by Amelia Grey
Blake remained still for a few moments and watched Gibby smile as he stared out the window. Blake didn’t want to disturb him. Something in the street had caught Gibby’s attention, amusing him. Staring at him, Blake couldn’t help but wonder if he had ever regretted not marrying and having a family. The three cousins were the closest people Gibby had to family, and they had always treated him like a favorite uncle.
Once again Blake was reminded of Miss Tweed and how she had no family to call upon for help of any kind. Blake was all she had.
When Gibby turned from the window, Blake started toward him. The old man’s eyes sparkled and his brow wrinkled as Blake pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down.
“I don’t suppose it would matter to you if I was saving that seat for someone else.”
“It wouldn’t matter at all.”
“That’s what I thought.” With steady hands Gib pushed his empty plate aside and pulled his glass of port closer to him. “Since that’s the case, what are you drinking?” He motioned for a server to come over.
“Ale.”
Gibby mouthed the word to the server and looked back at Blake. “Are you here for something important or to mind my business again?”
“Don’t you think someone needs to?”
“No, I can’t say that I do.”
“If what I’m hearing from Race and Morgan is true, it doesn’t seem as if you know how to manage your affairs without getting yourself into trouble.” “Trouble? You know, every old man should be as damned lucky as I am and have three young fools looking after his business for him. I bet the three of you make London a lot safer for all of us simpleminded people.”
Blake laughed. “You bloody ungrateful bastard.”
He knew Gibby loved the attention he and his cousins always showed him, even if he always acted as if he wanted them to stay out of his business affairs.
Gibby smiled, leaned back in his chair, and puffed out his chest proudly. “I guess we both call them as we see them.”
“If we didn’t look after you, who in the hell do you think would?”
“Might I say again that I would be quite happy to look after myself?”
Blake let out a sound that was half chuckle, half sigh. He enjoyed bantering with the old dandy, whose father had made his wealth in shipping in the 1770s when England was still trying to keep control of its colonies across the Atlantic. The old sea merchant never got to enjoy the fruits of his labor and trade, but Gibby had certainly benefited from his father’s sound business judgments. They had made his son a wealthy man, and by aligning himself with the king, Gibby had been knighted a few years ago. But of late, Gibby had turned his attention to risky business ventures that worried Blake and his cousins.
“Tell me, who the hell is this nasty knave who’s trying to talk you into this half-brained idea of investing in a fleet of hot-air balloons?”
“I don’t believe I will tell you.”
“Don’t get petulant with me, Gib. Damnation, the man must be daft to consider such an ill-conceived plan.”
Gibby held up a finger and, with a glint in his eyes, said, “Ah, ha! Already your story has a flaw in it. I’m glad you and your nosy cousins don’t know everything about my comings and goings.”
Blake eyed him warily. “What do you mean?”
“Curious, are you?”
“You’re damned right I am.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Look, old man, you should appreciate having us watch out for you. We’ve saved your soul from the devil more than once and, for some God-forsaken reason, we’re ready to do it again.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Gibby grumbled. “I’ve heard the sad, pitiful story before. If not for my three guardian fools, I’d either be in debtors’ prison or the poorhouse by now. Thank you kindly for saving me from riches beyond my wildest dreams.”
Blake grinned. The old fogey was still sharp as an ax. “Guardian fools, are we?”
“It’s one of my favorite titles from Lord Chesterfield.”
Gibby knew that Lady Elder had sent her grandsons quotes from Lord Chesterfield until her death. He also knew how much they hated finding those quotations in her correspondence.
“Go to hell, Gib,” he said good-naturedly.
“All right, perhaps it wasn’t one of his enlightening terms. Who knows? Your grandmother attributed it to the man, and I will, too, since they are both dead and won’t know the difference.”
“Enough of this kind of talk, Gibby. Tell me about this man and his madcap idea of buying a fleet of balloons.”
