He let the last remnants of the sour gin slide down his throat and was about to pour another, when Baron Alfred Dewhurst pulled up a chair.
Society called Dewhurst the pinkest of the pinks. He was a few years younger than Alex, and with his tousled blond hair, blue tailcoat, white breeches and waistcoat, he was more dandy than rake. Some women preferred the aura of danger Alex cultivated; others preferred Dewhurst’s genial smiles and conventional good looks. Some preferred them both. He and Dewhurst were friendly rivals, competing in their schooldays for more than one lady’s affections.
Alex knew most of the ton didn’t understand how they tolerated each other, outwardly they seemed so different. When he and Dewhurst had both fallen into working for the Foreign Office, this secret work solidified the friendship begun during their schooldays.
But after his ordeal that evening, Alex was in no mood even for Dewhurst. He looked up menacingly from his glass as the baron sat down with his usual fanfare.
“No need to give me the evil eye, old boy.” Dewhurst leaned comfortably back in the elegant mahogany armchair. “I can see you’re on the cut, and far be it from me to interfere with your plans to enter a state of drunken stupor. Just thought you might want some company before oblivion descends.”
“Suit yourself.” Alex poured Dewhurst then himself a drink.
Dewhurst regarded him speculatively. “It can’t be financial trouble. You’ve got more blunt than you know what to do with, and you’ve never been one for gambling.” He tapped a finger on his temple and made a show of studying the exquisite scrollwork decorating the ceiling above them. “It can’t be female trouble. In that arena as well I fear you leave little for the rest of us.” He grinned. “Though I am catching up. Enjoyed the company of a most talented little opera singer last night—”
“Freddie.” Alex gave him a weary look.
Dewhurst shrugged. “It must be family trouble. Although I saw Winterbourne the other night, and he and his wife seemed happy as ever. Really most unfashionable, these marriages of unmitigated bliss! Leaves far too few wives ripe for dalliance, eh?”
“You don’t seem to be suffering from the lack.” Alex took a sip of his gin. With something of a flourish, Dewhurst raised his own glass as well, ruining the effect by grimacing slightly when he tasted the strong liquor.
“Can’t say that I do,” he rasped. “But the question is, from what precisely do you suffer? Something’s behind this state of high dudgeon.”
Alex raked a hand through his hair. “How well do you know Lucia Dashing?”
Dewhurst’s eyebrows rose with interest, further irritating Alex.
“Viscount Brigham’s youngest filly? I know the chit. Corky girl. Beautiful enough to make any man’s head turn but—” He sighed dramatically. “Alas, she’s been on the marriage market. Her mamma and that brother of hers were careful to keep any of our kind away. Not that the brother was very effective. He’s just a pup.”
Alex narrowed his eyes, and Dewhurst grinned. “Lower your hackles, Selbourne. Not my type anyway. Now, in a few years, when she tires of that fool Dandridge, she’ll be ripe for picking.”
Alex wasn’t certain he liked Lucia being referred to as “ripe for picking.” He could well imagine the conversation the young bucks had when she was the topic. He scowled, immediately regretting the show of emotion when Dewhurst’s grin broadened.
“Why the sudden interest, Selbourne?”
“I saw her home tonight. Dandridge was trying to have his wedding night early.”
“Dandridge dipping rather deep again, eh? Sad excuse for a man. From what I’ve seen of Miss Dashing’s spirit, she’ll have a rough time of it. He’s a sapskull and his mother is”—he shuddered—“frightening. Miss Dashing will have to toe the line.”
Alex nodded and poured them both another. If Alex wanted information, Dewhurst could supply it. Freddie knew everyone and went everywhere. The ladies of the ton practically fell over themselves to offer him invitations to their balls and soirees.
A small group of ardent gamblers behind them erupted into an argument, and Alex had to raise his voice, “Why is she with him?”
