by Lynne Barron
“You wagered three pounds on the man,” Phin reminded her.
“A wise gambler hedges his or her bets from time to time,” she replied in a flippant manner before turning to Marchant and placing a hand on his arm. “I was only hedging my bet, wasn’t I, Charles?”
“Absolutely, dearest.” Marchant patted her fingers and smiled indulgently. “All’s well, so you needn’t worry your pretty little head.”
That steam didn’t rise from the ears fixed to her pretty little head at the purely patronizing words came as something of a surprise to Phin. More surprising still was the laughter that erupted from Miss O’Connell’s lips, the sound sweet and soft and entirely at odds with her sharp tongue and sardonic sense of humor.
“Oh, Charles, I do adore you,” she said, her voice husky with amusement.
“I’m well pleased to have been of some assistance to a damsel in distress,” Marchant replied with a chuckle. “Seeing as it is not a role I’m accustomed to playing.”
“And yet, you play it so well.”
The crowd roared, bodies shifted and pushed forward, jostling one another for a better view, fists waving in the air and ale spilling from sturdy pewter tankards.
“Tyson’s down,” someone yelled.
“Laid low in the first round,” another man hollered.
As if caught up in a riot against rising grain prices, the entire room erupted in jeers and cheers, back slapping and foot stomping.
“Tyson’s down?” Phin asked of no one in particular.
“It would appear so,” Miss O’Connell replied with a sly smile she made no attempt to hide. “I hope you didn’t bet the family estate, my lord.”
“Only ten pounds.” Ten pounds, which, thankfully, did not belong to Phin.
“It was the rumor Mr. Dooley’s sister was circulating, wasn’t it?” she asked, laughing outright. “Leave it to a light skirt like Maeve Dooley to muck up perfect five-to-one odds.”
“Five-to-one odds are perfect?” Marchant asked.
“A loss at five-to-one odds can be covered by the ale consumed in the first three rounds of the first bout of a night,” Miss O’Connell replied as if explaining simple arithmetic. “While a win will perfectly square the take twice over in the same three rounds. The risk of covering each subsequent round, whether it be the same bout or the ones to follow, decreases exponentially in direct proportion to the number of rounds fought throughout the night.”
While Phin couldn’t imagine how she’d come by such unorthodox knowledge, he in no way doubted the veracity of her explanation. In fact, if he were honest with himself--and who might a man be honest with if not himself?--Phin was slightly intimidated by her intelligence, though he’d die a thousand deaths before showing it by questioning her logic.
Marchant held no such qualms. “Why does it decrease, and exponentially no less?”
“The more bouts fought, the more ale consumed,” Miss O’Connell replied, pressing one hand over her mouth to conceal a yawn. “Inebriated men drink far more speedily than sober or even tipsy men, with a differential of three and a half pints to one by the final bout of an average night.”
Forget slightly intimidated; Phin was downright terrified by her intelligence.
“Goodness, it’s been a long day.” Another yawn punctuated the proclamation. “And I’m to watch over Mr. Preston’s bookshop tomorrow, so I believe I’ll bid you goodnight.”
“You won’t stay to watch Mr. Posey take on Quick Bennie Cummings?” Phin asked, wanting only to bask in her beauty and quiver in fright at her sharp wit a while longer. “I hear Cummings has a mean left jab.”
“Do yourself a favor, my lord.” Miss O’Connell stepped near enough to lay a hand on his shoulder and stretch up onto her toes to whisper, “Keep your dwindling fortune safely tucked away. If you cannot manage that simple task, wager it all on George Posey. This is his last fight, and Mr. Prince will not let his reign as champion end on a sour note.”
Damn, she even smelled like candy—vanilla and mint with the faintest hint of lemon.
“Shall I see you home?” Marchant asked before Phin could form a coherent thought, let alone find his voice.
“Cedric will see me home.” Miss O’Connell stepped back, her hand trailing down Phin’s arm before falling away. “Stay and enjoy Lord Knighton’s scintillating conversation, Charles. You might even learn something of farming.”
