by Claudia Dain
It should have been Louisa. She should have been the woman wearing his pearls. She should also have been wearing his name.
But she wanted Dutton and Dutton did not want her.
But she did want her pearls.
Yes, Dutton’s idea had definite merit. The only sticking point was what Dutton would want in return. Dutton, for all that he was a gentleman of the first mark, was a bit of a scoundrel. It was, in fact, what made him such interesting company. It was also most likely what Louisa found so fascinating. Girls of good family inevitably found men of questionable character fascinating. Call it a law of nature. He had, especially since meeting Louisa.
“If I take the Melverley pearls off your hands,” Blakesley said, “what will you require as recompense?”
Dutton opened one eye to peer at him from his slouch. “What can you offer?”
He was being made to bargain for the attentions of Lady Louisa Kirkland; he was well aware of that. It was distasteful in the extreme. It was also, unfortunately, apparently necessary.
“I’m not aware of having anything you would find interesting,” Blakesley said.
Dutton’s eye closed again and he sighed. “I’m afraid that’s likely true. I believe the crux of the entire situation is that I have the one thing you find interesting.”
“Have is rather too strong a word,” Blakesley said softly.
“Is it?” Dutton drawled, his eyes still closed. “If you had the pearls we could put the matter to the test.” Dutton opened his eyes and pierced him with his famous blue gaze. “Take the pearls. Find out where her interest lies. If she continues to seek my company, then the question is settled.”
“And if she pursues me? Then she is simply interested in her pearls? Hardly flattering to me.”
“My dear Blakesley,” Dutton said, “if this is about finding ways to flatter you, then we must come up with another game entirely. I thought this was about Louisa.”
Which was, of course, true. Most everything in his life for the past two years had been about Louisa. It was tiring and monotonous and, unfortunately, that was not enough to put him off. Not even close.
“She must know that I have them,” Blakeley said, “or else the point is missed.”
“I’ll take care of that,” Dutton said, straightening in his seat.
“It must be handled delicately,” Blakesley said, by which he meant that Louisa must be handled delicately. He would not have her know of this bargaining as it would hardly flatter her. “And I must know what you expect from me in return. I am not going into this blindly, Dutton.”
Unless love made one blind, which it quite possibly did to judge by his behavior for the past two years and, most especially, in the past two minutes.
He must be mad. The proof being he did not care if he were mad.
“Let us wager on it,” Dutton said. “A simple wager for simple stakes.”
It was well known to every man in London that there was no such animal as a simple wager for simple stakes. And, being mad, he still didn’t care. He would get this thing settled with Louisa Kirkland one way or the other before he truly did go mad.
“Which are?” Blakesley asked.
Dutton shrugged and looked idly across the dark interior of White’s. “I will let it be known sometime before dawn that you have the Melverley pearls. If, shall we say, in three days time, she does not, oh, what is a polite way of expressing what I’m trying to say?”
“There is no polite way of saying it,” Blakesley said with a cold smirk.
“Then I am saved,” Dutton said. “I shall just have to say it, shan’t I?” Dutton returned Blakesley’s smile with equal chill. “If she does not leave off my scent and chase after yours, then we shall know that pearls are not what interest the lady. Fair?”
“Not quite,” Blakesley said. “How will this interest be measured? Neither one of us is hardly objective.”
Dutton looked at him squarely, his nostrils flaring in indignation. Dutton’s nostrils could rot in hell for all he cared. He was not going to lose this bet, and Louisa, on some fragile claim made by a man who was foxed more often than not.
“You think I would cheat?” Dutton said. “Dissemble?”
“I think you would flatter yourself,” Blakesley said, crossing his legs casually and leaning back in his chair. “You are not a stranger to self-flattery, after all. I’m merely protecting my interests. You can hardly find fault with that.”
“Then let’s name an objective third party to arbitrate,” Dutton said with a half smile.
Bloody hell, the last thing Blakesley wanted was someone else knowing what was afoot. Louisa would rage if she ever found out.