Gibby picked up his glass and nearly drained it before saying, “As I said, your spies are slacking in their duties. It’s not a man who has asked me to fund the purchase of the balloons. She’s a lady.”
Blake managed to swallow the curse he wanted to utter. His lips twitched slightly at one corner, but he hoped that was all that changed in his facial expression. He didn’t want Gibby to know that he considered a female swindler the worst—and the hardest—kind to deal with. But deal with her he would.
He could only hope the woman didn’t have Gibby thinking she was in love with him, or worse, if Gibby started thinking he was in love with her.
That would be a disaster to have to deal with. Sir Randolph Gibson would be the perfect catch for an unscrupulous woman.
To hide his sudden unease, Blake leaned back in his chair and took his time asking, “A lady? That could mean a lady of Society, a lady of trade, or a lady of the evening.”
“You are so cynical, Blake.”
And worried.
“You give me reason to be.”
“She’s a lady of quality,” Gibby answered as the server placed a tankard of ale in front of Blake.
Blake took a long drink. He didn’t like hearing that Gibby was involved in this crazy scheme with a woman any more than he liked hearing he was Miss Tweed’s guardian. But Blake could only handle one catastrophe at a time, and right now Gibby was sitting in front of him. He had to keep Miss Tweed off his mind.
“That tells me she’s better known in trade than in High Society. Am I right?”
Gibby nodded and smiled with good humor. “You’re not only right; I bet you’re intelligent, too.”
Blake chuckled. Gibby was difficult to beat. “I am, not that it matters in this instance. Now tell me about this lady who is looking for a business partner among Society.”
“She believes, and I’ve decided I agree with her, that hot-air balloons will be the next mass mode of travel, especially for ladies. They would much rather travel in the weightless, softly floating basket of a balloon than a stuffy, bumpy carriage that can so easily get stuck in the mud, lose a wheel, or fall prey to highwaymen and thieves. And with a good strong wind, a balloon can get to Kent in half the time of a coach because it can fly over clusters of trees rather than having to go through or around them.”
Blake’s thoughts of settling this matter with mere conversation were fading fast. He could just see a woman batting her eyelashes and feeding that line to Gibby and then him lapping it up like a puppy tasting warm milk for the first time.
“What about the perils of ballooning? Did she mention those? High winds can send a balloon hundreds of miles off course; the basket can tip over or crash into buildings, trees, water, or whatever.”
Gibby’s old eyes sparkled. “Certainly. She’s intelligent, just as you are, and she’s already thought of all that. Balloons don’t fly if the wind’s too strong or in bad weather, unlike carriages and coaches that take off even if it’s raining like a winter gale off the northern coast of Scotland.”
“There are other hazards,” Blake insisted. “The flame that creates the hot air could go out. The balloon could come crashing to the ground, killing all on board, or the worst and most likely possibility is that the flames could catch the envelope on fire and the whole thing would burn up, as has happened on many occasions in the past.”
“Not many occasions. Some. At the fi
rst sign of trouble, the operator of the balloon would start a hasty descent and land it safely, as you know has happened on many occasions in the past,” Gibby said using some of Blake’s exact words.
Blake decided against a condescending remark and instead asked, “Do you mind telling me the lady’s name?”
“I doubt you’ve ever heard of her, but her name is Mrs. Beverly Simple.”
“And it’s my guess that Mrs. Simple is a widow, correct?”
“Yes. She’s a lovely young widow and has been for a couple of years now.”
“One last question, Gibby; have you given her any money yet?”
Gibby’s face turned serious for the first time that afternoon. He remained silent.
“Gibby?”
“No. Not yet, but I have promised her my help. Breaking your word is folly because nobody will trust you afterwards.”
Blake knew that was a variation on one of Lord Chesterfield’s quotes, but Gibby had the decency not to reference it this time.
“I’m sure you know that a gentleman is only as good as his word.”
