by Brenda Hiatt
Chuckling, Jack continued back to where Lady Haughton had now been joined by Lord and Lady Creamcroft. “The reputation is still ascendant, it would seem,” he said in an undertone to Peter as they approached the trio. “Is Lady Creamcroft such a dragon in the defense of her sister, do you suppose?”
“I’d imagine Lady Haughton can defend herself, after a lifetime of the sort of tutelage she’s had.” Peter motioned off to the left with his head. “There’s Miss Varens. Perhaps you’ll need to lower your standards just a hair.”
Jack glanced at his friend in surprise. “You wound me, Peter! At any rate, I must bring Lady Haughton the refreshment I promised her before pursuing other game.” This last was said a shade too loudly, Jack realized belatedly. Lady Haughton appeared not to have heard, but her sister was frowning—whether at his words or at him in general, he couldn’t tell.
“Your ratafia, Lady Haughton.” He presented the drink with a flourish. “I believe the entertainment will be beginning in a moment.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The expression in her brown eyes, when she lifted them briefly, was wary but not censorious. “Have you met my sister and her husband, Lord and Lady Creamcroft?” She seemed anxious to turn his attention away from herself.
“Creamcroft, we’ve met at Boodle’s, have we not?” The young baron nodded his assent. He seemed a pleasant enough fellow, at least. “Lady Creamcroft, I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure. Charmed.”
Lady Creamcroft responded most properly, but her expression told him she’d heard all the worst tales about him—most of them true, unfortunately. She edged herself almost imperceptibly in front of her sister. A dragon indeed, albeit a young and pretty one—nearly as pretty as Lady Haughton, in fact, her brown hair touched with golden highlights instead of red ones. Amazing that poker-faced old Cherryhurst could have produced these two beauties.
“My lord,” she said formally. “If you’ll excuse us, we’d best take our seats.”
As the trio retreated, Jack just caught the curious glance Lady Haughton sent her sister. Doubtless by the end of the evening she’d have heard everything her sister knew of him.
He frowned. He’d just faced almost the identical situation with Lady Beatrice and her father, and it had afforded him only amusement. So why should the thought of Lady Haughton learning of his reputation cost him a pang? He didn’t know, but couldn’t deny that it did.
“Cross off another one,” said Peter in his ear. “Looks like this won’t be so easy as you thought.”
“I never said it would be easy.” Jack couldn’t quite hide his irritation. “There’s your Miss Varens. Care to introduce me?”
Peter performed the office, but though they said all that was proper, Jack was greeted by cold stares, not only from Sir Arnold and Lady Varens, but from the young lady herself. He’d intended asking her to go driving with him tomorrow, for she was a pretty little thing, but suddenly opted against it.
Cursing himself for a craven, but feeling decidedly out of his element, Jack went to find a chair for the performance which was just beginning.
“What was that about, Prudence?” asked Nessa in an undertone as their party moved toward their seats. “That was the nearest thing to rudeness I’ve ever seen in you!”
Her sister glanced over her shoulder before answering in an even lower tone. “Lord Foxhaven is not the sort of man with whom you should be encouraging an acquaintance,” she whispered repressively. “I can’t conceive why Lady Mountheath should have invited him here tonight. I had thought her more discriminating.”
Nessa decided against revealing what she’d learned from that lady’s sharp-tongued daughters, or the scene she’d witnessed earlier. “Why? What is wrong with Lord Foxhaven?”
“Pray lower your voice!” Prudence admonished her. “He is but very lately come into his title and seems—how shall I put it?—ill prepared for the role. His life has been one of unremitting license, if all I hear is to be believed. ’Twill take more than a marquisate to establish him in Society, I assure you.”
Settling into the chair beside her sister, Nessa commented, “I never knew you to put such stock in gossip, Prudence. Are any specific evils laid at his door, or merely the general ones that jealousy might account for?” At her sister’s questioning look, she clarified. “A young, handsome man coming so suddenly into a high position is bound to excite envy.”