Dewhurst turned away from the excitement at the faro table. “Oh, the lovesick youth courted her as they always do, but you can’t expect her to marry some twenty-year-old fop. I believe she had another offer from a marquis—one of the swell of the first stare—but her father refused him.” He sat back, looking uncharacteristically contemplative. “He wants her to marry into a family with ties to the Parliament. Looking to get ahead. Their fathers have been planning this wedding since the two were infants. Surprised you didn’t know.”
“Never paid much attention before, but it makes sense. Dandridge is allied with Pitt, and despite all of Fox’s attempts, Pitt still holds the reins in Parliament.”
“Precisely.” Dewhurst waved an arm, the lace at his sleeves fluttering. “She was brought to point non plus. A little coaxing from her father, all the bit about honor and duty, probably did the trick.”
“Hmm.”
Freddie scrutinized him for a moment and took a leisurely sip of his gin, finally inured to the taste. “Perhaps I was wrong after all. It is female trouble.”
Alex snorted. “Not likely. I’m in London on business.”
“Need help?”
“It’s a minor affair. I’ll be back in Hampshire by the end of the week.”
“Hampshire?” Freddie lowered his voice, the vapid expression on his face replaced by one approaching solemnity. “Is Paris becoming too dangerous? I haven’t heard anything.”
“Wentworth advised me to disappear for a few months.” Alex kept his voice low but his manner casual. “Old Boney’s up to something, but I’m stuck here because of a few sketchy rumors.”
“Perhaps you’ll find something to occupy you in London then.” Freddie waggled his brows.
“My talents are wasted in London,” Alex said, ignoring Freddie’s meaning. “Neither you nor Middleton needs me.” Alex glanced around the room, now crowded with peers and gentlemen of the ton dressed in their finest. “Where is Sebastian, anyway?”
Dewhurst was rarely seen without his cousin by his side, and Alex had known Sebastian almost as long as he’d known Freddie.
Freddie rolled his eyes and emitted a world-weary sigh. “He’s fallen in love again. Dash it, but that puppy makes a fool of himself over some woman once a month.”
Alex smiled at this unfortunate but accurate description. “Who is she this time?”
“He’s dangling after Lady Henrietta, wife of Lord Randall.”
“Randall? Not Edmund Randall?”
“The same.”
“The man is sixty if a day!”
“Yes, and his new wife obviously appreciates the merits of a younger man. But if Middleton isn’t more circumspect in this affair, he may find himself with another glove at his feet and an appointment at dawn.” Freddie’s hand went to his collar, loosening it. “Randall was in the navy. His aim is no doubt much better than the chap who challenged Sebastian last. What was his name? Blake?”
“I’ll talk to Middleton. It’s something to do besides spend my time with my brother’s in-laws.”
Alex swallowed his drink and rose. He’d taken three or four steps when Freddie called, “I have a new Italian phrasebook. Call on me if it becomes necessary!” His laughter echoed through the room, and a few of the other club members smiled wryly at the jest.
Alex raised his arm in an obscene gesture and kept walking.
The next morning the sun shone through the windows of Alex’s carriage, promising a pleasant day. He hoped his meeting with Lord Brigham was as pleasant. Was it too much to ask that Lady Brigham, whose love of all things Italian was superseded only by her horrendous pronunciation of the language, wouldn’t be at home today? And after the temptations of the previous evening, was it too much to hope that their youngest daughter be absent as well? Unlikely, but a man could dream, couldn’t he?
But by the time he’d arrived at the Brighams’ town house, Alex had convinced himself that even if Lucia was about, handling both her temper and his unwelcome attraction to her wouldn’t pose a problem. She was only a woman, he mused. Not any different from the rest of her species.
After all, how unmanageable could one female be?
Chapter 4
“Buongiorno!”
Lucia jumped out of the chair she’d just taken as her mother swept into the cheery breakfast room.
“Buongiorno, mia figlias!”
“Buongiorno, Mamma,” Lucia answered, trying to appear as though she’d meant to catapult to attention.
Not fooled, Francesca gave her a questioning look before turning away from the sideboard to greet their mother. “Buongiorno, Mamma.”
Lady Brigham took both of Francesca’s hands in her own and kissed her elder daughter on both cheeks. Having arrived only moments before, Francesca still wore her gloves and hat.
