she explain that she and Lord Benjamin had already met?
Before she could devise a scheme, Mr. Cullman turned and spotted her. “Ah! My dear, do come and meet my newest friend. Miss Oakes, may I present Lord Benjamin Whitbury. Lord Benjamin, Miss Oakes.”
Katherine inclined her head and curtsied, and Lord Benjamin bowed. When he straightened, he said quietly, “Charmed, Miss Oakes.”
“A pleasure,” Katherine murmured, half afraid her relief must show on her face: It was clear he did not intend to claim a prior acquaintance. The only thing he did that might be seen as a bit out of the ordinary was to glance between Katherine and
Mr. Cullman—perhaps wondering if Mr. Cullman was the man to whom she had claimed to be betrothed. Thankfully, Lord Benjamin did not inquire.
Katherine followed in the wake of the two men, as Mr. Cullman made further introductions.
To her surprise, Lord Benjamin did not behave circumspectly only with her, but with everyone he met. He did not seem much like the man who had provoked her in that horse stall, for tonight his conversation was minimal, his statements restrained. He seemed . .. uneasy, not at all like the overconfident, even blustering man who had challenged her this morning to explain herself, who had demanded a kiss from her.
Perhaps he was as mad as the rumors claimed his whole family to be? Or, despite his birth, at heart a country bumpkin, nervous in august company? Or the kind of man who was a bully only when others were not around to confront him in return?
At any rate, if he had grown in Katherine’s esteem by not mentioning their prior meeting, he again lost a measure of her admiration with this curious humbled act of his, for she could only think it had to be an act.
It was nearly half an hour later, when Lord Benjamin was occupied in greeting the Duchess of Dulaney, that Katherine found an opening in which she could pull Mr. Cullman aside to whisper a question in his ear. “How do you know Lord Benjamin?” she asked quietly, her hand on his arm to keep him for a moment close to her side.
“Met him at my club last night,” Mr. Cullman said.
“Boodle’s?”
Mr. Cullman nodded his dark-haired head. “Young Davison will put forth his name as a member, but Lord Benjamin will never make it, of course,” he said with quiet certainty. “Bad ton. The family’s mad, every last one of them, I hear. Add in that the eldest brother, the Marquess of Greyleigh, is married and the wife is breeding already, and it’s clear young Benjamin here will likely never be the marquess. He has no expectations off which to live, and word is his quarter-day allowance amounts to a pittance. He must be at odds with his brother, to have so little a portion. Worse yet, it’s said he did something dishonorable in the navy. Certainly he resigned, lending the rumor some credence. So you have to know the members of Boodle’s will blackball him.”
“What did he do?”
Mr. Cullman shrugged. “Something to do with smuggling, I think it was.”
Katherine gasped. “A navy man? Smuggling?”
“Do not sound so shocked. Happens all the time. One has to suppose it is just that Whitbury was stupid enough to be caught at it.” Mr. Cullman gave a sideways smile, Katherine’s least favorite of his expressions. There was something worldly in that sideways slant—although she could hardly blame the “First Beau” for a worldly air. Still, she much preferred his large, open laughter.
“Then why have you made him your pet this evening?” she asked.
Mr. Cullman slid her a glance, but she could not guess what thoughts rested behind his gaze. “What makes you think I willingly took him on?”
“What—?” she began in startled puzzlement, but Papa interrupted the moment by clapping his hands together. At once a dozen servants flowed into the room, assuming their positions as footmen or croupiers. “Ladies and gentlemen, the tables are now open,” Papa announced with satisfaction.
“Do you play at faro or whist?” Mr. Cullman asked Katherine as he pulled his purse from his pocket in preparation of paying for stakes.
She shook her head, more interested in the former topic, for she could not imagine Mr. Cullman taking on the task of introducing anyone unwillingly. Whatever could he mean? She parted her lips to ask, but before she could say a word, Mr. Cullman placed his hand on her forearm, the gesture somehow intimate in this crowded room. “Miss Oakes ... Katherine. A kiss? For luck?”
His mouth came down upon hers at once, but not before she saw his eyes dancing with an odd emotion—humor? Nervousness? The kiss was over almost before it began, and he had moved away before she could chide him softly for the public kiss. Luck? At cards? Or in asking for her hand?
It did not matter. What mattered was he had all but declared for her by kissing her like this, openly, in front of guests, in her father’s house.
She felt her knees start to tremble again, and she had to sit down in the nearest chair. She felt a dozen pairs of eyes upon her, and knew she was not alone in thinking that Mr. Cullman had just made a public decla
ration.
