Guessing her thoughts, her brother-in-law’s light-blue eyes twinkled with amusement. “A husband is not so easily deterred from learning his wife’s secrets as is her family,” he warned.
She gave her misshapen bonnet one more tug before she faced Tipton. “Then I shall count myself fortunate I do not possess one.”
* * *
Keanan entered the gaming hell, dressed more like a rake searching for trouble in the stews than a man who had been whelped in them. Gambling by means of a card game or the throw of the dice had never captivated him. Too much was left to chance.
He preferred to be in control of his own fate. Tonight he sought the man who could bring him closer to the polite world he craved.
“Milroy!”
Keanan nodded his head, acknowledging the summons. He took his time finding his way to the gentleman’s table. It would not do to appear too eager. Sighting the proprietress of the Silver Serpent, he switched directions to meet her halfway.
Somewhere in her forties, Blanche Chabbert had taken over running the small gaming house after the death of her husband ten years ago. In her capable hands, she had managed to triple the profits.
“Mr. Milroy, it is good of you to remember us.” She genteelly offered her hand.
Bowing, he said, “Mrs. Chabbert. To my regret, my absence has deprived me of your enlightened companionship.”
Being the focus of his devastating charm had her twittering. “Rogue!” Giving up all formal pretenses, she threw her arms around him. “Keanan Milroy, look at you. All dressed up like a first consequence gentleman. I almost didn’t recognize you.” She gave him a playful push.
He endured her good-natured teasing and motherly petting. He had been barely fifteen when Blanche’s husband, Henry, had hauled him, kicking, into the small rooms they kept for themselves in the back of the gaming hell. He was bleeding from his mouth and nose when Henry had rescued him from a severe beating by a gang of boys; even though at the time, Keanan had been far from grateful. It had been four against one. Terrible odds for someone his size and age. Even so, he’d had two on the ground crying for the mothers who had abandoned them, before Henry had run them off.
“Blanche, my love, we’ve got a boy who fancies himself a fighter,” Henry, a man who made his living encouraging others to play the odds, had crowed over his latest discovery. “Not much to look at. But what food doesn’t add to that lanky frame, age will, lad. In your prime, those fists will be your fortune.”
Henry’s words resounded in Keanan’s head. The old gambler had been right. He and Blanche had taken the half-wild boy into their home. They had provided food and a place to lay his head when he would accept it. He had too much pride and mistrust to remain, yet he always had returned. The bait Henry had dangled was too tempting. The sly old man had offered to train him for the ring. Eventually, he had even put up the first few stakes. It was a debt Keanan could never repay.
“What are you doing here, love?” Blanche asked, interrupting his thoughts. “You know I enjoy seeing you, but you’ve never been one to squander your coin playing cards.”
Unlike your father.
He flinched, reacting as if she had spoken the insulting comparison. Retreating from her embrace, Keanan scanned through the smoky haze in the room, seeking one man in the crowd of shadowed faces. Recognition made his breath hitch. There in the corner sat Wesley Fawks, Duke of Reckester. His noble sire.
“How long has he been here?”
Blanche was not fooled by his dull, reasonable tone. “Now, Keanan, I want no trouble from you.”
Seething, Keanan watched his father lay down his cards. Laughing, the man who refused to acknowledge him nudged the player to his left and reached forward to collect his winnings. The normalcy of the scene almost sent his unnoticed son into a murderous rage.
“He isn’t worth it,” Blanche hissed, her hand stroking the sleeve of his coat in an attempt to soothe him. “If you can’t think of yourself, then think of me. I depend on his kind to patronize my establishment. To turn one out is like refusing them all.” Her eyes begged him to understand. “They drink themselves senseless and lose half their fortunes before they sober. It is a revenge of sorts, is it not?”
Restrained frustration had him removing his hat and threading his fingers through his short, dark-blond hair. He clapped his hat back in place. “Not enough, madam. Not for me. Never for me.”