The obvious point being that she must never find out.
“Fine,” Blakesley said coolly, looking around the room and finding the perfect choice almost instantly. “Shall we ask the Duke of Calbourne?”
“Let’s,” Dutton said, rising to his feet, rather sloppily, he might add.
The Duke of Calbourne was easily the tallest and most rugged duke in England. That he was a widower with a young son, that his estate was formidable, that he was a good-tempered though private man, meant that he was, for all the aforementioned reasons, privy to the most delightful gossip in the ton. Or that was the speculation. Calbourne was not a man given to gossip, which naturally made him a magnet for all the most scandalous on dits imaginable.
Calbourne, sitting alone in a heavily tufted leather chair and sipping a brandy, did not rise upon their approach. Blakesley was just as glad; no need to call attention upon this impromptu meeting. The sooner, and the quieter, the whole mess was done with, the better. Calbourne sat listening to Dutton’s drunken explanation of the situation with Louisa and the Melverley pearls with an expression of amusement he did not bother to hide.
Blast. This is where love led a man. He might as well put a gun in his mouth and be done with it.
“It certainly is turning into a season for pearls,” Calbourne said with a grin. “If this continues for even another week, the price of pearls, never reasonable, will triple.”
“No one is buying pearls,” Blakesley said. “We’re simply making use of the existing supply.”
“Aren’t you, though,” Calbourne said, leaning back in his chair. “What’s my part in this?”
“A simple case of observation,” Dutton said. “Simply observe where Lady Louisa’s interest falls.”
“I’m almost afraid to mention this,” Calbourne said with a lazy smile, “but suppose her attention wanders to another quarter entirely. Where does that leave you?”
“Small chance of that,” Dutton said.
“Confident, isn’t he?” Calbourne said to Blakesley.
“Hence, the wager,” Blakesley said tightly.
“So, no chance of her interest wandering,” Calbourne said, his eyes lit with suppressed laughter. “That makes it so much simpler. For me. Very well. I’ll arbitrate your little wager. Is there a time limit to this or must I make Louisa Kirkland a particular point of interest for the entire Season?”
There was something in the way Calbourne said that, some hint of good-natured malice that set Blakesley’s teeth on edge. It was not beyond possible that Calbourne, in looking so diligently in Louisa’s direction, might not develop a tendre for her himself.
“Three days,” Blakesley said.
“Only three?” Calbourne sighed. “That hardly seems enough time to judge the true direction of a woman’s heart. Besides, the lady is quite lovely. I shouldn’t mind spending more time in her presence. Or do you think that the truth will be so evident that a mere day will reveal it? Perhaps we should keep this wager to an hour. An hour, in the right circumstances, should reveal all.”
At that precise moment, Blakesley couldn’t decide how Calbourne had ever been deemed good-natured. The man was positively malicious.
“Two weeks,” Dutton said, blinking heavily.
“Three days,” Blakesley softly snarled.
He w
as not going to have Calbourne, a most eligible duke, nosing about Louisa for a full fortnight, yet he knew Louisa well enough to know what would happen after just an hour. No, the thing had to be managed precisely.
And by that he meant Louisa.
Dutton raised one dark brow. “Confident, aren’t you?”
“Just impatient,” Blakesley answered.
“One would hardly know it,” Dutton drawled in insult.
What happened next was quite beyond the norm for White’s. Although, as it had happened just two days previous, to the same gentleman, it might be said that the norms of gentlemanly behavior at White’s were in flux. How else to explain the fact that Lord Henry Blakesley slammed his fist into Lord Dutton’s belly much as Lord Ashdon had so recently done? That the Duke of Calbourne was on hand to disrupt the melee in both instances put the entire event rather above coincidence, though no one would ever imply that the Duke of Calbourne had been an instigator in the dual attacks.
At least, not to his face.
