“Won’t this create further scandal?”
“I knew you’d say that,” she replied, moving forward on her seat for dramatic effect. “But it’s the kind of scandal that people forget about. The kind that Society is willing to forgive if it’s made right in their eyes.”
“You mean with marriage.”
Patience nodded.
Rowan pushed his blond hair away from his forehead and then crossed his arms. “Why are you so desperate to marry? It’s only your first Season, after all. Shouldn’t you give this a little time?”
Patience, not wanting to talk about her deepest, innermost thoughts and feelings, decided to take the petulant brat route to getting her way. “Why are you hounding me so? Isn’t this the sort of thing you live for? Scandal, debauchery? You’re the only one who can help me in my darkest hour, and you’re going to turn your back on me.” She tried to stand but bumped her head on the roof of the carriage. Blast it all.
It was obvious Rowan was trying not to laugh at her, which meant she had made her point. Now to drive it home…
She reached for the door handle, but Rowan reached out to stop her. “Fine,” he said, pulling her hand away and gesturing for her to sit back down.
“Fine?”
“Yes, fine. I will help you.”
“Oh, wonderful! Thank you, Rowan. You won’t regret it.”
Rowan looked down at the foolscap again and grimaced. No, no. She couldn’t have him waffling now. “What is it?” she asked.
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “It’s just that…the wording…it’s so explicit.”
“You’ve bedded half the ton—”
“The female half,” Rowan clarified.
“And probably one hundred and one whores—”
“For God’s sake, Patience!”
“Well, it’s true,” she defended. “And you can’t help me get bedded once?”
Rowan looked heavenward, as if his proverbial load were too heavy to carry on his own. “I’m a man. It’s different.”
Patience fought the urge to lambaste him for that comment, but she needed to stay in his good graces. Stroking his ego a bit wouldn’t kill her. “Yes, yes, I know,” she said with a sigh. “A handsome and rich one, at that. You have a clear way with women—I shouldn’t cast stones at you for just…being you.”
Rowan narrowed his eyes at her. “I know what you’re doing.”
Sheepishly, Patience looked up at him. “Is it working?”
Rowan sighed again. “Yes. It is.” Clearly, he had no power against flattery.
“Good. Now, do you have anyone in mind?”
The carriage pulled to a stop and Patience peeked out the window. Blast, she was home. She wished to ask for another turn about the square, but she didn’t want to take up anymore of Rowan’s time. He had a mission to accomplish, after all.
“There are a few who might fit your needs,” he said. “It will all depend on who is about at the club.”
“Of course. Though, if you had someone specific in mind, couldn’t you simply put his name in the book without him knowing?”
“You know far more than you should about the betting book.”
The carriage door opened and a footman stood by to help Patience down. “All I know I learned from you.”
“Then I must learn to keep my mouth shut.” He pointed to the open door. “Now go. I’ll be back by eight to retrieve you for the Davenport Ball.”
Tristan Wafford, Lord Swaffham, loved women. He loved them in all their shapes and sizes and colors. He loved to engage them in conversation and he especially loved to engage them in the bedroom. He had no scruples to speak of really. As a matter of fact, he’d left many a weeping woman in their beds without so much as a backward glance.
Many found him a despicable man, a disgrace to his sex, yet women still flocked to his side. Desperate mamas thrust their eligible daughters into his path at social events, and he had been guilty of making those eligible daughters slightly less eligible on more than one occasion. But Tristan had a knack for getting himself out of sticky situations, and therefore, he remained a bachelor at the ripe age of nine-and-twenty. Which was exactly how he preferred it to be.
“Good God, look at that homely creature there.” Lord Foley pointed out the bay window of White’s at a young woman in an ugly brown dress. “It looks as though someone’s spread excrement all over her.”
“And that nose,” Rowan Findley chimed in. “How would you like to be staring up those nostrils whilst she rides you?”