Blanche flinched at his vehemence. She had always been too kindhearted to comprehend such hatred. “I can’t talk to you when you are in this state. Dressed as you are, I assume you came for a respectable purpose. Hold tight that anger, or you’ll be allowing the foolish old sot to ruin your evening plans. A shame, for I thought better of you.”
Attacking his sire did not suit his purposes. He was a gentleman now. There were subtle ways of gaining his revenge. “You’re right, of course, love.” He took up both her hands and kissed her knuckles. “Ply him with drink and weak cards. May he awaken in Queer Street come dawn.”
Recognizing the storm had passed, she beamed affectionately at him. “There’s my lad. You have enough Irish in you to summon a curse from hell and fire it straight into his black heart.”
Keanan hugged her. He thought of the man waiting for him. If it pleased her believing Reckester was safe from his bastard son, then he would not shatter her illusions.
Four
Anticipation thrummed through Wynne as she and her papa sat in their coach. They were just another link in a long chain of coaches snaking down the street, the participants each awaiting their turn to be escorted down by liveried footmen. Twelve days had passed since her encounter with the unsavory Mr. Egger. A light dusting of face powder concealed the remaining trace of the bruise on her cheek.
“Bothersome, this pomp, when all a man craves is something to relieve the dryness in his throat,” Sir Thomas Bedegrayne complained for the third time.
“Papa, Lord and Lady Lumley revel in providing the most spectacular event of the season. Even you manage to turn up for their yearly ball,” she reminded him.
“I had my gels to marry off,” his low voice boomed in the small confines. “How else were these young bucks going to get a good look at you?” The dim interior had him squinting at her. “Your sister Irene did her duty. She married her viscount almost thirteen years ago.”
Wynne sensed a lecture brewing concerning her unmatched state. Their frequency had increased over the past two years. She longed to stick her head out the window and count how many carriages were ahead of them until her reprieve.
“And my sweet baby, Devona. She secured a fine husband in Tipton,” he arrogantly declared, pretending he had a hand in their match.
“More likely was bullied into it,” she countered. “Papa, I am attending the ball. Lady Lumley has most likely shaken the trees for London’s most eligible, and we are about to witness a showing that will put any horse auction at Tattersall’s to shame. Be content.”
Sir Thomas’s bushy brows came together. The gray wild hairs reminded her of a ghostly caterpillar. She pursed her lips.
Her father made an exasperated sound. “Crusty as an ace of spades at her husband’s funeral. Stubborn, too. That pretty face of yours has given me more grief than a dear papa should bear.”
“Really, Papa.” It was an old lament. The coach lurched forward, then suddenly halted.
“A plain gel wouldn’t quibble about her suitors. She’d be pleased to receive any man’s card.”
She switched tactics. “Not every man is suited to be your son-in-law.”
The turnabout logic pleased the old devil. “Quite. Quite.”
A harried footman flung open the coach door, granting Wynne her desired reprieve.
* * *
It was a maddening crush. Most of the ton seemed to have accepted Lord and Lady Lumley’s invitation. Wynne and Sir Thomas helplessly rode the rising tide of delicate muslins and silk, pressing their way forward to the obligatory greetings of their host and h
ostess before making their way to the entertainments of the evening.
Identically dressed twin girls, wearing ribbons and conservatory roses in their hair, stood at the entrance of the ballroom passing out nosegays. Wynne accepted her flowers and was about to move on to the ballroom, when her father touched her on the arm.
“A man needs fortification to withstand such plumed pageantry.” His shoulders hunched when he realized his presence had caught the attention of one very persistent widow. “God-awful matrons. Always bothering me, seeking to ruin my blissful unwedded state.”
Interested, she sought out the recipient of her father’s glowering. She recognized the god-awful matron in question as Lady Malion. After losing her husband five years ago, she had been not so subtly pursuing Wynne’s father for the past eighteen months.
“Ah, yes. Matrons are always matchmaking. Not unlike persistent papas.” Wynne affectionately reached for a handful of side whisker and tugged him closer. She kissed him on the cheek. “Go hide in the card room, Papa. Aunt Moll should be about, and will keep my ardent suitors at a respectable distance. Careful strategy will keep both our blissful unwedded states intact.”