Seven
IT had been a very simple matter to invite the Marquis of Penrith to Dalby House early that evening. Invitations issued by Sophia, Dowager Countess of Dalby, to eligible men who had achieved their majority were rarely declined and certainly never ignored.
“Darling Penrith, it was so good of you to come and see me on such short notice, especially as I am quite certain that you have made lovely plans for yourself this evening,” Sophia said as she lounged against the back of the white salon’s milk blue damask sofa.
Penrith lounged equally comfortably on an identical sofa. The sofas were paired and positioned to face each other in front of the marble fireplace. It was a most convivial and attractive situation, as well as being most productive. She had arranged not a few alliances on these sofas.
“One always makes plans, Lady Dalby,” he replied in that particularly languid way he had of speaking, “but whether or not they bear fruit is a matter of destiny.”
“Destiny?” she said on a soft laugh. “Are we to be as serious as all that? And at this early hour? I would think that destiny must wait until the early hours after midnight, at the very earliest.”
“Must it?” Penrith smiled, a singularly seductive action on his rather leonine features. “And what destiny awaits me then?”
“You assume I have a passing acquaintance with destiny.”
“Lady Dalby, it is well known that you and destiny are on extremely intimate terms.”
“Lord Penrith, that is quite the nicest compliment I have had all day,” she said, smiling. “May I compliment you in return?” At his nod, she continued. “You are quite the most talked of man in London, my lord, and in entirely complimentary terms. ’Tis a rare thing, to be talked of and complimented in the same breath.”
“And yet,” he said with the smallest of frowns, “perhaps not entirely complimentary to a man of my station and my years?”
“My Lord Penrith, I am not at all certain what you mean.”
“My Lady Dalby, I am quite as equally certain that you do. No man likes to be thought entirely well of. It puts one in mind of a long in the tooth gelding. Particularly galling as I have not been gelded.”
Sophia laughed in delight. What a lovely son Julia Aubourn had managed for herself. Penrith was truly a jewel in her crown.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Lord Penrith. You and I both know that a young woman of innocent aspect is quite nervous about standing behind even a small table with you at her side. Your reputation for scandalous behavior is quite up to the mark.”
“If you say so, though I am not at all certain that there can be a mark of excellence regarding scandalous behavior.”
“Oh, I assure you, there can be,” Sophia said with a smile that was quite intentionally wicked.
“I do believe you, Lady Dalby, I most assuredly do,” he said, grinning back at her.
He was devilishly handsome, was Lord Penrith, and so charmingly decadent. It was a complete pleasure to spend time with such an engaging and agreeable young man.
“Of course, I suppose that even the lily looks better for a little gilding,” she said, eyeing Penrith.
“First a gelding and now a lily,” Penrith said dryly. “My reputation is in a state. What do you advise, Lady Dalby? I am yours to instruct.”
Such a delightful man, truly, to put himself into her care so swiftly and so completely. There really was nothing more a man could offer, other than a nice cash settlement, and she certainly was not in the market for that, not from this man and not at this stage of her well-ordered life.
“Darling, I promise you,” she said, grinning at him fully, “you shall enjoy every minute of this.”
DUTTON had drunk just enough so that he didn’t feel a thing; not his toes and not his fingertips and not the outer edge of his tongue. Granted, walking and talking were a bit of a challenge, but he enjoyed a challenge from time to time. Now was clearly one of those times.
He and Blakesley had spent the best part of the day drinking excellent whisky at White’s with the very amused Duke of Calbourne. What Calbourne had to be so amused about he couldn’t imagine, not without serious effort, and he was not in any frame of mind to attempt any sort of serious effort. And that included acquiring the delectable Mrs. Warren.
Mrs. Warren, though he had yet to quite puzzle it out, was going to fall into his very deserving hands. When he was finished with her, and he had no doubt at all that he would finish with her if he could figure out how to start with her, he might even take a second look at Louisa Kirkland. Redheads were looking altogether on the up for him and he suspected rather strongly that Mrs. Anne Warren, with her bright ginger hair, was entirely responsible.