“Mia dolce!” Lady Brigham cooed, smiling at Francesca.
Lucia watched and waited, familiar with her mother’s routine. Lady Brigham gave Francesca one more affectionate squeeze, then took her seat at the head of the cozy beech table. She artfully arranged her white frock of sprigged muslin so that the folds flattered her figure, and finally, with a flick of her lace-bedecked wrists, summoned the footman waiting near the sideboard to pour her morning chocolate.
Lucia took a breath and counted to ten. She’d just reached nine when her mother turned sharp blue eyes in her direction and began her daily inspection. Lucia squirmed, hoping the white muslin morning dress with small yellow flowers and her simple hair arrangement wouldn’t elicit comment. After everything she’d endured the night before, she simply couldn’t take one of her mother’s lectures today. Her mother’s gaze rested on her hair, and Lucia held her breath, clutching her hands in her lap.
Then her mother nodded, and Lucia slowly released the pent-up air. Lady Brigham’s eyes drifted back to Francesca, now handing her hat to another footman. But her sister waved the man away when he offered to take her spencer.
“You are not staying, cara?” Lady Brigham stirred her chocolate with a dainty silver spoon.
“I don’t know, Mamma.” Francesca took a seat across from Lucia but refused the footman’s offer of coffee or chocolate. “Ethan insisted we call this morning, but he still hasn’t told me why.”
Lucia’s hand froze above her silver fork. Aha! So Ethan was here. Now she’d find out what Selbourne had been hinting at last night. What he’d meant when he’d said her family needed assistance.
“And how are the little bambinos?” Lady Brigham’s face flooded with joy. “My nipotes dolces?”
The same as they were when you saw them yesterday, Lucia thought. But with her mother’s attention diverted, Lucia relaxed, rolling her shoulders to ease the kinks in her neck and back. Slipping her shoes off and wiggling her toes, she took full advantage of the momentary reprieve from her mother’s fastidious attentions and allowed her thoughts to roam. She adored this small parlor her family used as the breakfast room and often lingered after everyone else had gone. The large window offered a perfect prospect of Berkeley Square, and she loved to pull her knees to her chest, rest her back against the cushion of her chair, and stare at the passing carriages and pedestrians through the parted voile netting.
There was something a little wicked about slouching in the snug yellow and white papered room, hidden from view and watching the rest of the world go by. Sometimes she even made up stories in her mind, speculating as to a particular lady or gentleman’s errands for the day.
Not that she had any particular gentleman in mind today. She didn’t care what plans Selbourne had made for the day, didn’t care what he was doing, where, or with whom. Though he had said he’d call this morning. And, she noted with a flash of annoyance, the morning was slipping away.
Lucia glanced at her mother again. Lady Brigham’s attention was still on Francesca, so Lucia took a chance and slumped another fraction of an inch, her shoulders grazing the cushion of the chair. She wasn’t going to think about him anymore, she decided. Thinking about him had already kept her up half the night, and she wasn’t about to allow dreams of him to dominate her waking hours as well.
Searching for a distraction, Lucia watched Francesca. Although she was already perfect, Lucia could tell her sister had taken some care with her appearance this morning. Her beige dress with its train and matching spencer were the height of fashionable elegance, and Lucia knew she would be begging Francesca to loan her the slouch straw hat before the week was done.
Francesca was still talking of her children—Colin and Sarah—and she glowed with the beauty of a doting mother. Though her own beauty was considered more conventional, Lucia had always thought Francesca prettier. Her sister was petite and well-rounded with gleaming chestnut curls, wide chocolate brown eyes, and a contagious smile. As a little girl, Lucia had sought that smile and the accompanying approval at every opportunity. Watching Francesca now, she realized not much had changed.
“Do sit up straight, Lucia!” Her mother’s sharp tone startled Lucia from her reverie. “Slouching is not dignified.” Lady Brigham shook her finger at her daughter, causing a flurry of movement from the lace at her wrist.
“Sorry, Mamma.” Lucia stiffened her spine.