“Ah, right you are,” Marchant murmured. “Will I see you at the theatre tomorrow evening?”
“Where else would I be on a Friday evening?”
“One never knows, seeing as your schedule has recently been off-kilter,” Marchant replied.
“I have wrestled my schedule into submission once more and, barring further unanticipated visitors or other natural catastrophes, I fully intend to hold tight to the reins.” She dropped a quick curtsy, managing to lend the common courtesy an air of mockery. “Adieu, Charles, Lord Knighton.”
With a swish of peppermint-striped skirts, she turned and strode across the room, hips swaying as she sidled around two of the drunken buffoons making up Dryden’s party of pups. One of Prince’s bullyboys, a huge man with a shock of bright yellow hair cascading around his shoulders, pushed his way through the crowd surrounding the downed Mr. Tyson.
“Are you actually going to allow the brute to escort Miss O’Connell home?” Phin asked, watching as she took the man’s offered arm.
“No one allows the lady a damn thing,” Marchant replied. “She does precisely as she pleases.”
Phin could well believe it.
“They grew up together,” Marchant went on, speaking with the sort of absentminded thoughtfulness Phin remembered from their days at university. “When Cedric showed up in London two years past, Harry found him a job in the brewery until it was determined he made a better bully than brewer.”
“Harry being Mr. Prince?” Phin asked with a nod to the dandified publican.
“That fine fellow is Simms, Mr. Prince’s right-hand man,” Marchant replied with a laugh before changing the topic of conversation. “I understand you’ve a thousand acres of various grains to harvest come autumn.”
“Nearly two thousand acres,” Phin corrected, watching Miss O’Connell disappear into the pub proper. “Mostly wheat with a few hundred acres of barley.”
“I know of a brewer who might be willing to take your barley and a railroad company in need of wheat to feed their workers.”
“That’s all well and good, but even if I were to wager upon Mr. Posey, not even perfect five-to-one odds will win me enough to cover the cost of bringing in the harvest.”
“As I understand it, a good harvest alone won’t set your estate to rights.” Marchant tapped one finger on his chin. “Thus the search for an heiress.”
Phin gave a sharp nod in agreement.
“Were I you, I’d follow Miss O’Connell’s advice.”
“Keep my dwindling fortune tucked safely away?”
“Hmm, yes, that too, but I was speaking more toward hedging your bet.”
Chapter Seven
The next morning found Harry waking from yet another dream starring the too pretty, far too confident Viscount Knighton. Honestly, the man had a lot of nerve showing up in her dreams and offering her three measly shillings for a gander at her bosom. Even more annoying was the fact her corset was laced too tightly to tug down no matter how she wrestled with the bothersome garment.
As she’d fumbled with hooks and tangled with laces, he’d teased her with ardent kisses and masterful caresses, whispered sweet nothings in her ear and promised all sorts of wicked delights. And all the while, the heel of her slipper had been caught between uneven floorboards during a lively reel.
Most aggravating and bewildering of all was the unmistakable arousal pulsing between her legs and pebbling her nipples when she awoke with the bedcovers twisted around her limbs.
After such a dream, she decided to spread the papers out on the desk situated before the windows o
verlooking the street rather than in her bedchamber, as was her habit, so she might keep an eye out for uninvited guests or other natural catastrophes. She saw neither invading interlopers nor approaching calamities, but still her nerves would not settle into anything even faintly approaching calm.
It helped matters not at all when she ventured down to the bookstore to read to the elderly ladies of the neighborhood.
“The Virile Viscount?” Harry stared down at the book Miss Doris Mallory dropped into her lap only moments after she’d settled into her customary chair in the corner.
“Fresh off the presses,” Miss Doris answered, taking the chair opposite and smoothing her skirts.
Miss Deborah, her older sister by nearly a decade, offered up a nearly toothless smile and squeezed onto the settee between Mrs. Porter and Mrs. Tinsley. “It’s a tad more torrid than any of our previous works.”
Torrid did not begin to adequately describe the tale of star-crossed lovers the Misses Mallory had penned in the rooms they shared above the apothecary shop. The quaint euphemisms with which the spinster sisters had purpled their prose did little to hide the tale of debauchery masquerading as romance.