Sir Thomas showed all the signs of a father brewing an objection, but it sputtered out with the knowledge that he had been masterfully maneuvered. If he remained to oversee his daughter, he would have to endure Lady Malion’s amorous attentions. “A frumpy, one-armed pea-goose for a daughter would be less trouble,” he grumbled.
Laughter and candlelight competed for brilliance in her eyes. “I adore you, too, Papa.”
“Do not underestimate your aunt. I am not the only Bedegrayne who would prefer seeing you spliced to some proper gallant.” Satisfied he had the last word, he went off seeking safer entertainment.
* * *
Many in the crowded ballroom had witnessed the intimate byplay between father and daughter. The myriad of responses varied. Some envied the cherished relationship of father and child, while others thought that the senior Bedegrayne exceedingly indulged his daughters. The results were progeny who were too willful, too educated. Too finicky.
From across the room, Keanan discreetly watched the woman. If he had not been told it was she, he would not have recognized the elegant, refined woman in the rose dress as the bedraggled, distressed waif he had rescued at the canal.
He had a name to place with that fair face: Miss Wynne Bedegrayne. Once he had Tipton’s name, the rest had been relatively simple. Either due to the viscount’s notoriety or to his own peculiar selection of intimates, Keanan quickly learned Miss Bedegrayne was neither wife, mistress, nor hired help. She was Tipton’s sister by marriage.
Beyond that revelation, he had gathered little more information about the lady. He considered his recent introduction to polite society fortunate. Although his presence at the ball was motivated by his ambitions, he saw no reason why he could not indulge in the evening’s pleasures. Gaining an introduction to Miss Wynne Bedegrayne had suddenly become a priority.
“Ho, Milroy. My apologies for abandoning you, sir.”
Keanan raised a hand to still the man’s protest, though his attention still remained on Miss Bedegrayne. Her presence had made the unattached males subtly migrate to her side of the ballroom. They hovered around her in a growing circle like drones supplicating their queen bee. Simpering, flattering fools. He scowled.
Misunderstanding the reason for Keanan’s ill temper, the man suggested, “I realize a man of your caliber might find the Lumley function a bit tame.”
Tearing his gaze away from the woman, he gave the young lord his complete attention. His new acquaintance, Caster Evett, had recently claimed the title Marquess of Lothbury upon the death of his father three months earlier. Lothbury had enthusiastically embraced his miserly father’s demise by embarking on a hedonistic spree of horses, women, and gambling. The last vice had led him to cross paths with Keanan.
“I do not follow,” he said, modulating his accent so it was more fitting for his surroundings. He considered the talent a gift from his mother. “What caliber do you mean?”
The young marquess blinked. “Nothing offensive, I assure you. It’s just sipping tepid lemonade and having young misses fluttering their lashes at you does not compare to the exciting atmosphere of the ring.”
Either Lothbury was concerned about his new friend’s reaction to the ball, or perhaps the man was already regretting his patronage. This would not do. He needed this entrance into society. “There is nothing like a good fight to fire a man’s blood, Lothbury. But standing here admiring the exotic butterflies as they flitted around the room can stir a man in a different way. Yea?” He gave him a conspiring wink.
Both men chuckled.
Keanan deliberately focused his interest on the woman. “Speaking of exotics…” He trailed off, waiting for his friend to catch up.
Lothbury scanned the opposite side of the room. Not surprisingly, he settled on the proper lady. His hazel eyes warmed with awareness. “Ah, yes, Miss Bedegrayne. Quite beautiful. And quite unattainable. More than one man has cast his lot for her hand, only to be refused by the aloof Aphrodite Urania.”
“Goddess of the heavens,” Keanan mused. Blanche had a fondness for Greek myths. “It suits her. I want an introduction.”
“That can be arranged. You are new to our circle, and thus a curiosity. It is one of the reasons why I have been selective of the events you’ve attended. Our efforts should have the gentlemen clamoring to lift a toast to the ton’s favorite pugilist, and the ladies yearning after your marvelous physique.”