And everyone in London knew Gibby was a gentleman. Blake decided to forgo asking if Gibby had agreed to give the woman a certain amount of money yet.
“I’m assuming you won’t mind if I make a few inquiries about Mrs. Simple for you?”
“For me? Oh, you don’t have to do it for me, Blake. I’ve already made all the necessary inquiries. But, if you want to spend some of your money and do it for you, go right ahead. You won’t find anything in her background to suggest she’s anything other than the fine lady she is, with a splendid idea. This is not like one of those schemes in the past to get money from me. This lady really wants to make this business happen.”
“You’re probably right,” Blake said with more ease than he was feeling.
Suddenly Gibby’s eyes brightened, all the seriousness was gone. “I have the perfect idea, Blake. Why don’t we both go see her on Saturday? She has a barn on the outskirts of London where she keeps two balloons. She’ll take you up for a ride and answer all your questions.”
Blake hesitated. He didn’t like being up in a balloon. He had taken a ride a few years ago, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. When he’d looked over the side of the basket, he had the sudden feeling that he was going to fall out of the basket. His two cousins had laughed, drunk champagne, and enjoyed the ride. Blake had only been able to stay in the basket by looking straight ahead and not down at the ground.
“What about it?”
“All right, Gib,” Blake reluctantly agreed. “Arrange it, and I’ll go with you.”
“Good. The best time to go up is early in the morning. The winds are usually calm then. Because you get such joy out of taking care of me, pick me up in your carriage at four o’clock Saturday morning.”
“Four? Damnation, Gibby, I’m usually just getting to bed at that time.”
“So just stay up and don’t go to bed. I’ll send word to Mrs. Simple to expect us by sunrise. And don’t forget to have Cook pack some of those fruit tarts she makes.”
Gibby sat back in his chair and gave Blake a satisfied smile. Blake couldn’t help but wonder if, somehow, the old man knew exactly why Blake didn’t want to go up in the balloon.
Seven
Dearest Lucien,
“What is one man’s meat is another man’s poison.” Think about this as you make all your decisions in life.
Your loving Grandmother,
Lady Elder
BLAKE WALKED INTO THE FOYER OF THE GREAT HALL and stood at the entrance to the ballroom. Finding his cousins was not going to be easy, considering the bevy of lavishly gowned ladies and expertly dressed gentlemen, all drenched in the glow of candlelight. The opulent ballroom, with its crystal chandeliers, gilt fretwork, and carved moldings, was London’s most famous hall, and every duchess and countess wanted to have at least one party in the grand building.
The crowd must be at over three hundred, Blake guessed. From corner to corner, he saw people dancing and laughing, smiling behind fans, and whispering behind hands. As he searched the faces in the crowd, he saw friendly smiles, loving looks, longing glances, and jealous stares flash across the ballroom, but there was no sight of Race or Morgan.
He was about to head into the middle of the crowd when, all of a sudden, Lady Pauline, Lady Windham, and the Dowager Duchess of Beaufort appeared before him, all talking at one time.
“We have just heard you have a ward,” the old duchess said breathlessly.
“How did this happen, and is it really true or just a nasty rumor?” Lady Windham asked.
“When will we meet her?” Lady Pauline chimed in quickly with her question.
“We were told she’s the most beautiful young lady in all of England. We can’t believe you’ve kept her a secret. Is it true?”
“If it is true, Your Grace, her first appearance should be at my party next Thursday,” Lady Windham said. “Remember, Blakewell, you owe me.”
He owed her? Ah, yes, for that minor, compromising indiscretion a few months ago.
“Your Grace, please tell us who she is and where she came from.”
“Why have we never heard of her before now?”
“We must be the first to know.”
All Blake could think was that he was going to strangle whichever cousin had let it slip to the ton about Miss Tweed.
He waited silently and let the women wind down from all their questions. He then held up his hand and said, “I’m not spoiling the surprise. All in good time, ladies, all in good time.” He stepped down into the ballroom and quickly melted into the large crowd.