But Prudence shook her head. “Jack Ashecroft’s scandalous reputation had been bruited about London long before he inherited. For all that he was feted as a hero last May, after our army’s victory over Napoleon, he has never had the entrée to the better circles.”
“He was a soldier, then?”
“A major, I believe—or perhaps he was promoted to colonel. His military career was distinguished, I’ll grant you that. One of Wellington’s finest, ’tis said. But he is at least as well known for his paramours”—even in the dim light, Nessa could see her sister’s flush at this bold reference to the man’s improprieties—“and his association with all manner of low types. ’Twas even rumored that he occasionally acted as a spy while on the Continent, and you must know what is said of spies.”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“Hush,” said Prudence, clearly desirous of dropping such a distressing topic. “The music is beginning.”
Though she tried, Nessa found it difficult to concentrate on the flutist’s performance. Instead of the music—though adequate in execution—she found her thoughts straying again to Lord Foxhaven, whom she’d noticed slipping into a seat only two rows back.
Had he recognized her? She thought not, but when he made the offer of lemonade, she had wondered. One thing was certain, however: If he were not going to betray their earlier meeting, she most assuredly would not!
The very thought of Prudence’s reaction if she learned the truth made her quail. Nessa didn’t want to be responsible for her sister’s almost certain collapse, especially after Prudence had been so kind to her.
Momentarily diverted, she wondered why she and her sister had never been particularly close, considering that they had no other siblings. Of course, any sort of affectionate display had been frowned upon by their parents—perhaps because it would have made that particular lack in their marriage all the more apparent.
Nessa sighed. As a young girl, a love match had been a cherished dream of hers, one she’d never dared divulge to anyone, as she’d known no one who would have understood. Even though she’d long come to recognize that dream as pure fantasy, she had never entirely given it up as an ideal—if not for her, then perhaps for her sister.
She glanced at Prudence, who appeared riveted by the music, surprising a surreptitiously longing look from her brother-in-law, directed at the same object. How could her sister be so blind to the potential happiness that awaited her, if she would only allow herself to return her husband’s obvious affection? The more she saw of their marriage, the more Nessa came to realize that it was quite unlike her own had been—and could be even more unlike, if only Prudence would unbend a little. Again she felt that tiny pang of envy.
A slight movement to her right recalled her attention to Lord Foxhaven. Even behind a mask, he’d been remarkably handsome. Without it … She thought again over what Prudence had said about his unsavory reputation.
Nessa had no reason to doubt her sister’s words. At their first meeting she’d been sure he was anything but monklike, despite his costume. But the knowledge that she’d been right excited more than repelled her. She’d never known a rake before. Not that Prudence would countenance such an acquaintance, of course. And her father—and late husband—would likely spin in their graves should she at all encourage a man of his stamp.
With such conflicting thoughts Nessa was occupied for the remainder of the performance, her visceral attraction to the scandalous Lord Foxhaven warring with the propriety ingrained in her since birth, as well as a certain sense of responsibility toward her sister.
When Lady M
ountheath announced the end of the formal performance, advising her guests to partake of the buffet while sundry other musicians added to the ambiance, the assemblage rose en masse to comply with her instructions. As they left the music room, Nessa’s party was again accosted by Lord Foxhaven, giving her the opportunity to choose between her battling inclinations.
“Lady Haughton, I realize it would be improper of me to ask you to go out driving”—this with a glance at Prudence—“but would you perhaps allow me to call upon you at your sister’s home tomorrow?”
Nessa cursed her blacks yet again, for the thought of a drive sent her spirits soaring. She saw Prudence frown and open her mouth, no doubt to deny him even the visit.
“That would be quite acceptable, Lord Foxhaven,” Nessa said quickly, refusing to meet her sister’s eye. “I shall look forward to it.”
He bowed over her hand, also avoiding Prudence’s glance, she noticed. “Until tomorrow, then.” He turned and walked away before Lady Creamcroft could rescind her sister’s invitation.
