by Regina Scott
“When did you say Evalina Turnpeth was returning to town?” Kevin asked Nigel before taking a bite of his host’s excellent beef.
Nigel stopped glowering long enough to blink. “June or July, I’m told. Didn’t you hear Giles?”
“Most assuredly,” Kevin said with a smile, nodding at his rotund friend across the damask-draped table. “I would never ignore you, Giles. I thought perhaps you’d take the hint. I need the name of another heiress.”
Now it was Giles turn to frown. “Why?”
Nigel coughed. “Miss Welch turned you out, did she? I must say I gave her more credit than that.”
“It was the flowers, wasn’t it?” Giles groaned, paling and collapsing against the back of the Sheridan chair. “Oh, Kev, I’m so sorry! I was only trying to help!”
Kevin waved the issue aside with his spoon. “Don’t concern yourself, Giles. We were fast approaching this junction in any event. Although, I must say, flowers from both of you were a bit too much.”
Giles hung his head until his double chins were resting on the shirt points of his white evening shirt. “It was only some roses. And I did put in some of my comfits.”
“Yes, well, those went over very nicely, as you might suppose.” Kevin eyed his friend thoughtfully. “Am I to understand, then, that neither of you sent carnations, gardenias or lilies?”
“Certainly not,” Nigel said with a sniff. “Lilies are for the elderly, gardenias are insipid things, and carnations are highly unoriginal.”
“Of course,” Kevin allowed with a half-smile, his mind busy. Who else knew of his plans and would want to help? Perhaps it didn’t matter. She had turned him out, as Giles had guessed, and there wasn’t much hope that that would change.
“Contradictory female,” Nigel muttered. “If her tastes are so refined as to be upset by a few flowers, you’re well rid of her.”
“Hear, hear,” Giles seconded. “Who will you try next, Kev?”
“Don’t encourage him,” Nigel scolded. “Whattling, this plan was ill-conceived from the first. Surely there must be something else you can do. What about Lord Hastings in the War Office? Surely he must need some help mopping things up.”
Once again he could only wonder at his friend’s knowledge. Kevin spread his hands. “Napoleon is safely on Elba, and the Congress in Vienna is busily carving up his holdings. I don’t imagine Hastings has much for me to do. Besides, I hear he is entirely too busy trying to get his son Leslie away from the gaming set before his great aunt, Lady Agnes, finds out.”
“I say, I think you’re a bit hard on Leslie Petersborough,” Giles put in. “That Chas Prestwick fellow he hangs about with is nothing like George Safton.”
Kevin regarded him silently. Nigel scowled. Giles sunk behind the silver epergne in the center of the table.
“Nevertheless, Whattling,” Nigel continued, “you have to keep trying. There must be something you can turn your hand to raise this money.”
Kevin shook his head. “Not quickly enough, Nigel. And despite what I said about Lord Hastings, chucking everything to leave for France now feels too much like running away.”
“And marrying some female for her money feels more manly?” Nigel demanded.
Kevin threw down his napkin and rose. “I’m sick and tired of being lectured to. I got myself into this mess, and I will get myself out. And I’ll thank the two of you to stay out of it from here on.”
Giles started to protest, but Kevin didn’t stop to hear whether it was an apology or agreement with Nigel. He stormed out of the room, sending one of the footman flying for his top hat and cloak. His foot was on the step when Giles caught up with him.
“Don’t go like that!” he begged, jowls quivering. “We’re your friends, Kev. Nigel means no harm.”
“Then he should stay out of my affairs,” Kevin growled, turning to leave. “You both ought to have more faith in me.”
“Fanny Brighton turned down the duke,” Giles replied.
Kevin stopped, looking back over his shoulder at him. “What?”
“Fanny Brighton, the gel Nigel says laughs like a horse. I heard she turned down the duke because he didn’t have enough dash. She’s worth twenty thousand per annum.”