He had no quarrel with Lothbury if it contented the man to believe he was responsible for their presence this evening. His new friend possessed an affable manner that was amusing if not dangerously naïve at times. The young marquess needed his friendship just as much as Keanan had use for his.
“I trust the execution of our endeavor to you, my lord.”
* * *
Wynne’s desire to dance had dwindled the moment she had seen her great-aunt’s pale countenance. Her health had been poor after a rather nasty fall nine months earlier. The injury had made her a veritable recluse. Glancing back for the third time, Wynne was pleased to see her aunt sitting beside her old friend Mrs. Cryer, engrossed in a lively debate.
“Cease fussing, Wynne.” The familiar voice had her whirling in delight. “Your aunt is in good hands, and enjoying herself. She would be upset learning you have refused two earls and a viscount on her behalf.”
“Brook! Or rather, Lady A’Court.” She embraced her friend and coconspirator from Miss Rann’s School of the Ladies’ Arts. “When did you return to England? The last I heard, you were extending your wedding tour of Italy another month.”
“A business matter demanded Lyon’s attention,” Brook confessed. Her upswept blond tresses, a similar hue to Wynne’s, lent a superficial impression that the two women were related. “It was idealistic of us to assume we could vanish from our responsibilities for long.”
“Well, I for one am pleased to have you around. Papa is lamenting my unwedded state again, and I fear I shall be married before the year is out if he has his way.”
Peripherally she spotted the Marquess of Lothbury making the rounds, renewing his acquaintance with various young ladies who had caught his eye. It did not astonish her that the new marquess would be searching for a bride.
“Perhaps, as a newly wedded lady, you could offer some advice in choosing the proper husband?” Wynne asked, surprised that Brook tensed at her question.
“Miss Bedegrayne,” the Marquess of Lothbury called out, dividing her attention.
Brook squeezed her hand. “Lyon has arrived. I must leave you.” She rushed off. Wynne observed her friend greet the sullen earl. Ten years Brook’s senior, the silver in his dark locks made him seem more dashing than old.
“Miss Bedegrayne, this evening I have been spared chasing you about the room.” The marquess’s tone rebuked as well as expressed his pleasure.
Wynne curtsied. “My lord. I was renewing an old acquaintance. Are you familiar with Lord and Lady A’Court?”
“Not particularly,” he said, dismissing the subject. “I, too, am making acquaintances, both old and new. Come, my dear Miss Bedegrayne.” He offered his arm. “I have a new friend who desires an introduction.”
Bemused, Wynne allowed the marquess to escort her across the room. Because he was a year younger than her, she considered herself quite safe from his favor. A man in his position would clearly require a young woman not quite so on the shelf as she was at three and twenty.
“Sir, a moment, if you please.”
It took all the polished skills of deportment she had learned at Miss Rann’s school not to gape openly. Seeing him again brought back the mortification she felt about that awful day near the canal.
Unaware of Wynne’s mounting horror and the fighter’s comprehending scrutiny, the Marquess of Lothbury made his introductions.
“Mr. Milroy, a pleasure,” she said; the words were false and he knew it.
* * *
Keanan credited her for handling what was an apparent shock. The tremor in her extended hand might have gone unnoticed if he had not been examining her reaction to him so attentively.
“Miss Bedegrayne.” To prove to them both that he could be chivalrous, he accepted her hand and bowed. “Rumors of your beauty reach beyond this ballroom. When Lothbury revealed your presence, I insisted on an introduction.”
The bland conversation seemed to steady her. The wariness had not left the cool, intriguing depths of her green eyes, but her bearing had lost that restless movement, signaling the need to bolt.
“You are most gracious, sir.” She took a deep breath; a nonverbal decision flashed in her expressive eyes. Swift determination set her jaw. Her chin lifted a notch. “Pardon my boldness, but I must ask. You seem familiar to me, Mr. Milroy. Have we met?”
Her daring, aggressive approach was most unexpected. For a lady who had secrets and a reputation to protect, she risked much in challenging him so publicly. His admiration grew toward her, even though he could not resist poking at her composure.
The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy Page 5