Third Son's a Charm

by Shana Galen

  “Yes, Your Grace?”

  “My schedule.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” He withdrew a paper from his coat and slid small round glasses on his long nose. He consulted the paper before looking nervously at Ewan. “You declined invitations to the Althorpe dinner party and the Buckingham’s fete—”

  The duke waved a hand. “Just the acceptances, Gladstone.”

  “Of course, Your Grace. Tomorrow night you have tickets to the opera. I believe Handel’s Oreste is playing. The duchess, Lady Lorraine, and Lord Neville will be attending with you.”

  “Add Mr. Ewan Mostyn to the list,” the duke instructed. “Mr. Mostyn, this is Gladstone, my secretary. Gladstone, this is Lady Lorraine’s new…bodyguard, shall we say?”

  Ewan nodded.

  Gladstone scribbled vigorously on the paper he held in shaking hands. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Mostyn,” he said with a brief glance up. “And should I add Mr. Mostyn as a fourth to your party for the Regent’s ball on Thursday?”

  “I think that would be best. Mr. Mostyn?”

  Ewan wanted to groan. The opera and the Prince Regent. He’d rather walk unarmed into battle. He’d rather have the enemy pull his toenails out. But neither of those sacrifices would make Francis suffer. If screeching sopranos and tolerating Prinny for a few hours were what it took to thwart Francis’s plans, then Ewan would do it.

  By the time Ewan had left the Ridlington’s town house, dusk was settling over the already gloomy streets of London. Ewan pushed through the fog and shadows until he reached the Draven Club.

  Porter opened the door, his silver hair shining in the lamplight. The Master of the House took Ewan’s coat and hat. “Mr. Mostyn, would you like dinner?”

  For once, Ewan’s thoughts were not on food.

  “Who is here?” he asked.

  “Mr. Wraxall and Mr. Beaumont are in the card room. Lord Phineas is in the reading room. You just missed the Lieutenant Colonel.”

  Damn, Ewan thought. He would have liked to see Draven. He started away, and Porter followed. Ewan waved a hand, dismissing the Master of the House. Ewan knew the club as well as he knew any home where he’d ever lived, and he didn’t want the trouble of waiting for Porter to open doors right now.

  In the card room, Neil and Rafe looked up from their game as Ewan entered. Beaumont resembled a fallen angel with his tousled hair and fine features. Neil, dark and brooding, sat straight and tall, still looking very much the leader he had always been. Beaumont smiled, which told Ewan all he needed to know regarding the card game. Rafe was winning.

  Wraxall turned over another card, swore, and tossed his cards on the table. Beaumont pulled the small tower of coins to the little pile he’d already amassed. No one played for high stakes at the Draven Club, and most of the coins before Beaumont were shillings and six pence.

  “Come try your hand, Protector,” Wraxall ordered. “I’ve been soundly thrashed.”

  “I’ll wager you two shillings he didn’t come to play cards,” Beaumont said, tapping his fingers on his chin thoughtfully. “He came to ask us about the Lady Lorraine.”

  Ewan had been about to take a seat at the table, but he paused and frowned at Rafe. Was there a woman in London the Earl of Haddington’s son did not know?

  “I see by your expression I am correct. And before you rip my head off,” Beaumont said, holding up a hand, “I don’t know her personally. Her name came up when I was making inquiries after the duke.” He looked at Neil. “And before you ask for a report, she’s reputed to be well-liked by other ladies and is said to be lively and vivacious.”

  Neil put his hands up as though attempting to ward her off. In the meantime, Rafe closed his eyes and pressed a finger to his temple. “What are you doing?” Neil asked.

  “Trying to imagine the Protector entertaining this lively and vivacious chit. I can’t manage it.”

  “I don’t have to entertain her. The duke wants me to act as her bodyguard.” Ewan took a seat at the table.

  “Too bad. I would have liked to have seen it,” Beaumont said, lifting the deck of cards and shuffling them deftly between his hands. His fingers moved quickly, cards disappearing and reappearing as though he were a magician. “I would not have connected the two of you at all, if I hadn’t heard she was smitten with Francis Mostyn.”