Kevin stepped back and clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you, Giles. I appreciate your confidence.” He turned once more to go and felt the tug of annoyance that Giles’s faith hadn’t lightened his steps.
“And Kevin,” Giles called, “this time, I’ll wait on the candy until you give me leave.”
“You might as well give it to me now, old boy,” Kevin said with a laugh. “I have a feeling that, this time, I’ll need it.”
–
As it turned out, not even Giles’ excellent comfits could have helped Kevin during his visit to the Brighton’s the next afternoon. In fact, he quit the house so thankfully that he found himself walking entirely too fast toward his own apartments and forced himself to slow to his usual stroll. He shuddered inside his navy morning coat just thinking about his close call. Whatever had possessed Giles to recommend her?
Miss Fanny Brighton had a laugh much closer to the bray of a mule than the whinny of a horse. That trait would have not been important to him, however, if she had been a pleasant person. But Miss Brighton was painfully aware of her position on the marriage mart, and she evaluated every gentleman who showed interest to see what a bargain she was buying.
From the moment he had been ushered into the sitting room, he had felt as if he were on the block. The room, which was decorated after the Chinese style in vibrant shades of blue and red with satin draping nearly every surface, seemed hot and crowded, even though the only people in it were Miss Brighton and her mother. Both were as overdressed as the room, their silk gowns sporting any number of laces and bows and ribbons until he wasn’t sure the color of the underlying fabric.
Unlike Miss Tindale, Mrs. Brighton could barely contain her eagerness at his call, small pudgy hands fluttering like two overweight butterflies at every sentence he uttered. However, he was quick to notice that those tiny dark eyes in a round face were much more calculating than her flighty manner indicated. They were every bit as calculating as the questions her daughter asked ever so innocently.
He answered most of them straightforwardly enough. After his experience with Jenny, he was even more determined to behave as honestly as possible. However, as she quizzed him about his family, his education, and his connections, he began to have the perverse desire to say something outrageous. The way the proprietary smile grew with each response he gave made him long to wipe it off her face.
“I haven’t seen you about much of late, Mr. Whattling,” she ventured after he had apparently answered her earlier questions satisfactorily. “How have you been keeping yourself?”
The temptation was simply too great. “By gambling and horse racing, madam,” he replied. “I find throwing away a bundle on a fresh pony invigorating. I imagine that’s what’s landed me in the financial spot I’m in.”
“So many gentlemen in financial difficulties these days,” Mrs. Brighton commiserated. “What a blessing we do not have such a problem.”
“I don’t imagine anyone would have such difficulties were they in our shoes, Mama,” Fanny replied with her characteristic laugh. “Why, I could gamble as long as I like, and most likely I’d never do more than touch the interest. Do you hunt, Mr. Whattling?”
He had hunted any number of times, finding the pastime enjoyable with a good field. “Not a great deal,” he replied. “Tedious sport.”
He had the great satisfaction of seeing Mrs. Brighton frown. Fanny pursed her lips thoughtfully. “That will have to change, of course,” she murmured. “I am quite fond of the sport.”
“And I imagine you’re quite good at it,” Kevin responded, offering her his most charming smile and wondering just how soon he could escape the house without insulting them both. However, as the questioning continued, he began to wonder whether he cared if he insulted them. H
e could not like the mercenary gleam in those pale blue eyes. The way she kept brushing against his coat as if to ascertain that the muscles she was seeing were real only made him want to quit the house in haste.
After another half hour, he managed to find his opening and bowed himself out with some excuse about seeing to his horses. He vowed never to return. Money or no money, he refused to be trotted out the rest of his life as the fine specimen of a man Fanny Brighton had bought. Jenny would never have treated him as if he were the strongest steer at auction!
But had he treated Jenny any differently? The thought pushed its way forward as he headed for his apartments. True, he hadn’t patted her withers or demanded to count her teeth, but he certainly had gone in with the understanding of exactly what she was worth financially. He had sought to bargain his male prowess for her money, all the while hoping she might have more to offer than financial support.