Lady Brigham huffed and turned back to Francesca. “We will have to discuss the bambinos in more detail later, cara. I am due at young Lady Castlereagh’s in…oh, dear three-fourths of an hour!” She shot up, rattling the dishes on the table. “Dové mia caro sposo? I must take my leave at once!”
“He’s in his study, Mamma,” Lucia answered, reaching out to steady her trembling teacup.
“Grazie! Grazie!” Leaving the scent of roses in her wake, Lady Brigham rushed from the room, the footman in tow.
Left alone, Lucia grinned at Francesca, wondering if her sister felt as much tension ebb out of her own straight shoulders as their mother sailed away.
“I love her, but I may have to kill her,” Francesca said, sitting back in her chair.
“At least you can please her. I don’t have two children to thrust before her when she’s unhappy with me.”
Francesca laughed. “You’ve discovered my secret. But it won’t be long before you have little ones of your own.”
Lucia nodded and smiled, but her stomach tightened, and she pushed her untouched plate of food away. “How is my brother-in-law this morning?” Lucia asked, hoping her sister knew something about Selbourne’s cryptic comments.
“Arrogant. Stubborn. Perfect.” She grinned.
Perfect, just like his wife, Lucia thought. The Marchioness of Winterbourne for the last five years, Francesca was still blissfully happy with her husband and children, and she shone with the radiance of one in love. But Lucia had never once begrudged her sister her happiness, though Francesca had always been her parents’ favorite. Francesca was so lovely, so sweet-natured, she deserved all her happiness and more.
“You’ll never guess who I saw at the Pools’ last night,” Lucia said
“Lord Selbourne,” Francesca replied, sitting back.
Lucia blinked. “Yes! How did you know?”
“He called at Grosvenor Square before he left for the Pools’. I didn’t remember that you and Lord Dandridge would also attend until it was too late. I hope he wasn’t…unpleasant. He was in a bad mood when I saw him.”
“He’s always in a bad mood,” Lucia grumbled.
“You’ve met him twice, Lucia,” Francesca said with a laugh. “He’s only in a foul mood nine times out of ten.”
“Ah, seven more to go, then, as Selbourne was quite unpleasant last night. He mentioned something about a family matter being the reason for his presence in Town but refused to explain any further.”
Francesca raised a brow, and Lucia drummed her fingers on the table, keeping time with her tapping toes. “Naturally I thought he was referring to Lord Winterbourne and you, but
he told me that wasn’t the case. Then he mentioned something about calling here this morning.” She scowled. “Selbourne was quite mysterious about the whole thing.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Francesca said. “He’s not exactly a stunning conversationalist.”
“Conversation? The man doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”
The two sat in companionable silence for a moment. Francesca stared longingly at the sweets on the sideboard while Lucia tried to decide exactly how much to confide to her sister.
Wondering what family emergency had brought Selbourne to Town had cost her a restless night, but that didn’t account for all the night’s tossing and turning. The memory of Selbourne’s hands on the curve of her neck, the slope of her shoulders, had its own part in keeping her awake. Each time she’d closed her eyes, she felt his touch and saw his face, those molten pewter eyes. It was enough to startle her awake, and she’d finally gotten up and paced the room, trying to work it out. Sometime before dawn, she’d ended up asleep in her chair.
When she awoke, she’d resolved to ask Francesca about the whole situation, but now that the moment had arrived, Lucia hardly knew where to begin. “About Lord Selbourne—” she tried again.
“Aren’t you being a bit hard on Selbourne?” Francesca asked, her voice muffled as she munched on a bite of tart pilfered from her mother’s forgotten plate.
“No, in the carriage he—”
Francesca swallowed the tart in a gulp. “You and Dandridge were in Selbourne’s carriage?”
“No.” Lucia glanced down. “Dandridge wasn’t with us.” She pulled at her lip, hoping Francesca wouldn’t ask too many questions about her affianced.
“Where was Lord Dandridge?” Francesca wrinkled her nose as if the name left a sour taste in her mouth.
Shana Galen Page 3