Tempted By The Roguish Lord. Mary Brendan

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      ‘Family matters.’ Lance dampened down his friend’s grin.

      ‘I don’t know why you bother with that chit.’ Jack sighed. ‘The girl will end up in Bridewell if she don’t settle down.’ Jack knew that his friend’s stepsister was a minx. The Countess had been a courtesan before becoming the old Earl’s second wife. Now the daughter appeared to be taking up where the mother had left off. Lance had already hushed up one scandal after the girl was spotted without a chaperon, visiting relatives on her mother’s side who lived by the docks.

      Jack ordered the coffee by poking his head round the anteroom door to speak to Reeves. He found the window seat again with a sigh. ‘I’m in Queer Street since I put twenty guineas on a mare. The damnable filly cantered in second from last at Epsom.’

      Reeves backed into the room, bearing a tray holding cups and a silver coffee pot. After the valet deposited it on a table, Lance handed him his creased jacket with an apologetic smile. He’d noticed his servant’s mournful gaze kept returning to it.

      ‘Do you need some salve for those knuckles, sir?’ Reeves was eyeing the Earl’s grazes.

      Lance idly flexed his fingers, having forgotten about the wounds, if not the woman who’d caused him to get them. ‘They’re only scratches.’

      ‘Had a scrap last night, did you?’ Jack approached to investigate the damage with a raised eyebrow.

      ‘Nothing worth mentioning,’ Lance said and commenced lathering his skin with a shaving brush.

      Jack knew when he was being shut out. They were close friends, but the Earl had a private side and Jack knew better than to pry into it.

      Having poured the coffee and distributed the cups, Reeves perambulated the room, foraging beneath chairs and cabinets for shoes and boots for polishing while the gentlemen continued their discourse. He halted with an armful of supple leather to say, ‘You should allow me to do that for you, my lord.’ Reeves was frowning at the sight of his master shaving himself.

      Lance half-smiled. ‘You’re probably the only man I would allow to hold a blade to my throat, Reeves.’ He drew steel up a column of tanned throat to a square, bristly jaw, then dipped the soap-edged razor into warm water. He’d been in the army for six years and had grown used to doing things for himself...even cooking over an open fire. Dragging a servant along on campaign to mollycoddle you was to his mind an unnecessary vanity when all any soldier needed was a surgeon and a priest on standby. Lance heard a gruff laugh and his eyes strayed to his friend’s reflection.

      Jack had been observing an entertaining spectacle of a street urchin pickpocketing for some minutes. He’d been giving his friend a running commentary as the scene unfolded. Jack gave another guffaw before dabbing his eyes with a handkerchief. ‘Just what I needed to wake me up,’ he said, turning to Lance.

      ‘Escaped, did he?’

      ‘The little toe-rag did at that,’ Jack concurred with an amount of admiration.

      Lance continued shaving with one hand, his other extended meaningfully.

      Jack groaned and plunged a hand in a pocket. He dropped a coin into his friend’s damp palm.

      ‘Shall I bring a breakfast tray, my lord?’ Reeves offered over a starchy black shoulder. ‘Or will you go to the dining room for a proper sit-down?’ His master was wont to breakfast quite insubstantially. A pot of tea and a plate of toast was not a meal fit for an earl in Reeves’s estimation.

      ‘Toast and tea will suffice,’ Lance said, and Jack rubbed his hands together in anticipation of a quick snack.

      Lance was deftly folding a sepia-silk cravat as he strolled to the window and looked out over Grosvenor Square. Smart vehicles thronged the street, people strolled and a few liveried servants could be seen weaving busily between the gentry. Mentally, he sorted through his business affairs. There were several matters to finalise before he journeyed later to Hertfordshire to find out what in damnation his stepsister had been up to this time. If he were to bring her home he first needed an idea of where to find her. He hadn’t spotted Augusta in town for weeks and neither had he heard gossip about her, which was unusual. She was staying in town with a chaperon chosen by her mother. Obviously the woman was unable to discipline Augusta well enough to keep her out of trouble.

      Within a short while Lance’s mind had wandered back to Marylebone and an image of an exquisite raven-haired woman. Before he left town he knew he’d be compelled to call on Miss Waverley again. He wasn’t particularly vain, but for some reason he needed to show her he wasn’t a drunken ruffian...well, not very often, anyway. And he knew she was no fallen woman, although he’d hinted as much to her and seen her bristle angrily. But what in damnation had she been thinking of, going to a rookery at night, even to meet her fugitive brother? He felt a genuine concern for what might have happened to her had he not gone to Cheapside to visit Jenny last night. And he had been in two minds about it.

      Although she’d been his mistress for less than a year he was already contemplating pensioning her off. He never accounted to a mistress for his whereabouts or his behaviour and Jenny had lately been expecting he might do both. Lance knew an opera singer was angling for his attention and he’d given Maria enough reason to expect he might approach her. Now he couldn’t recall what about the soprano had attracted him.

      The more he tried to forget Emma Waverley, the more his thoughts returned to finding an excuse to pay a call at Primrose Square. He could go back to ask after her welfare following her mishap. Another meeting between them would be unwelcome to her, she’d made that clear, so the reception he’d get was uncertain. But he liked a challenge and was desperate enough to be in the same room with her again to take a few barbs.

      ‘White’s or Watier’s?’ Lance asked over a shoulder. ‘We could have a game of Faro before I set off. You might win your losses back.’

      ‘Fat chance of that if you’re in on it.’ Jack snorted grumpily. ‘Watier’s...the food’s better,’ he opted, having given the matter a second of consideration. ‘Besides, yesterday there was some talk at the Faro table about a duel on Wimbledon Common. Didn’t recognise the names of those involved, but I’m curious to know who was victorious.’

      Lance gazed down on to a sunlit street scene, hands thrust into his pockets. ‘On the matter of duels, d’you recall anything about a fellow called Waverley fleeing abroad after a scandal?’

      ‘That’s going back some years,’ Jack said in surprise. ‘This duel was over a woman, but nobody deserves to end up in the dung like Robin Waverley. Damnable pity for him.’

      ‘Refresh my memory,’ Lance said. ‘I can’t bring it all to mind.’

      ‘Why d’you want to know?’ Jack crossed his arms over his chest, looking inquisitive.

      ‘If I ever need to act as your second, I’d like to know what I’m getting into.’ Lance shrugged into a charcoal-grey tailcoat his valet had laid out.

      ‘Same as last time you acted as my second...or I acted as yours,’ came the dry reply. ‘I know you ain’t forgotten as it was barely a month ago I met Bellingham.’

      ‘That was over a Covent Garden nun. Was Robin Waverley’s sister involved in his trouble? I don’t recall the details.’

      ‘I believe she was. She eloped with Simon Gresham. At the СКАЧАТЬ