Prudence, however, was for the moment too flabbergasted to speak. “Well!” she exclaimed when she finally found her tongue several seconds later. “That is the outside of enough, I must say. Nessa, did I not tell you Lord Foxhaven has a less than savory reputation? What can you be thinking, to invite him under my roof?”
Nessa rather wondered the same thing, but answered her sister readily enough. “Why, it would have been most impolite, would it not, to have refused him? Besides, what evil can he possibly commit in your drawing room, with people all about? Perhaps he has turned over a new leaf, in which case he should be encouraged, don’t you agree?” This last seemed most unlikely when she recalled his behavior at the masquerade, but it gave Prudence pause.
“I suppose that is possible,” she conceded, “though Lady Mountheath told me a tale about his exploits since inheriting his title that shocked me exceedingly. Not for the world would I repeat it! Still, if he acts the gentleman, I’ll not turn him out. If we reward proper behavior in him, perhaps he’ll be encouraged to turn away from debauchery.”
Nessa tried not to smile at the idea of her sister’s acceptance being more rewarding to a dashing young man like Lord Foxhaven than debauchery could be. For a taste of debauchery, she herself might be willing to forego Prudence’s approval! Not that she had the least idea how to go about finding any such taste, of course.
“That’s right, Prudence, we’ll win him to respectability in spite of himself,” she agreed, her expression solemn. She hoped that might prove impossible, however. A respectable Lord Foxhaven would not be nearly so intriguing as the rake her sister had described.
“Until tomorrow,” he’d said. She could scarcely wait.
Chapter Four
Harry was well into his second bottle of port when Jack and Lord Peter joined him at their accustomed table at the Guards Club on St. James Street. “How went the first volley?” he inquired almost cheerily, as two more glasses were placed.
Peter shook his head sorrowfully. “Even worse than you predicted, Harry.”
“What, Lady M. turned you away from her door? I could have told you she would.”
The other two stared at him in disbelief. “You do need to cut back on the spirits, old boy!” Peter exclaimed. “But no, you were right the first time—she wasn’t willing to risk a scene by turning Jack away. It was once we were inside the trouble began.”
“Oh come now, Peter, it wasn’t so bad as all that,” Jack protested, irrationally nettled by his friend’s gloomy prospect. “No one gave me the cut direct, which I more than half expected.”
“Old Sherbourne came close, and Claridge managed to keep you from getting close enough to Lady Constance for an introduction,” Peter pointed out. “We’ll have to come up with another plan to whitewash your reputation. That’s all there is to it.”
Harry raised his glass. “I’ll certainly drink to that! Damned idiotic thing to contemplate in the first place, marriage. Don’t know what you were thinking, Jack.”
Jack regarded his two longtime friends with mingled amusement and irritation. “Ready to turn tail after the first skirmish? I’m disappointed in you both. I’ll not give up so easily, I assure you, especially after the brilliant flanking maneuver I executed toward the evening’s close.”
Two pairs of eyes turned to him expectantly. “Eh? What?” Peter blinked owlishly, giving the appearance of having imbibed more than Harry had.
“I’ll have you know that I am engaged to call upon Lady Haughton at her sister’s house tomorrow morning.” He twirled his wineglass with a flourish, awaiting their reactions.
Harry gave a sour guffaw, but Peter gaped carpishly. Several seconds passed before he found his voice. “Never say Lady Creamcroft agreed to that? I saw how quickly she pulled her sister away from you when she found out who you were.”
“Lady Creamcroft is nothing if not proper. It would have been most unseemly for her to refuse my request after her sister had already acquiesced.” He saw no point in adding that he had not given Lady Creamcroft a chance to do so.
“So Lady Haughton is hanging out for another husband already?” Harry asked with a twisted grin. “How bitter a pill will she be to swallow? Must be pretty desperate to encourage you her first evening back in Society.”