Blake couldn’t help but smile when he heard the shocked gasps from the women behind him.
Several more ladies and even a few men tried to approach him to ask questions, but Blake didn’t stop for any of them. Being a duke had a few benefits, and one of them was the fact that no one pushed him to answer anything he didn’t want to answer.
After a couple of passes around the ballroom, Blake finally found Race on the terrace talking with a young widow who was about to end her period of mourning. No doubt, if Race had his way, sooner than Society expected.
He waited for Race to acknowledge him and then gave him a right nod, which all the cousins knew meant they needed to assemble outside on the right portico for a discussion. He then searched through the crowd again and found Morgan chatting with a couple of men about horses. Blake gave his oldest cousin the same sign and then turned to head outside to wait for them. Instead, he came face to face with the Duke of Rockcliffe and his brother, Lord Waldo.
“You missed a good card game at your cousin’s house,” Rockcliffe said.
“Is that right?”
“It was a good evening for me and Waldo. Your cousins don’t play any better than you do.”
“Too bad you couldn’t make it,” Lord Waldo said, his pale brown eyes seeming to bulge more than usual. “We won plenty of their money and lined our pockets quite nicely before we left.”
Blake looked at the younger Rockcliffe. Lord Waldo was a little taller than his brother and much leaner. He had a sharp nose and big round eyes that always looked as if they were about to pop out of his head. Blake didn’t have anything against Lord Waldo. In truth, Blake had always felt sorry for the man because, rather than making his own way in life, he lived in his brother’s shadow.
Turning his attention back to Rockcliffe, Blake said, “It’s difficult to play cards with a snake. You can’t see his hands.”
Rockcliffe’s victory grin turned sour. “Are you accusing me of something, Blakewell?”
Blake remained silent, letting his contemptuous expression speak for him.
“If you don’t have any proof to back up your accusations, those are fighting words.”
“Name the place and time whenever you are ready, and I’ll be there.”
Rockcliffe merely sneered and walked away with his brother following. Rockcliffe was no fighter, and every man
in the ton knew it.
On his way outside, Blake walked past a buffet table filled with food. A tray of mushrooms topped with slices of figs looked good, so he picked one up and popped it in his mouth as he strode by, thinking he’d eat more later in the evening.
The night air was cool and damp when Blake stepped onto the stone portico to wait for his cousins. Rain was on the way. He could feel it. A slice of moon broke from behind a dark cloud to shed a little light on the misty evening. In the hazy distance, Blake could see smoke from the fire the carriage drivers had built to stay warm while their employers enjoyed the inviting merriment inside.
Within a couple of minutes, Race and Morgan walked up together—a sure sign to Blake that the two had begun their discussion before arriving.
When they stopped in front of him, Blake asked, “Which one of you gets the bloody nose for letting it slip that I now have a ward?”
“Why would we do that?” Morgan asked, looking at Race as if to make sure he hadn’t said anything to anyone.
Race looked puzzled. “You have a ward?”
Blake didn’t appreciate Race’s humor. “Perhaps I should bloody both your noses. That way I’ll be sure to get the right one.”
“Damnation, Blake, don’t be so riled,” Morgan said. “We haven’t told anyone anything about you or Miss Tweed. What could we say anyway? You told us very little about her.”
“Though we are ready to hear more,” Race said with a gleam in his eyes.
“I was asked questions about her tonight, but all I’ve said is that I can’t speak for the duke,” Morgan said, remaining serious.
Race held up his hand. “Wait a minute. You mean she really exists?”
“Most definitely,” Blake said, “And well you know it.”
“Quite frankly, old chap, I considered the idea that you made up the story to have an excuse to miss the horse race and card game. You have to agree that you have used outlandish excuses in the past for being late or completely missing appointments or events.”
“He’s right about that, Blake. You are known for failing to show on time—if at all.”