“Was there a reason why we had to walk to your house?” Blakesley snarled at his side.
Really, was the fact that he was being made to walk any reason to snarl? Blakesley was about to get a fortune in pearls and Lady Louisa, if he could manage to keep his wits about him.
Yes, well, no wonder he snarled so often. Blakesley had the most abominable knack with women, or at least with women as defined by Louisa Kirkland.
“I wanted to clear my head,” Dutton replied cordially. If he wasn’t the most cordial, affable fellow of his acquaintance, then he didn’t know a thing about affability.
“Optimist,” Blakesley said softly, snarling only slightly. Small wonder Louisa wouldn’t look twice at Blakesley when perpetual snarling was the reward.
Dutton would have made some remarkably witty rejoinder but his tongue wouldn’t cooperate at that precise moment. They turned onto Jermyn Street and were at his front door not a minute later. High time, too. He had to dress for the Hyde House dinner, where he happened to know that Louisa was expected and where he would tell her that her pearls now resided in Blakesley’s rather pedestrian pocket. One would have thought that the son of a duke, albeit the fourth son, would have made it a point to have a more presentable coat. The only thing Blakesley seemed to make a point of was Louisa Kirkland, and just look where that had got him.
Women were far better behaved when one didn’t focus too much pointed attention upon them, which was exactly what he had done with Louisa Kirkland and just look where that had got him.
Really, even with the Melverley pearls, he didn’t hold out a speck of hope for Blakesley’s chances with Louisa. Which was precisely why he’d proposed the arrangement in the first place. It was going to be amusing in the extreme to watch Louisa darting after him even with the inducement of the Melverley pearls in Blakesley’s inept grasp. And it was not beyond possible that Mrs. Warren would find the continued sight of Lady Louisa stalking him through London’s salons a proper prod to give in to his considerable charms.
All in all, it was a plan that, even if it failed, could not fail to amuse.
Eight
WILLIAM Blakesley, Marquis of Iveston, heir to the Duke of Hyde, was twenty-nine this very day, very eligible, and avoided absolutely everyone who knew he was very eligible and Hyde
’s heir, family excluded, naturally. That the family was only very rarely gathered together at any one time, in any one location, had prompted his mother, Molly, many years ago now, to arrange for this annual celebratory dinner for Iveston.
Henry Blakesley had never missed it. None of his four brothers had. His father, who positively loathed evenings of this sort, wouldn’t have thought of missing it.
The fact that Louisa was certain to be at the annual Hyde House celebration of Iveston’s birth had no bearing at all upon Henry Blakesley’s intense anticipation for a dinner that was scheduled to begin in a mere hour. He was not yet dressed for dinner. Molly was not pleased.
“Blakes,” she said sharply. Blakes was her pet name for him; it was with some relief that no one outside of the family had taken up the habit of it. “You are not dressed. I daresay that Louisa Kirkland is responsible.”
“I beg your pardon?” he said stiffly. Never once had his mother so much as mentioned Louisa’s name to him, a fact he had taken particular pleasure in.
“As well you should,” she said, setting aside her embroidery. “I have been made to understand only recently the depth and scope of your involvement with Lady Louisa. Certainly she is a questionable person at best. Her behavior regarding Lord Dutton has become the stuff of legend. Your own involvement with her has become nothing short of ridiculous.”
“I am not in the habit of being thought ridiculous,” he said through tight lips.
“I’m afraid that’s quite untrue, Blakes. You are particularly in the habit of being ridiculous where she is concerned.”
“She is a friend, nothing more.”
Molly rose to her full, petite height and fixed him with a hard gaze. “You are still being ridiculous, Blakes. Men and women are never friends and nothing more. It is a blatant fact that a man’s sole purpose in befriending a woman is to seduce her, which, by your continued friendship, I will assume you have not yet done.”
Blakesley could only stare, openmouthed, at his mother. Being from Boston, she had the habit of being plainspoken, but never this plainspoken.