Tristan leaned forward to get a closer look at the unfortunate girl. Ah, yes. He knew that nose well. He sat back with a smile.
“What are you grinning about?” Foley asked.
“Let’s just say, gentlemen, that there are some instances where it becomes easier to overlook slight, God-given imperfections.”
Findley leaned a little to look at the girl who was nearly out of their sights now. “Don’t tell me you’ve taken that one to bed, Swaffham.”
Tristan shrugged. “Not exactly. Her father’s desk was far more convenient at the time.”
Both men shook their heads, and Findley chuckled in disbelief. “You never cease to amaze me.”
“Well, I live to entertain you, Findley,” Tristan said with a sarcastic smile.
Findley sat back and stretched his arm lazily across the back of his chair, his blond hair flopping to the side as he lolled his head backwards.
“What has you looking so thoughtful, Findley?” Tristan couldn’t help but wonder.
“Oh, nothing important,” he replied, which meant that it actually was important.
“Then you won’t mind sharing, I’m sure. It’s not fair to keep secrets to yourself, you know?”
“It’s my cousin, Patience…” He shook his head sadly. “The scandal with her parents has caused her to shut everyone out. She once had such a fire, such a zest for life, but now… Well, needless to say, she has no faith in the opposite sex anymore. Says there’s not a man alive who could make her even consider entertaining male attentions again.”
“What about you?” Tristan asked.
“Me?” Findley scoffed and swigged his brandy. “She trusts me least of all, even though all I’ve ever done is try to protect her in her parents’ absence.”
Tristan took a drink of his scotch, barely feeling the burn as it slid down his throat. Damn good scotch, it was. “Why are you so worried, then? Doesn’t it make your life easier if she’s not interested in men?”
Findley’s face screwed into a grimace. “Sure it does! But that’s not what I want…not for her. Not for Patience. She’s become so morose, and frankly, she’s a downright bore now.”
“Didn’t she just learn of her mother’s passing?”
Findley went on as if he hadn’t heard him. “I miss that funny, bright girl who used to entertain me during parties and such. I had hoped that overseeing her first Season would be…well, not dull. Now I have no hope.”
Tristan leaned forward, an idea forming. “Perhaps she just hasn’t met the right gentleman,” he suggested. “Perhaps if someone came along who could reignite her passion…”
Findley studied him for a moment and then shook his head. “No. It can’t be done. I’m simply doomed to watch over a morose creature this Season.”
“Now hold on just a moment!” Here Tristan was trying to help, and Findley was going to look his gift horse in the mouth? “How do you know it can’t be done? Has anyone tried?”
“No, of course not.” Findley stood to go. “But I just know there’s no hope. None at all.”
Tristan wasn’t known as a compassionate man, so it wasn’t that his friend was in distress as much as his friend was so thoroughly convinced that his cousin couldn’t be broken. “You must let me try,” Tristan said, coming to his feet.
“Try what?” Findley looked up at him, a furrow in his brow.
“Try to…you know…reignite her flame
.”
A pitying smile broke out on Findley’s lips as he leaned forward and placed his hands on the table. “Why don’t we make it interesting?”
Tristan raised a brow. “If there’s one thing I love, it’s interesting.”
“I don’t think you can do it.”
“Very short-sighted of you.”
“I’ll wager you…” Findley took a moment and swallowed hard.
Whether it was to mentally assess how much he could bet without losing his shirt or simply for dramatic effect, Tristan couldn’t say.
“I’ll wager you two hundred guineas that you can’t get even a flicker of interest out of Patience.”
“Ha! Not only will I get a flicker of interest, but I’ll quite easily get her to come to my bed.”
Findley dissolved into laughter. “And what if you’re caught? Are you prepared to be leg-shackled to my somber cousin?”
“After all my conquests, I’m still a free man. I’m not a bit worried.”
“Well, then,” Findley said, putting an arm around Tristan’s shoulders. “Let’s put it in the book, shall we?”