But why did she feel so . . . peculiar? Not elated, not anxious, not even on the verge of a nervous giggle. /feel. . . numb. It had something to do with the look he’d given her—why had that quick, sudden kiss seemed rather like a . . . well, like a farewell?
Or had he just been embarrassed by his own daring? Was he just behaving as nervously as she ought to be feeling? He would not be the first man to grow tense at the idea of presenting his suit to a father.
Something had happened, but Katherine was not at all sure what it was. She lifted her gaze, searching the room for her secret fiancй, and found him laughing with a group of men in front of a faro table. He looked calm—but she would vow he lacked the usual polished, sanguine air about him. He seemed ... excitable? Agitated?
She would go to him, would stay at hand until another opening occurred, one in which she might take him aside and inquire further....
Katherine sighed, seeing her fiancй swallowed within a veritable horde of gentlemen, who in addition to gaming at the tables seemed intent on learning the First Beau’s opinion on everything from the latest cut of frock coats to Parliament’s debate today. She suspected it would prove a very long evening before time and opportunity provided a chance in which she could get him alone for a moment.
It would surely be even later into the evening before Mr. Cullman could take her papa aside and ask for her hand. A very long time, with a very steady fraying of her nerves.
Chapter 4
Benjamin shook his head as he was offered the dice, which then moved on to the richly bejeweled woman standing next to him. As she threw the dice, eliciting moans of disappointment from those who had bet against her chances, Benjamin glanced down at the decreased pile of money in front of him. He had just lost another quid, which took his losses to a total of fifty pounds. He was keenly aware that fifty pounds would be considered a mere sneeze in this gathering; these people thought nothing of risking a sum that could have rented a cottage in the country for half a year. Their play ran deep, deeper than Benjamin had hoped.
However, he was far more keenly aware that, with the exception of the three ladies present (the duchess, Miss Oakes, and the ancient bejeweled creature next to him by name of Mrs. Huddleston, who kept cackling a need for “more ratafia!”) the men gathered here tonight were the very men he needed to position himself among. He had birth, but no appointment, no waiting billet, and—undeniably—a tattered reputation. Unless he could find a sponsor, his hopes for worthwhile employment in London were dead.
So go home to Severn’s Well, he told himself, just as he had a dozen times before. But the reply was the same as ever: No, he would not go home in retreat.
He had left home to make his own way in the world, to leave the shadow of his father’s cold ways and his mother’s undeniable insanity behind him. He’d gone to become a man, taking with him no more than the small quarterly allowance his brother had put in place for him. Gideon would have gladly given Benjamin more, but that was not how a man found him
self. Benjamin would earn his wages, and grab life with his own two hands, son of a marquess or no.
Gideon had understood—even if he’d not truly understood that he, too, was part of why Benjamin left. For too long, Gideon had ministered to everyone in his home. He’d played the part of father, brother, minister, and master to a score of people, siblings and servants alike. His caring heart had caused him to take the weight of the world on his shoulders, had nearly crushed his spirit under the strain of it. So Benjamin had left his brother’s home in order not to continue contributing to Gideon’s woes.
Never mind that Gideon had since found his redemption, in the love shining forth from the eyes of the woman he married— for by going Benjamin had stumbled onto his own path to fulfillment.
He vowed he would become his own man. He would not return home until he’d achieved at least some measure of that goal. He knew that was pride speaking, but he also knew that when a man has little else, he tends to cling to his pride.
He’d wanted to reestablish his family’s honor as well. . . but that, he thought with a wry, embittered laugh, might be too far beyond his abilities just now. It was enough, for now, if he could find employment, could start again to build a life for himself.
And now, tonight at Sir Albert Oakes’s party, he could feel eyes on him, the eyes of these important men, assessing him, wondering what Mr. Cyril Cullman had seen in him to play the part of sponsor for Benjamin tonight. As well they might wonder, because Benjamin was hard-pressed to say himself. Mr. Davison, his host last night at Boodle’s, was someone Benjamin had known as a friendly face since they were both lads living near Bristol, and so might be counted upon to render the service of introductions. Mr. Cullman, on the other hand, was a complete stranger.
Perhaps Cullman—who was called by the epithet “the First Beau”—was testing the waters of his own popularity, by seeing if he could sponsor a black sheep successfully.
Cullman was jovial and friendly enough—but Benjamin was cautious of those who were too cordial; they were too often either charlatans or fools, in his experience, and it was not the wisest choice to be backed by either.