  “Your arse of a cousin?” Wraxall asked.

  Ewan gave a curt nod. Even the thought of his cousin was enough to make his jaw tense and his blood thrum in his veins.

  “She needs more than a bodyguard.” Wraxall sipped from the glass at his elbow. “She needs taste.”

  “Why doesn’t the duke just forbid the marriage?” Beaumont asked.

  “He did. She tried to elope.”

  “She sounds like trouble,” Wraxall declared.

  “She sounds interesting,” Beaumont argued. “The elopement was foiled?”

  Ewan wished it were that simple. But he knew his cousin too well. He could have told the lady even before the assignation that Francis would not show. “Francis told her he changed his mind about the elopement. He claims he wants the duke’s blessing.”

  “More likely he wants the duke’s daughter’s dowry,” Wraxall added.

  As usual, Neil had hit the mark dead center.

  “You’re to protect the lady from another elopement attempt by your cousin?” Beaumont asked.

  “And from any other fortune hunters. I understand her dowry is substantial enough to attract attention.”

  “And how does she feel about her new bodyguard?” Beaumont smiled.

  Ewan didn’t answer questions everyone knew the answer to.

  “Don’t tell me you have to escort her to balls and garden parties,” Wraxall said, ever practical.

  So Ewan didn’t tell him.

  “Is she at least attractive?” Beaumont asked.

  Ewan rubbed at the building tension between his brows.

  “What does she look like?” Beaumont asked. “Brunette? Blond? Redhead?”

  “A female,” Ewan said.

  Beaumont waved an arm as though washing his hands of Ewan.

  “What’s your first engagement?” Wraxall leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest.

  “The opera.”

  Wraxall groaned, but Beaumont leaned forward. “Which one?”

  When the other two men just stared at him, Beaumont shrugged. “I enjoy the opera.”

  “You enjoy opera singers,” Wraxall corrected. “There’s a difference.”

  Beaumont ignored him. “You’ll have to wear a cravat and pumps. You do own a cravat?”

  Ewan cringed. “I own one.” After all, he was a son of the Earl of Pembroke. His gaze narrowed on Beaumont. “How do you stay awake? I can’t ever understand them.”

  “That’s because most of them aren’t in English,” Beaumont answered.

  Ewan hadn’t known that, and he felt his neck grow warm. He’d thought opera was one more area in which he was a dimwit. And now, of course, he’d proven he was a numbskull because he hadn’t even known the singers didn’t sing in English. He should remember to keep his mouth shut. But neither Wraxall nor Beaumont made a disparaging comment. These two knew his shortcomings, but they never made light of them.

  “In any case,” Wraxall said to break Ewan’s embarrassed silence, “you won’t be watching the opera. Your mission is to be on your guard, keeping an eye on the duke’s daughter at all times. This is a good assignment for you, Mostyn,” Wraxall declared. “You’ve been bashing heads at Langley’s too long.”

  “I like bashing heads.”

  “Maybe you will have the chance to bash your cousin’s,” Beaumont pointed out.

  Ewan could only hope.

  Four

  What exactly had he meant? You are mine. Lorrie hadn’t been able to keep the phrase o
ut of her mind the entire day. Had the Viking meant she was his responsibility? She certainly didn’t belong to him. She wasn’t his wife—thank God—or his sister or any other relation. And then Lorrie started to wonder if the Viking had a wife. Was he married? Did he have children?

  If it hadn’t rained all day, she might have taken Welly out and turned her mind to other concerns. Instead, she’d been stuck inside with nothing but her needlework and her mother’s gossip, which Lorrie had heard last week, to keep her occupied.

  She’d almost jumped for joy when her mother had sent her to change for the opera. Lorrie didn’t care for the opera, especially as Francis never attended, but at this point she was desperate for any diversion.

  While Nell pulled and twisted Lorrie’s hair into the latest French style, Lorrie stared at her reflection in the mirror. Francis had said she was beautiful. Lorrie had been flattered, though she’d known it was hyperbole. She was not beautiful. She had pleasing features but nothing that would cause anyone to stop and stare in a crowded room.

