by Julia Donner
Vera prodded, “Well? Do you know him?”
“We met at my come-out. At the time it was said that his family were seeking a match, someone with a substantial fortune.”
My Precious ignored the caress Vera smoothed over the cat’s head. “Then it is clear why he shows an interest now. Whatever plans his family had for a match fell apart. He is growing older with no wife, no heir and running through his money. Sir Charles is exerting his influence.” After a pause, Vera hesitantly asked, “Is Treadwell someone you could find an interest in marrying?”
What her cousin wanted to know was whether or not she and her husband would continue to live in the luxury of Adele’s inheritance. Might as well put the poor thing out of her misery.
“Cousin Vera, a gentleman like Mr. Treadwell has any number of likely young ladies from whom to choose. Pliable, young things. I am happily settled in my habits and not in any way pliable. I venture to say that Lord Hayden is joking. And not at all kindly.”
Vera smiled, stroked the cat and murmured, “Do you hear that, My Precious? Cousin Adele will not abandon us to shift on the streets or endure the workhouse.”
Adele longed to roll her eyes. She sent the cat an evil squint instead, but its severity was ruined when Vera said, “Then I am glad that I asked Lord Hayden to bring Mr. Treadwell to our Venetian breakfast Friday next.”
If a cat could smirk, Precious did. Somehow, someday, she must find some way to exorcize the feline from hell out of her life.
Chapter 3
Gordon’s prayer to be run over by a wagon on the way to his club went unanswered. He entered the lobby, handed off his hat and cape, then climbed the stairs leading up to the main hall and his doom. All the while he resisted the urge to run before he got under the disapproving glare of his father.
Postponing the tongue-lashing to come, he swerved to an alcove where two of his friends had their faces hidden behind a magazine. When he got closer, he realized they weren’t hiding from him but concealing something they were reading behind the journal.
That they fostered enough interest in any topic of the written word, unless it had to do with sports or opera dancers, brought Gordon’s curiosity to the fore. There was also the reason that he would use any excuse to delay the meeting with his father.
Cecil Chadwick noticed him first. His round, slightly bulging blue eyes peered over the page. Wisps of his fine brown hair floated around his head. His rounded cheeks were pinked by something other than the exertion of hauling his considerable weight from one place to the next. A sudden, wicked light gleamed in his gaze, which didn’t match his slighter companion’s, whom Cecil nudged so forcefully with an elbow that he nearly fell off the tufted bench they shared.
Tookie Arbothnot, as slender as Cecil was hefty, righted himself on the bench. Tookie fretted easily, but was adored by everyone, mainly because he could not be kept down. He doggedly got into the ring or any fight and no matter how many times knocked off his legs, the man got up swinging. For this, he was widely admired. His glance held innocent surprise as he bit into a plump lower lip. A wild thatch of black wavy hair looked too much for his head and narrow face.
“Heigh-ho, you two. Since when do you read religious themes?”
Cecil attempted to clumsily fold the magazine by crushing it to his chest. A book dropped to the floor. Before either of his friends could snatch it up, Gordon seized the narrow volume encased in nondescript, leather binding. He scowled at the title then pinned Cecil and Tookie with a pretend scandalized stare.
“Poring over the Scarlet Lady’s latest installment? For shame! Is this what you read hidden behind a hymnal on Sundays?”
Cecil made a grab for it and Gordon, being taller, lifted it up out of reach. Tookie stood and whispered, “Give it back, Gordie, before the whole place sees it.”
Gordon handed it over with a chuckle. “Heavens forbid the usher should see you with that. It’s a wonder you don’t have singed fingers.”
Cecil had hoisted himself to his feet. “It’s not that risqué. It’s that the thing was written by a female. Dashed clever, if you ask me. Particularly admire the use of symbolism. Even so, quite shocking. Demmed near as delicious as that poem your cousin wrote about how nice it is to admire bosoms whilst engaged in a waltz.”
Gordon made his opinion on that apparent with a scoffing snort. “My point being women shouldn’t pen erotic material. It isn’t natural.”
His friends stared at him in unblinking disbelief. He was reminded why he was at his club this evening and wished he hadn’t tied his neckwear so tightly. He resisted the urge to rub the burn from his face, which worsened when Tookie said, eyes ingenuously wide, “Why, Gordon, ladies cannot be all that different from us. Why shouldn’t they enjoy it as much as we?”
Gordon hissed at Tookie to keep his voice down as Cecil choked on a laugh. Gordon glanced around before saying, “Zounds, Tookie, it has nothing to do with what or what not they like. My point is that they shouldn’t be so vocal about it. It’s not…feminine.”
Cecil and Tookie exchanged a puzzled look. Gordon’s face flushed with heat again. They had to be thinking of how he’d made a public fool of himself with that stupid wager. Hades fry him if he ever again drank gin and made another wager.
Gordon spat out in exasperation, “Oh, very well, I’m an ass tonight. Just haul me off to the gallows. Anything would be better than what’s coming.”
Concerned, Tookie asked, “Is there any way in which we may be of service, Gordon?”
His friends stepped back, their dismay obvious, when with a baleful glare, Gordon said, “Father is expecting me. An interview.”
Cecil whispered, “An interview? Bad luck, old fellow.”
Tookie shook his head. “So sorry, Gordon. Interviews with one’s fathers are not pleasant. My own is so very kind, you know, but I cannot bear the thought of his disappointment in me.”
Gordon huffed a rueful laugh. “Mere disappointment would be Godsend. No, I expect to have my ears pinned, allowance cut off, and banishment to the hinterlands. At the very least.”
Cecil muttered, “An interview regarding that wager Hayden perpetrated on you while you were disguised. The man has no scruples. All of it over a female of whom no one is sure of her identity. Who is AP, I ask you?”
Tookie’s black eyebrows came together in a frown. “It mustn’t be Annabelle Percival.”
Cecil gave Tookie’s arm a shove. “Idgit! Miss Percival is a diamond of the first water, the most beautiful girl to come out since Lady Ravenswold. Hayden wouldn’t put up her name on a wager. The girl has dukes and princes offering for her. Annabelle Percival, indeed! No, it must be a recluse, a spinster. With poor Gordie’s present luck, a veritable crone.” Realizing what he’d said, Cecil gave Gordon a sheepish look. “Sorry, Gordie.”
Tookie wrapped the wicked novel in the discarded magazine and handed it to Cecil. “Here, you may have it, and if you don’t mind, I should very much like it if you wouldn’t bandy Miss Percival’s name about. It’s not appropriate, you know, discussing a lady at one’s club.”
“Oh, stubble it, Took!” Cecil scolded before turning back to Gordon, “See here, I know it’s not the thing, but we’d be most happy to go along with you and give evidence to Sir Charles. We were there and can vouch for you.”
“Vouch for what? That I lost badly at cards, drank too much gin, and made a reprehensible wager that involves an innocent female?”
Tookie released the grip his upper teeth had on his lower lip. “Oh, Gordon, then she is a lady then, not something…other?”
Gordon clapped his hand on Tookie’s bony shoulder. “There’s the rub, my friend. She’s not one to go out in society, but she is of good family. Entirely blameless and undeserving of this public humiliation.”
Tookie’s eyes swam with sorrow. “Oh, Gordie, I fear Sir Charles is going to put your head on a pike.”
Gordon shook the hands his friends solemnly offered, inhaled a deep breath for courage, and s
trode away to his doom.
Tentative release date August 2016