Yet, in the end, Benjamin had let himself be persuaded to attend this assembly with Mr. Cullman as his patron. If he was a fool to trust Cullman, he would have been a bigger one to decline an invitation to the most exclusive party he’d been offered, and with such a noted companion to hand. His reputation was shattered—but he was the son of a marquess, and the First Beau had decided to deem him worthy company. This was a place to begin building anew.
So far the important personages whose company he shared tonight were cautiously accepting of him. There was speculation in their eyes—and not all of it was negative. If Benjamin could but make it through the evening without a misplaced word and with a measure of good manners, he would have done much to make them question the tales of his leaving the navy, much to improve his chances of later invitations among this most advantageous crowd. Invitations, it was to be hoped, that might result in finding another sponsor, one with a position to offer.
So Benjamin slipped into a manner he was familiar with, that all young seamen were familiar with if they wished to avoid extra patrols, polishing, or swabbing: that of silent observation. He spoke when spoken to, smiled at the right moment during a joke, and played at the cards and dice with a casualness designed to make it seem he was only incidentally interested in the results.
“What’s this, my good man?” Mr. Cullman said with a broad smile as he returned late in the evening to Benjamin’s side. “Is that your wager there? A shilling?”
Benjamin nodded. “Until this good lady took up the dice the table did not fare well,” he said nonchalantly.
“Mrs. Huddleston has changed the luck, has she? Then we must celebrate,” Cullman said, placing a stack of five-pound notes on the table. “Match me!” he urged Benjamin with a wink. “The good lady and I will bring you luck.”
Benjamin loosened the strings of his purse to pull out some pound notes, uneasy with the wink and with himself for being so readily led, but in this company, this place, he had to play along. He had to face the likelihood that he would gamble away half—or, God have mercy, more—of all he possessed in this world. Besides the recently acquired horse, Fallen Angel, every last penny he held to his name amounted to the contents of his purse: just three hundred and fifty, down from the four hundred with which he had begun the evening.
It was a shock of pleasure when Mrs. Huddleston rolled her point and the four five-pound notes Benjamin had placed on the table were doubled to eight. “I told you!” Mr. Cullman said, then he laughed and everyone at the table laughed with him, even the servant who served as croupier. Champagne was called for and the wagering went on.
The spirit of gaming, the champagne, and a slightly intoxicating thrill of sensing he had somehow managed to carve out a small accommodating space in this elite crowd, gradually loosened Benjamin’s constraints. He was a
military man no longer, he reminded himself, and he need not cling to the stiff public image by which he was generally known. His brothers fondly called him a prig, which was true compared to their haphazard concern for their own reputations. But for an officer his demeanor had been completely what it ought to be: somewhat aloof, ready to defend his honor as ferociously as he would his King and Country, but hopefully with a sternness countered by compassion. Still, this was not the time and place for military formality. He forced his stance to relax, and he allowed himself to tell a humorous story, which brought about the laughter of his table mates.
He even let himself flirt a little with the duchess, five decades his senior, contentedly aware that her flirting back was just another sign that he had managed to be accepted, at least for this night.
Tomorrow he would have to thank Mr. Cullman. If he belonged to a club, it would have been fitting to offer the man supper there—perhaps he’d soon belong to Boodle’s. For now, he must at least thank Cullman for granting him this night’s entree.
Late in the evening, his wagering having happily restored his purse to its original four hundred pounds, Benjamin found himself approaching a table that also hosted Miss Oakes. Unlike the cordial nods most of her guests had adopted toward Benjamin this evening, Miss Oakes gave him a cool look across the table as he took a seat. He lifted a brow in inquiry.
“You are less ... reserved than you were earlier tonight,” she surprised him by saying. She had not bothered to lower her voice. Her father, two chairs away, cast her a chastising glance.
“You have found me out. I am a mercurial creature,” Benjamin said lightly. A young man to his right chortled.
“You do not surprise me,” Miss Oakes said, and something in the way she said it made Benjamin glance down at the cards being dealt him, giving him time to school his expression away from a frown. Why that tone of censure? And who was she to question his moods? He had watched her on and off throughout the evening, had seen a half-dozen humors cross her features tonight. A new one had seemed to grace her face every time he glanced up and spied her across the room. He’d seen confusion, doubt, attraction, and even hope upon her visage, and always when she gazed upon Mr. Cyril Cullman.
The Bartered Bridegroom Page 4