  Now, Francis was quite handsome. Ladies routinely turned their heads when he passed. Francis was a skilled dancer and a witty conversationalist as well. The Viking, on the other hand, Lorrie imagined ladies turned their heads when he passed, but it was probably out of awe and not admiration. She didn’t know if the man danced, but his cousin had him beat hands down when it came to conversation.

  Still, her new bodyguard managed to say quite a lot without ever having to utter a word. Lorrie stared at her brows in the mirror and attempted to raise only one. Both rose, so she held one in place and raised the other. Now she simply looked ridiculous.

  “My lady?” Nell asked.

  Lorrie dropped her hands. “How is your sister, Nell?” she asked quickly.

  Nell smiled. “It won’t be long now. The baby should be here before the end of summer. My sister and her husband are hoping for a boy, but I would love a little niece to spoil.”

  “So would I, but neither of my brothers seem very intent on marrying.”

  Nell made a sound of assent. “They are still young. Lord Neville arrived just before I came up, my lady, and Mr. Mostyn was right behind him.”

  Lorrie had a thousand questions at that moment—how had the Viking looked, had he spoken, did Nell know if he was married…

  Instead, she said, “Good. Then we shan’t have to wait on either of them.”

  “All the maids are quite aflutter with talk of Mr. Mostyn,” Nell said, pulling a curl out of the coiffure so it framed Lorrie’s face.

  For some reason the maids’ infatuation with her new bodyguard irritated Lorrie. “Really? The man has as much charm as a mule.”

  “But he’s a great deal more attractive, my lady.” The maid secured a small diamond pin in Lorrie’s hair, which glinted softly off the candlelight.

  “Don’t tell me you are smitten with him too.”

  Nell shook her head. “I think I would die of fright if the man spoke to me. He will make a good bodyguard, my lady.”

  That was what she’d been afraid of. With the Viking watching her every movement, she and Francis would never have any time alone, and she’d been hoping to sneak away and steal a kiss at Prinny’s ball tomorrow night.

  Lorrie rose. “I suppose I should go down.” She pulled on her gloves and fastened a silver cuff on one wrist. She studied her reflection in the cheval mirror and supposed she would do. The gold silk dress had a modest neckline, but it was rounded enough to show her shoulders. Nell was a wonder with hair, and she’d artfully arranged Lorrie’s hair into a cascade off to one side. A long, solitary curl tickled her exposed skin. The fact that Nell was able to cajole Lorrie’s hair into curling at all made her invaluable. Lorrie’s stick-straight hair proved rather recalcitrant when anyone other than Nell took curling tongs to it.

  On the way down the stairs, she bit her lips to give them color, then smiled when she spotted Neville at the bottom of the steps. He stood tall and straight, his light brown hair waving back from his forehead.

  “There you are,” he said, barely glancing at her. “Maybe you can tell me why there’s a man I do not know accompanying us to the opera. Father sequestered himself with the man, and Mama shushed me.”

  Lorrie sighed. “Father has hired him to keep us safe.”

  Neville’s brows rose high on his already high forehead. “Us safe? You mean you safe from that arse Francis Mostyn.”

  Lorrie’s smile died. She remembered why she had been happy when Neville had left for school and then found his own accommodations in London. She’d never liked Neville much. Charles, her eldest brother, was far less annoying, but he was quite involved in politics and rarely at home.

  “As Francis will soon be my betrothed, I would appreciate it if you did not disparage him.”

  “Father will never agree to you marrying that arse.”

  If they’d been a few years younger, she would have punched him. Although he was three years her senior, as children she could always best him. She’d make him call “surrender,” and if he wouldn’t, she’d hold him down until he cried. Now she was not so certain she could hold him down. He was taller than her and at least three stones heavier. She might still be able to make him cry if she punched him in the belly.

  “Mr. Mostyn is not an arse, and Father will agree to allow me to marry him.”

  “When hell freezes over.”

  “When he realizes Francis is the only man who will ever make me happy.”

  “Until you find another man who will”—he raised his voice to mock her and fluttered his hands—“make you happy.”

  Lorrie folded her arms. “There is no other man. There is no man better than Francis.”

