Third Son's a Charm

by Shana Galen

  “It has begun.”

  Lorrie furrowed her brow, confused until she realized he meant the dancing had begun. Had she really been searching for Francis that long? She cocked her head toward the conservatory and heard the strains of the violin and the lower notes of the cello floating over the hum of people speaking. The Viking was correct. Lorrie had promised the first dance to the son of a duke, and now she would have to apologize for missing it. She wouldn’t have cared who she offended if her search had resulted in finding Francis, but now she had missed the dance and failed to find her—what was he? A lover?

  Not really. He’d only kissed her two or three times and those were mere pecks.

  Her intended husband? Well, that was what she intended. One look at the Viking reminded her that her father had other ideas.

  Lorrie decided to change tactics. “I never had a chance to thank you for your help last night. I doubt those men even noticed me. They smelled as if they’d drunk half the gin in Seven Dials.”

  It might have been a trick of the flickering firelight behind him, but she thought his mouth curved upward slightly. “I don’t require your thanks.”

  “I’m certain you don’t, but that won’t stop me from offering it. I did need your assistance last night. There’s no danger at the prince’s ball.” She made a shooing gesture. “You needn’t stay at my side.”

  The Viking did not move, and finally—hallelujah—the prickly uncomfortable feeling she felt when she looked at him was replaced by a prickly feeling with which she was more familiar and labeled annoyance.

  Lorrie pursed her lips. “If I walk back inside, you will follow me, won’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “Why? Is it because my father is paying you? I won’t tell him if you enjoy yourself away from me.”

  It hardly seemed possible, but the Viking’s face turned even stonier.

  “Have I said something wrong?” Lorrie asked. “Was it that I mentioned money? I know that’s horribly gauche.”

  “I gave my word,” the Viking said.

  Lorrie frowned, trying to understand the reference. “Oh. You mean, you follow me not because of the money but because you gave your word.”

  A slight nod from her bodyguard.

  Well, what was she supposed to do with that? She could hardly tell the man to forego his principles and leave her be. But if she didn’t, she would never have any time alone with Francis. She’d simply have to find another way to elude the Viking.

  “My father won’t mind if you enjoy yourself a little, tiny bit.” A new idea came to her. “Perhaps when I dance, you could dance as well.” Then she could slip away while he twirled his partner in a waltz. Except, it was rather difficult to imagine the Viking dancing or twirling anyone.

  “I don’t dance.”

  “Of course you don’t.” Her shoulders felt heavy enough to sag. “And I imagine you never enjoy yourself either.”

  “Balls are not enjoyable,” he said.

  “I don’t disagree with you on that point.”

  The expression on his face flickered with surprise, and she smiled, pleased she had put him off his guard for once. “You think because I am on the Marriage Mart I love the opera and balls and all the rest? I suppose I enjoyed it all the first time I attended. I was a debutante last year, and it was all great fun for a few weeks. But now I’d rather be home in the country, spending time with my friends. I miss my friends, daughters of the country gentry.”

  Francis had told her when they married he would buy property in Bedfordshire, and then she would always be close to her childhood friends and her family. How she missed the village schoolchildren she would visit daily when she was at Beauchamp Priory, her father’s estate, named after a baron who had built Bedford Castle not far from what had once been the monastery and then renovated into the Duke of Ridlington’s residence.

  In the meantime, it was quite obvious that Francis was not on the terrace. Could he be waiting for her in the park? It was possible, but she didn’t want to venture into the unlit lawn with the Viking on her heels. There was nothing to do but return to the ballroom and make her apologies to the son of the duke. She really must try and remember his name…Lord…Something…

  “Come on then,” she said to the Viking, and he followed her inside.

  And then a wonderful thing happened. It was the sort of occurrence Lorrie would never have been able to plan or even anticipate. And it gave her exactly the opportunity she had been searching for.

  As Lorrie made her way back to the section of the conservatory set aside for dancing, the Viking so close he would have tread on her train had it been a tad longer, none other than the Prince Regent stepped into their path. Prinny had taken little notice of her on past visits, and she had not expected him to pay her any attention now. Startled, she dropped into a low curtsy. The prince nodded at her. “Lady Lorraine, how good of you to come. I saw your mother a few moments ago. Delightful woman.”

  Lorrie smiled, uncertain how to respond to the comment. Her mother was exactly the sort the prince seemed to prefer, as his mistresses were generally older, experienced women. “Thank you,” she said simply. She might have babbled on about the house or the ball. Lorrie could not stand conversational silences, but the prince’s gaze slid past her and up to her companion.

  “You are one of Draven’s men,” the prince said. “Draven’s Survivors they call you, what?”

  The Viking appeared as surprised as anyone by the prince’s notice, and he gave a stiff bow. “Yes, Your Highness.”

  The prince seemed to expect more, but Lorrie knew the Viking well enough by now to anticipate he would not use any more words than strictly required.

  “I want to thank you for your service.” The prince moved closer, and Lorrie was forced to step aside else she would be crowded out by the regent’s considerable girth. She moved behind the prince, not minding one whit that she was to be left out of the conversation. The Viking tried to keep his eye on her, but he was obliged to pay mind to the future king. “You are Kensington’s son—no, Pembroke’s.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Lorrie stepped back again, back and into the crowd that always swarmed about the regent.