Jack glared, but it was Peter who answered. “You have it all wrong, Harry, I assure you. Lady Haughton is quite a taking little thing, even in her blacks. Chestnut hair, big brown eyes, creamy complexion. When she’s back in colors, I daresay she’ll turn out a diamond of the first water. I can’t believe—” He broke off as Jack’s malevolent eye shifted to him. “That is to say, I’m delighted you’ll have a chance to speak with her again, Jack. Still …”
“Yes?” Though Jack’s tone was dangerous, it didn’t deter his friend.
“Try not to get your hopes too high, eh? I mean, I wish you the best of luck and all that, but it’s likely Lady Haughton is allowing the visit merely because she’s lived too secluded to hear the gossip. Could be that once she does, she’ll be as cool as all the others. And even your best drawing room manners are likely to shock her, with Cherryhurst and Haughton as her standard.”
He looked so worried that Jack had to laugh.
“Egad, Peter, it’s not as though I’ve developed a tendre for the woman! You of all people know I’ve never believed all that poets’ rot about love and such. My heart’s in no danger, I assure you. I merely see this as a promising opening for my campaign. If nothing else, being received at Creamcroft’s house is sure to nudge my respectability up a notch—and put me that much closer to those funds I need.”
In fact, he hoped far more might come of tomorrow’s visit, but he had no intention of revealing the true reason for his optimism to his friends. Not until he was sure. Maybe not even then.
“Besides,” he continued, “this will be good practice for me. The worst that can happen is that I’ll have to go to an alternate strategy—in which case Harry and I can share a toast to my escape. But for the sake of both my grandfather and that money, I’m determined to give my initial battle plan a fair shot.”
Nessa sat in her sister’s tasteful drawing room attempting to concentrate on her needlework while wishing for the twentieth time that she could wear something other than black today, of all days. A sidelong glance showed Prudence the model sober matron in her high-necked gray silk, industriously netting a purse. Prudence would benefit from colors as much as herself, in Nessa’s opinion.
Though she didn’t actually fidget—her father and husband had trained that out of her years ago—Nessa felt inwardly jumpy. Would Lord Foxhaven really come to call? Had he recognized her from the masquerade? More importantly, would he say anything in front of Prudence if he had? Refocusing her attention on the fabric she held, Nessa realized she’d been working the wrong row. With an impatient click of her tongue, which for her was tantamount to cursing, she began undoing the work of the past ten minutes.
The front k
nocker sounded as she pulled out the last errant stitch, and she found herself holding her breath until Clarendon entered to announce Lord Foxhaven. She dared a quick glance as he followed the butler into the room, his beaver under his arm.
Against the prim formality of Prudence’s drawing room, he appeared more outrageously handsome than ever—and perhaps the slightest bit ill at ease. Prudence’s expression, as she rose gracefully to greet their guest, showed more acute discomfort.
“How nice to see you again, my lord,” she said stiffly.
Lord Foxhaven bowed over her hand with perfect propriety. “Lady Creamcroft.” Then, with another bow in Nessa’s direction, “Lady Haughton. I’m honored to have this chance to pay my respects to you both.”
Nessa bobbed her head in return. “Good morning, my lord.” She kept her voice low, as she had last night, and watched him closely for any sign of flirtation, or of a secret shared.
It did not come.
“Pray take a seat, my lord, while I ring for a tray,” suggested Prudence, motioning to a gold and white striped armchair.
He complied, then made an innocuous comment about the unseasonably fair weather. “So much more pleasant than our usual autumn rains, don’t you agree?”
Prudence assented with a further comment on the weather and Nessa nodded again, feeling oddly disappointed. This was the scandalous rake her sister had warned her against?
“You are abroad early, my lord,” Nessa observed. “You must not have kept particularly late hours last night.”
Prudence cast her a startled glance, and Nessa herself was nearly as shocked at her own boldness. But her eagerness for even a tiny glimpse into a rake’s night life had overset her well-learned reticence. What must it be like, to—?
“No, I retired shortly after returning from Lady Mountheath’s entertainment. I am finding that late nights do not agree with me so well as they once did.”