Before Harry had finished the first chapter, it was apparent to anyone with even the smallest knowledge of men and their queer predilections that the viscount had a penchant for innocent young ladies with enormous breasts. Midway through the story, the nubile virgin discovered she might satisfy his lordships preferences without removing her drawers, let alone relinquishing her maidenhead. And by the end of the seventy-two page novel, the newly wedded and blissfully bedded lady had taken to running about the house with her bosom on display in order to ensure marital bliss.
Agitated by the story’s resemblance to her dream, enormous bosom notwithstanding, Harry closed the book and waved the slim volume before her overheated face.
“Now that is a sight every publisher longs to see.” A masculine voice, deep and faintly amused, broke the silence and Harry looked up to discover Mr. Theodore Luther lounging against the counter. “Ladies left delightedly dumbstruck by a book.”
Tall and lean, with chestnut hair cropped short and bright blue eyes, Teddy was a fixture along St. Sebastian Place. He’d lived his entire thirty years in the rooms above the struggling publishing house he’d inherited from his father and now operated at a sizable profit.
Lately, Harry had been debating the wisdom of introducing Teddy to Madeline. The silly girl fancied reforming a rake, and Teddy was most assuredly Wellclose Square’s version of the species: charming and debonair and just wealthy enough that Lord Dunaway might agree to the match. Teddy was also in dire need of reforming, as evidenced by the son he’d gotten on a French actress some years past and the daughter who’d appeared on his doorstep just the previous winter.
And standing beside one rake in need of reforming was another likely well past the possibility of anything even remotely approaching reformation.
Damn and blast. Was it not enough the man was haunting her dreams? Now he must pop up on what amounted to her doorstep as well?
Lord Knighton’s ebony hair was in disarray, his cravat slightly askew, his chin shadowed with whiskers and, unless Harry was mistaken, he was dressed in the same suit of clothes he’d worn the previous night.
Harry absolutely refused to contemplate where he’d spent the night and with whom. The man could debauch his way through London and all the outlying environs from now until doomsday. It was not her business, nor would it ever be her business. Why then did she feel as if he’d betrayed her, sneaking from her arms and into another woman’s while she’d been stuck to the floorboards by the heel of her slipper?
Teddy introduced the ladies to his lordship, proclaiming them to be friends of long standing. Harry took in Teddy’s equally wrinkled garments and generally disheveled appearance and decided the two men had likely been carousing together, visiting the brothels and perhaps even sharing a harlot between them.
Lord Knighton flashed a grin at the ladies, spreading it amongst them as if doling out equal shares of sweetmeats to hungry children. And the elderly ladies ate up the attention, smiling and blushing like school girls who’d never before seen a handsome man.
“What say you, my dears?” the other handsome man in their midst asked, dividing their attention. “Did you enjoy The Virile Viscount?”
Knighton chuckled, low and husky, as he turned his amber gaze Harry’s way. “The Virile Viscount?”
“Oh, I did like the story ever so much,” Mrs. Porter piped up before Harry could formulate a reply. “Especially the part when his lordship fell to his knees before Miss Eliza, presented her with a pearl necklace while declaring his love and she had to blink away the sting of tears in her eyes.”
“Pearl necklace, indeed.” Mrs. Tinsley, former courtesan and current proprietress of the pawn shop two doors down, gave a lascivious laugh. “It was Miss Eliza on her knees, and it wasn’t the sting of tears in her eyes but something else altogether.”
Teddy and Knighton grinned while, not surprisingly, the other ladies appeared confused as to what that something else altogether might be. Had Harry not been raised by a dissolute debaucher of anything in skirts, had she not later resided in the home of the scandalous Bathsheba Sinclair and spent a goodly amount of time in the boisterous household of the infamous Alabaster Sinclair, she might have been confused as well.