  “Beaumont told me the most harrowing tale of when your group was ambushed in Lyon. Were you there?”

  “I was, but—”

  Another tiny step back and the crowd swallowed Lorrie whole.

  “And what was your role?” the prince asked, excitement making his voice rise in pitch. “How did you and the others escape?”

  Lorrie ducked and squeezed through the throng while the Viking gave what she knew would be a curt reply. But he would not be rid of the regent so easily or quickly, and that meant this was her chance to find Francis. Once again reminded that the dancing had begun, she started for the dance floor and had almost reached it when a man stepped into her path.

  “Francis!” she said, all her breath whooshing out as soon as she recognized him. His golden hair was tousled and curled about his forehead and cheeks, his face smooth and cleanly shaven and just slightly rounded as though the last of his youth had not yet been honed away. His cravat was full and intricately tied, his coat tight over well-shaped shoulders and a lean back. She had remembered him as taller, and when she looked at him now she was startled to find they were of a very similar height. He had always seemed so much more. Now she realized there was probably less than two stones difference in their weight, and whereas before he’d seemed a head taller than she, he was at most only an inch taller. She doubted Francis would be able to lift her and carry her away from two brawling idiots outside the theater.

  Lorrie bit the inside of her cheek and reminded herself that she did not need her husband to carry her about nor did she require him to be tall. All she required was his love.

  “Francis,” she breathed. He caught her gloved h
and and brought it to his lips, his light brown eyes never leaving her face and a wicked smile on his mouth.

  “My darling, my lady. I have been waiting for a chance to have you all to myself.”

  Lorrie’s heart fluttered at the way his gaze slid from her eyes to her lips and back again. “You must have heard that my father hired a bodyguard.”

  “Oh, I heard.” He straightened but did not release her hand. “Interesting choice. Do you know who he is?”

  “I do.” She nodded, her heart swelling with sympathy for his pain. “I’m sorry. I am certain seeing him must pain you.”

  “Indescribably. And it’s made all the worse seeing him so close to you.”

  “He is something of a bulldog. He takes his duty to protect me quite seriously, I’m afraid. I could not manage to evade him.”

  “Yes.” Francis took her hand and led her toward a door leading back out to the lawns. “He is rather simple. One gives him an order, and he follows it. I suppose that is why he was such a good soldier. If my cousin was ordered to fetch, he would fetch.”

  Lorrie considered arguing. After all, as the Viking had just explained, he followed her out of duty, not mindless adherence to orders, but she did not want to argue with Francis, especially not about a man who had caused him so much pain in the past.

  “Let’s not speak of him,” she said, shivering as the cold air cut through the thin silk of her dress.

  “No, let’s not,” Francis said, drawing her further away from the conservatory. “Let’s speak of more pleasant topics. Have I told you how much I missed you?”

  Six

  The next time Ewan saw Rafe he would give him a black eye. Whatever had possessed Beaumont to tell the prince regent so many damned tales about the exploits of Draven’s Survivors? About half of them were mostly true and the other half were truly fiction. Each had a kernel of fact—a location where the men had encountered trouble or a strategy they had used to outwit the frogs—but Ewan could hardly spend all night untangling Rafe’s embellishments.

  As it was, he was uninteresting enough that the regent finally sought other amusements, but it took a good half hour for the prince to tire of Ewan’s one word answers. In all that time, Ewan barely kept his tone or his manner civil. Where the hell had Lady Lorraine gone? With a victorious smile, she’d melted away into the fawning sycophants that comprised the regent’s entourage. Ewan had been powerless to stop her, and now he’d been separated from her quite long enough for any number of men, not the least of which was his cousin, to abduct, harass, or ruin her.

  Ewan looked for her among the dancers first. That was where she should have been. She had promised dances to no less than a flock of men, and Ewan had anticipated standing about the entire night, watching her twirl and flutter her lashes.

  He stood on the side of the dance floor and studied the dancers, looking for her. He’d barely been there a moment before a man stepped in front of him. With a growl, Ewan glared at him.

  “You are Ewan Mostyn, are you not?” the man asked, his face breaking into a smile that showed his crooked teeth. He had dark hair, a long nose, and small eyes.

  Ewan inclined his head.

  “Lord Basil Dottinger.” The man bowed. “We were at school together.”

  Ewan merely stared at him. He’d gone to school when he was seven. He’d been there only a year before he was sent home. The excuse had been fighting, but all the boys fought at school. Everyone knew the real reason Ewan was expelled: he was unteachable.

  “Do you remember me? We sat at the same table for meals.”

  Ewan shook his head.

  “Well, you wouldn’t. You didn’t stay long. Did your parents enroll you in another school?”

  “No,” Ewan said. Heat prickled the back of his neck. The old humiliation washed over him again. This was why he avoided social engagements. He would never measure up to what the son of an earl should be. He was a dolt and a failure at so many things that came easily to other boys. And now he must stand here and have it thrown in his face. And he couldn’t even punch the man because the bloody Prince Regent would scream and faint at the sight of blood.