  “My hound is better.” Neville glanced at the closed library door again. “That man is your bodyguard, you say? He looks familiar.”

  “He is Francis Mostyn’s cousin.”

  Neville snapped his fingers. “That’s it then. He’s one of Draven’s Survivors.”

  “And what, my dear, is Draven’s Survivors?” the duchess asked, gliding down the stairs. She adjusted a red and burnt-orange Turkey shawl as she walked, and Lorrie assumed she’d had to go back up to her chamber to fetch it. Thus far the spring of 1816 did not feel very spring-like at all.

  The Duchess of Ridlington had married young and borne all of her children in the span of five years. She was not yet in her middle forties and looked to Lorrie as though she were still in her twenties. She had dark brown hair and hazel eyes, a small nose, and a petite form. Lorrie had been taller than her mother when she turned twelve. And though Lorrie was only average in height, she always felt like a giant compared to the duchess.

  As usual, when in the presence of their mother, Neville became obnoxiously charming. He bowed over her hand and kissed her glove. “You look beautiful, Mama.”

  She did, Lorrie thought. Her mother had chosen an apple-green dress that would have looked too young on any other matron of three and forty, but it looked perfect on the Duchess of Ridlington.

  “Thank you.”

  Neville cleared his throat. “Draven’s Survivors was the sobriquet of a group of thirty men chosen for some of the most dangerous missions in the war against Napoleon. The men were all educated and known to have special skills. Most, if not all, came from the nobility. Younger sons, like me,” he said, puffing his chest out slightly.

  Lorrie wanted to roll her eyes. The closest Neville had been to a battle was on a chessboard.

  The duchess tapped her fan on her cheek. “I’ve heard of them. And this Mr. Mostyn, what was his special skill?”

  “I believe they called him the Protector. He looks like the man a soldier would want at his back in battle.”

  Lorrie could not argue with that.

  “Well then.” The duchess turned her gaze on her daughter. “You should be in capable hands, Lorraine.”


  “I am not in need of a bodyguard,” Lorrie said stiffly. “Francis agreed to wait until we had Father’s blessing.” Dratted man.

  The duchess sighed. “Really, dear.” That was as much as the duchess had said when Lorrie’s failed elopement had been discovered. It was not so much that the duchess, who was a rather neglectful mother, cared that her daughter had attempted to elope, it was more that she was disappointed in either her choice of husband or the poor elopement planning. Lorrie was not certain which.

  If she had to guess, it was the poor planning. Francis might not be wealthy or titled, but he was handsome and dashing. Her mother had a weakness for handsome, dashing men. As she’d produced an heir, a spare, and a daughter to carry on the family name, the duke turned a blind eye to his duchess’s little liaisons.

  The library door opened and the duke, dressed in his best dark coat and starched white cravat, emerged. He was followed by the Viking—only he did not look so much like a Viking tonight. Lorrie had seen him in a coat and snug breeches before, but there was something about the flowing white cravat that made him look like a lion with a collar about his neck. If the desired effect was to lessen the Viking’s dangerous edge, the cravat did not achieve its aim. Instead, the Viking appeared fiercer and as though he might tear the neckcloth from his throat at any moment.

  In fact, Lorrie found herself hard-pressed to look away from the man and his simple but precisely tied cravat. She’d thought him handsome before, if in a feral sort of way, but looking at him now her body warmed and her chest tingled in a manner she could not quite explain.

  Even Neville seemed taken aback when the Viking stood across from him in the vestibule. The duke made the introductions, and Neville spluttered and stammered his greetings. Still, everyone smiled and pretended it was normal to have a Viking in clothing that would have made Beau Brummell proud accompanying them to the opera. Lorrie had already been introduced and was required to say very little. She was thankful for the respite, especially since the carriage had seemed far too small with the Viking seated across from her. The lamps provided a cozy glow inside the conveyance, and she knew Mostyn was not looking at her. Still, she felt his presence keenly, and the warmth she’d felt in the vestibule clung to her so that she had to lay aside her wrap and resort to fanning herself, even though the night was unseasonably cool.