Patience ran through the rain, Marcie close beside her, holding the umbrella aloft in an effort to keep Patience dry. She trod as carefully as she could and held her gown aloft so as not to splash water or, God forbid, mud onto her hem. The driver, drenched from head to toe, held open the carriage door for her and Marcie, and they both stumbled into the warmth of Rowan’s conveyance.
“Dreadful night for a ball,” he said as Patience settled onto the seat, running her hands over her gown to smooth away any water spots, though she knew the attempt was futile on silk. The pale yellow was probably a poor choice for tonight; a darker color would have been more sensible. Patience sighed. Her mother would have thought of that detail.
Pushing those thoughts aside, she glanced up at her cousin who was lounging against the squabs with not a care in the world and not a drop of rain on his person. “Yes, it is,” she replied pointedly. “For those of us forced to run through the rain. Those who have covered walkways probably don’t find it nearly as dreadful.”
“I did luck out with that bit of property, didn’t I?” Rowan smiled. “But I also had great luck with a certain…assignment.”
Patience appreciated his discretion. She hadn’t told Marcie about her plan. If she did, the entire staff would know within minutes, and eventually it would get out that Patience had commissioned the bet and duped some poor man into marrying her. No, discretion was the only way in this matter.
Even still, Patience was rather surprised Rowan had worked so very quickly. After all, they’d only met this morning to discuss the plan. “Well, that’s wonderful news,” she said absently, and then, pretending to change the subject, said, “Did you enjoy your luncheon at the club this afternoon?”
Rowan played along easily. “Oh, yes. Delightful. Ran into a good friend actually, and we dined together.”
“Indeed. Anyone I know?”
“Perhaps…” Rowan shifted in his seat and swatted an invisible bit of dust from his sleeve. “Lord Swaffham.”
Patience sputtered on her own saliva, and dutiful Marcie immediately began pounding on her back.
“Are you all right, Miss Patience?” Marcie asked, grave concern etched in her too-thick brow.
Patience waved her away. “I’m fine, Marcie, thank you.” She cleared her throat again and tried to catch hold of her faculties, but it wasn’t easy. How could Rowan have plotted this with Lord Swaffham? He was a known reprobate, but no one had ever been able to snare him into marriage, despite the fact he’d nearly stolen many a girl’s virginities. This was going to be an impossible task. “I suppose,” she continued, “that he provided interesting conversation?”
“Quite so, cousin. A most interesting fellow.”
“I’m sure he is.” Interesting indeed. Blast, but she would lose in this, and therefore, so would Rowan. She’d told him this was a sure thing, but now she wasn’t sure at all.
Rowan sat forward a bit and leaned his elbows on his knees. “Patience, is everything all right?”
Patience narrowed her eyes at her cousin. It was a leading question, that much was for certain. “Well…what if no one asks me to dance again tonight?”
“You will certainly be asked to dance, but you mustn’t be too forthcoming. Accept, but with reservation. Don’t smile too much. Certainly don’t laugh or give the impression that you enjoy the man’s company.”
Patience could feel Marcie shift on the seat beside her and watched, from the corner of her eye, as her maid’s mouth slowly dropped open. Clearly, this bit of cousinly advice was unexpected and rather odd. But Patience knew exactly what Rowan was getting at. Obviously he’d indicated that she’d be a challenge, and being such a proud man, Lord Swaffham couldn’t help but take the bait. Nicely done, cousin. She gave him a little nod of approval.
“I will do my best to follow your suggestions, Rowan. Thank you for your sage advice.”
The Davenport Ball was the antithesis of the Heathfield Ball. Where the Heathfield Ball had been a mad crush, the Davenports had succeeded in barely filling half the ballroom tonight, and sadly for Patience and her friends, it was filled mostly with eligible young ladies.
“Why are we here again?” Patience crossed her arms over her chest, not caring if she seemed unladylike. There wasn’t anyone important to see her here, anyway.