As it was, Harry tried her best to ignore Knighton and the unwelcome acceleration of her heartbeat engendered by his sudden appearance. She set her mind to calculating the probability of a public outcry at the story’s barely glossed-over indecency and wondering how long it would take for said outcry to reach riotous proportions. “Teddy, you might consider issuing a warning in regard to young ladies reading by candlelight beneath the bedcovers.”
“You don’t want to be blamed for another silly chit burning down the house,” Mrs. Tinsley agreed. “Like that Miss Fairfax did last year.”
“A young lady actually burned down her house?” Lord Knighton asked incredulously. “While reading a tawdry novel beneath the bedcovers?
“It was only the bed canopy she set ablaze, not the entire house,” Miss Doris protested. “Miss Fairfax wasn’t the least injured.”
“Still, Miss O’Connell makes a valid point,” Teddy said, smiling to show off a full complement of slightly crooked teeth and a pair of dimples nearly hidden beneath the scruff on his cheeks. “And a rather valuable one as well.”
Harry rose to stand, tossing to her vacated chair what was likely to be the bestselling book in London by the time the Season ended. “Perhaps you ought to have the warning printed in the papers.”
“I’ll have it in The Gazette tomorrow morning, seeing as I own the paper,” Teddy agreed. “The Times and The Sentinel tomorrow, and all the rest the day after.”
“Mr. Farmer could paint signs to hang in every shop window where the book is to be sold, beginning right here on Tuppence Tuesday next.” Harry made her way across the room, her mind busy with possibilities and practicalities. “Something to the effect of Luther and Son Publishing having a desire to forestall disaster in light of last year’s near tragedy.”
“In case the public has forgotten precisely who authored said tragedy,” Teddy replied with a nod, “or fails to make the connection to this latest book. You are beyond brilliant, as usual, my dear.”
“Maybe you ought to… No, no that won’t do,” Harry murmured, furiously pondering probabilities and discarding potential pitfalls. “Hold a minute… I’ve nearly got it.”
Mr. Preston came hurrying into the shop, hat in hand and cravat askew. Pushing his slipping spectacles up the bridge of his nose, he halted before Harry. “Apologies for my tardiness, Miss O’Connell, but Mother will go on and on about the smallest trifle. You see, she lost a broach yesterday, nothing of value beyond the sentimental. It was the gift given to all the ladies when they departed Broadhurst School for Governesses, a badge of honor so to speak. She was in a tizzy to f
ind it and had me moving furnishings about and crawling—”
“A broach?” Harry interrupted, her scattered wits coalescing as an idea began to take shape, blurry and indistinct but hovering just there all the same. “No, not a broach…good gracious, I couldn’t…you wouldn’t…we shouldn’t…”
Accustomed to Harry’s preoccupation when presented with a puzzle or a prize idea, Teddy bid Mr. Preston and the ladies good day, plucked her spencer from the coat tree and helped her into the garment.
“What time is it?” she asked, blinking against the bright sunlight when Knighton opened the door and shepherded her out onto the street.
“Just gone four,” the viscount replied, holding the door for Teddy.
“If they hadn’t had me read all the naughty parts twice, we’d have finished with the viscount and his virgin an hour ago.” Tucking her hand into the crook of Teddy’s elbow, Harry steered him north along St. Sebastian Place. “We’ll have to hurry, else I’ll be late for dinner.”
“Where are we going?” Teddy asked as Knighton fell into step on Harry’s other side.
“Sales of The Serendipitous Seduction soared after Miss Fairfax’s little mishap, did they not?”
“Took wing and flew with the first whisper of a spark.”
“Why wait for a spark when one can set tinder to kindling and control the blaze oneself?”
“You don’t intend to set your bed curtains afire, do you?” Teddy asked with laugh.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Harry murmured. “What do you suppose is the going rate for that sort of fortuitous destruction?”
“Is there a going rate for fortuitous destruction?” Lord Knighton asked.
“There is a going rate for everything,” Harry retorted. “But I’ve something else entirely in mind.”
They walked along in companionable silence, Harry nodding greetings to shop keepers and neighbors alike while she considered the wisdom of creating a firestorm. Teddy and Knighton contemplated whatever it was rogues contemplated when they weren’t intent upon seduction.