And she had considerably more to offer. Perhaps that was what had been bothering him. Instead of a straight bargain—his good looks for her fortune—he had been willing to take her spirit, her intelligence, and her beauty as well. It had never been an even bargain. The benefit was all his.
No, Eugennia Welch was well rid of him. The only question was, what was he to do now?
Chapter Eleven
Frowning, Giles lowered the day’s Times to regard the thin packet his man was handing to him. “What is this?”
“The delivery boy said it was from Mr. Whattling, sir,” Jacobs replied. “He didn’t wait for a reply. Shall I send someone to ask Mr. Whattling?”
“No, that will be all.” Giles waved him off. He set the paper aside on the teak table at his elbow, taking his feet off the leather-upholstered ottoman. Ripping open the packet, he saw inside two tickets to see Kean at Drury Lane for that night. The accompanying note read, “For all your support, Whattling.”
Giles sighed, leaning back in his padded armchair. Kevin was obviously trying to make amends, but he had signed the card Whattling as opposed to the more brotherly Kevin that Giles had been calling him since they had gone to Eton together. And the angry scrawl was so unlike Kevin’s usual writing. This could only mean he wasn’t entirely over his fit of pique. Besides, the other ticket could only be for Nigel and the fact that Kevin hadn’t had it delivered to his friend’s door clearly showed that Kevin wasn’t willing to face him just yet.
This heiress business was tearing them apart! He had always hoped they’d each find pleasant young ladies to wed, if he could even bring himself to court one and Nigel could bring himself to forget the one who had broken his heart before he had enlisted. Miss Welch, for all Giles’ original objections, seemed as if she might be a good match for Kevin. Why couldn’t she be more reasonable? She was a bluestocking; why couldn’t she see the logic of Kevin’s courtship? Any way she cut it, she was getting a bargain. What kind of person passed up such a paragon as Kevin Whattling?
Still, he couldn’t help but support Nigel’s position as well. There did seem to be something dishonest about courting a woman simply because she possessed a large fortune. He felt it equally dishonest to court a woman simply because she was particularly lovely. A person should be valued for themselves. Why, if he had been valued for only for his face or fortune, he’d have no friends at all!
However, it would have been uncharitable not to have accepted. He could hardly insult one of his truest and dearest friends. Besides, if he and Nigel went, perhaps they might find a way to make amends. Perhaps Kevin would be there smiling as usual, the tension between the three of them would evaporate, and things would be as they were before the infernal mess with Robbie. It was worth a try.
All he had to do now was convince Nigel.
–
Jenny sat next to George Safton in the center box of the Drury Lane Theatre that evening, with near royalty in boxes at either side. Her companion smiled down at the poor fellows in the pit, as if relishing his more lofty position. He seemed to be most interested in a heavy-set man with a shock of red hair, front row, center. Better him than her.
She couldn’t say what it was exactly that made her take the man in dislike. Since the moment he had arrived at her town house this evening, he had been completely attentive and charming. One could scarcely complain about his spotless black evening wear, although she found she preferred the white waistcoat Kevin wore to Mr. Safton’s black-and-white-striped one. By the way he’d bowed over her hand, she might have thought she was bedecked in a coronation robe rather than her navy silk evening gown with its heart-shaped neckline.
As they had left for the theatre, he had made sure to tuck the ermine-trimmed lap robes around her and Martha, even though she hardly needed them in her navy velvet evening cloak. He had chatted pleasantly with them all the way through London, making Martha blush and giggle with his fulsome compliments. When they had arrived at the theatre, he had ushered them up the sweeping stairs to what had to be the largest private box in the theatre. She and Martha had never bothered to purchase such luxurious accommodations. She should have felt like a princess.
But his attentions only served to annoy her, perhaps because there didn’t seem to be any logical reason for them. He hardly needed her fortune, if the opulent effects were any indication. He certainly wasn’t interested in intelligent conversation—his talks with Martha revolved around the weather, the latest fashion, or their neighbors’ private affairs. And just as when Kevin had arrived on her doorstep, she could not credit that a Corinthian could want to be her friend.