  “Why not?” Lord Basil asked, but Ewan did not miss the sly smile on his lips. He knew why not. They all did.

  “Go away.” Ewan turned his attention back to the dance floor and ignored Lord Basil. After a few more seemingly innocent questions that received no response, the man did go away. He retreated to a spot within earshot of Ewan and made jests to his friends at Ewan’s expense.

  “Was he as much a dolt as you remember?”

  “He can barely string two words together.”

  “Poor fellow. I heard his father disowned him.”

  “He’s only here tonight because the Duke of Ridlington paid Prinny to receive him.”

  Ewan stiffened. That wasn’t true, was it? He felt his breath grow short, and the heat that burned his neck washed over his face. He wanted to storm out or to turn and fling each man through one of the windows. As he could do neither, he took a deep breath and balled all the pain into a tight knot.

  Control. Restraint. Those traits had kept him alive in the war. This was just a different sort of battle.

  Ewan forced his attention back to the dance floor. He could not waste his time with these petty men and their small worlds. Who the devil cared if they whispered about him or if Ridlington paid the Regent to receive him? He was here for a purpose, and at the moment, he couldn’t find her.

  Lady Lorraine was not on the dance floor, and he was obliged to seek her elsewhere. He tried the area set aside as the supper room and that for cards with no luck. If she’d had any sort of compassion at all, she would have taken up residence in the supper room, where all sorts of delicacies had been laid out to refresh famished guests before the actual meal commenced sometime in the middle of the night or wee hours of the morning. But Ewan had only enough time to snatch a biscuit and a glass of champagne, which he downed like water, before he had to search elsewhere.

  And the elsewhere was obviously to be one of three locations—the lawns, the house itself, or the ladies’ retiring room. Heaven help her if she had allowed Francis or any other man to take her to the back of the house. If the chit got herself ruined on his watch, he would throttle her.

  Ewan couldn’t search the ladies’ retiring room by himself, so he opted to begin searching the lawns. He stepped out onto the terrace where he’d last spoken with her, walked its length quickly, and swore when he did not spot her. She was in the damn house, and now he would have to murder whichever man had led her there.

  He’d turned to do just that when the breeze carried the sound of a light, tinkling laugh his way.

  Ewan turned back and peered out into the dark shadows cast by trees whose branches blew gently in the wind. The night was cold, and the prince had obviously thought the guests would prefer to stay close to the warmth of the conservatory and the myriad entertainments therein because, other than the sconces lining the building and the path back to the house, he had not ordered any other means of light for the lawn or park. Consequently, Ewan could see nothing but tree trunks, the stubby shadows of bushes, and the vague outline of topiaries a little further away. Surely, Lady Lorraine would not have ventured into the gloomy, cold night. She had been wearing a flimsy white dress that bared her neck and enough of her bosom to force him to look away before he looked closer. The sleeves had been little puffs and her gold wrap was so insubstantial that he wondered why she bothered with it at all.

  The laughter he’d heard might have come from any woman who had sought privacy with her lover in the shadows, but Ewan had to be certain it was not his charge. He would rather apologize to the couple for interrupting their tryst than to the Duke of Ridlington for losing his daughter.

  Ewan started in the direction of the laugh, and though he’d never been a great tracker, he’d spent more than eno
ugh time navigating through dark and dangerous landscape that he had little trouble locating the couple. The two were murmuring together quietly. He heard first the man’s voice and then the woman’s. Ewan crept closer, the topiary shielding his approach. If this was not Lady Lorraine, then he could retreat without being seen.

  “Darling, I know you are impatient, but we will have our whole lives together. A few more months is not much to wait.”

  Ewan’s heart sank into his belly. He knew that voice. Ewan felt six again, and he had the urge to shrink down as small as he could make himself and pray with all his might that no one would notice him behind the bush trimmed to look like a swan.

  “But why should we wait?” the woman asked. “I told you. I don’t care about the money.”

  The sound of Lady Lorraine’s voice, quick and light as a song, was like a snowball in Ewan’s face. He straightened his shoulders and rose to his full height. He would kill Francis and then make Lady Lorraine wish he’d murdered her.

  “Darling, we must live on something—”

  “I can find work,” she protested. “I can take in washing or bake pies to sell. Any sacrifice would be worth it if I could be with you.”

  Ewan had been moving forward and now he rounded the main body of the swan topiary and saw Lady Lorraine put her hands on Francis’s shoulders. For a moment, the sight of his old nemesis paralyzed Ewan. His body sought to betray him, and his feet would not move forward. Consequently, he had time to note that Francis did not take the liberty any other man in his position would have and put his arms around the woman before him.

  “Kiss me,” she said, looking up at Francis with adoring eyes the bastard did not deserve in the least. “I could wait forever if you would but kiss me.”

  It was perhaps the silliest speech Ewan had ever heard. It was the sort of thing he expected one of Beaumont’s women to say, and yet despite the melodrama of the sentiment, at that moment Ewan hated Francis more than he ever had when his cousin had been his daily tormentor.