Pippa sighed. “I’m not entirely certain.”
“I’m sure it will get better,” Georgie put in optimistically.
But Patience wasn’t feeling very optimistic about the evening. And furthermore, her corset was tied far too tightly. Thank heaven it wasn’t a crush or she’d be swooning into a heap in the middle of the ballroom.
She spotted Moira on the other side of the ballroom, who had been summoned by her mother just minutes earlier. The poor dear looked miserable, and Patience wondered what cruel and unusual beauty treatment the dowager countess was planning for her daughter.
Patience turned her head toward the open doors at the back of the ballroom that led to the terrace. A slight breeze blew the wispy, blonde curls of a woman who stood near the doors. Blast, but a bit of air would be nice.
Patience swayed side-to-side, contemplating whether or not she should make a run for it. Rowan had gone to fetch her a glass of lemonade, but perhaps she could go quickly and be back before he noticed.
Making up her mind, she turned to her friends. “I’ll be right back,” she said quietly. “Will you tell Rowan I’ve gone to the ladies’ retiring room if he returns before I do?”
“But where are you going?” Georgie asked, her brown eyes flashing with curiosity.
“For a bit of air, but I’ll only be a moment, I promise.”
She darted toward the doors before her friends could stop her, weaving around the debutantes and their mamas. She emerged onto the terrace and took a deep breath of the damp, spring air. The rain had stopped and left a glorious, balmy night in its wake.
Daring a few more steps, she moved toward the stone wall that overlooked the gardens. She couldn’t see much past the few lanterns that had been lit around the perimeter of the wall, but she could tell the Davenports kept a lovely garden.
“A young lady ought not to be caught on the balcony alone,” came a deep voice from the shadows.
Patience stated a bit and then whirled around to see who had spoken to her. “Isn’t it better she be caught alone rather than in the company of a man?” she returned, squinting to make out the figure that remained in the shadows.
“Touché.”
The gentleman finally stepped into the light, and Patience’s breath caught. He was like a golden statue—the kind that, when worshipped, got you smote by God. Patience took an instinctive step backwards.
“Allow me to introduce myself.” The man bowed to her and then straightened again. “I am Baron Swaffham.”
Coming to her senses, Patience eked out a startled, “Oh!” and then c
urtsied as deeply as she could without getting speared by her too-tight corset. “Forgive me, my lord.” Blast, she wasn’t prepared for this, and she absolutely despised being taken off guard.
“Nothing to forgive. Might I have the pleasure of your name, Miss…?”
“Findley,” she said, straightening up and shoving her nose in the air.
“Findley, Findley.” Lord Swaffham tapped his cheek thoughtfully, as if he hadn’t that very afternoon made a bet on her virtue. “Any relation to Rowan Findley?”
“My cousin,” she clarified, even though it wasn’t necessary.
“Of course. My condolences on the loss of your mother.”
Patience forgot herself momentarily, taken by surprise at the sincerity in his voice and at the thought of what might have been. How different this night would have been if her mother had been here. For one, she wouldn’t have had to dress to the sounds of an infant screaming from down the corridor.
“Thank you,” she finally managed. “But I don’t think I should be out here with you. We could be caught.”
“May I claim a dance, at least?”
Patience fought the smile that threatened to give her away. He was like putty in her hands. “I suppose I cannot say no, can I?” she replied in her most frigid of tones.
Swaffham was clearly enjoying the challenge already, if his wide grin was any indication. “Hand me your wrist.”
Patience raised her arm. Lord Swaffham moved closer, opened her little book and scribbled his name down.
“There,” he said. “I’ll see you for our waltz.”
“Our what?”
Swaffham blinked at her. “Have you never waltzed before?”
“Not with a man,” she returned, and then realized how awkward that sounded. “I mean, only in lessons, at school.”
“Well, we shall test your skill tonight. Now go, before you are discovered here with me.”
The Betting Season (A Regency Season Book) Page 24