As if he were privy to her thought, he nodded down to the mass of humanity crowded in the center of the theatre now. “Is that our mutual friend Mr. Whattling, do you think?”
Martha, gowned in her usual violet evening gown, tsked as if it were bad form to bring another fellow to their attention, but Jenny’s traitor heart leaped. She leaned forward, craning her neck. The man sitting next to the redheaded fellow was quite tall, but too lean, and his hair in the lamplight looked more brown than gold. She leaned back. “No, I don’t believe so.”
He frowned. “Odd. Mr. Sloane is a particular friend of his. I was under the impression he would request his company if he should have an extra ticket.”
The redhead turned then and glanced back up the theatre, as if seeking someone. He had an open, almost childlike face. Though she was certain he wouldn’t notice her, she found herself smiling at him. He glanced up and smiled back, then reared back and tugged on his companion’s sleeve. The other man turned, and even Mr. Safton could not argue that angular face belonged to someone other than Kevin Whattling. He snatched the opera glasses from the chest of his dun-colored waistcoat and aimed them her direction.
She swallowed, dropping her gaze. “We seem to have caused a commotion.”
“Yes.” His voice was almost a purr.
She looked his way, surprised, and he offered her a smile. “That generally happens when a noted gentleman accompanies a pair of beauties to the theatre.”
Martha giggled. Jenny managed a smile at the false praise. Then his gaze dipped, and she had the distinct impression he was calculating the cost of the sapphire necklace at her throat.
She turned her gaze steadfastly to the stage below. The intermission between acts had just begun, as had the posturing that went with it. Friends sought out friends, lovers a quiet place to meet. Mr. Sloane and his friend had their heads together, deep in conversation. Very likely Mr. Safton expected her to make conversation. If it had been Susan St. John, Joanna Fenwick, or one of her other friends beside her, she would be able to think of something to say. Indeed, she wouldn’t even have to work at it. But the man beside her was making her more and more uneasy. She let Martha chatter on as her thoughts wandered.
Or rather grew more fixed.
She could not stop thinking about a certain Corinthian. It didn’t help that the play tonight was Hamlet; she kept seeing Kevin in the brooding prince. But even earlier, when she had tried to read the book Susan had picked, she saw him in the
characters, especially the dashing Willoughby. When she had tried to catch up on her correspondence with the Egyptian expedition she was sponsoring, she kept picturing him as a Pharaoh, with female slaves at his beck and call, eager to do his bidding. When she had attempted to classify the rare butterfly her entomologist colleague had given her, she caught herself wondering which of the many colors in its wings most resembled the blue in Kevin’s eyes. If she had sent him packing to salvage her intellectual, orderly life, she had failed miserably.
The simple truth was that she missed him terribly. She’d never realized how solitary her life had become. How much more enjoyable it would have been to share her favorite pastimes with someone she admired and respected, better, with someone she loved. Yet, fearing that her emotions would override her reason, she had let them do exactly that, and the result was that she had lost the chance fate had offered her. She should have thought things through more carefully. She should have given herself more time to accustom herself to the idea of being courted. She had behaved like a fool, a term she had never thought to apply to herself.
Yet, it wasn’t entirely foolishness that had caused her to send him packing. She was afraid of him. His very presence threatened to change her whole way of life. Even though she had been wishing for such a change, its sudden advent had been too much for her. Craven, she had refused him. And it was too late to make amends. One did not give a Corinthian the cut direct and try to apologize afterward. She was very much afraid she would never see Kevin Whattling again.
–
Down in the pit, Nigel dropped his opera glasses to his chest and shook his head. “You’re right. It’s Safton, and with Miss Welch, if I remember the lady correctly from our near miss in the park. It seems she’s found someone who will flatter her more. Trust The Snake to know how to address a lady’s vanity.”
