Heart thudding, she told herself she'd never succumb to a villain's temptations. She was only interested in a prince. In Lord Charles. Scanning the room, she spotted her beloved conversing with a circle of Corinthians. Her heart calmed at the sight of him. With his dark auburn curls coiffed à la Titus and his slim form showcased in black and white, he embodied elegance. They'd exchanged a brief greeting earlier in the evening, and he'd requested the favor of a dance later on.
As if he'd had to ask. She'd come for the sole purpose of furthering their acquaintance, and he was the very thing she needed to get her mind off that bounder Hunt. If she was lucky, she and Lord Charles might even have a waltz. In fact, she ought to find Tottie, whose permission would be required for the dance. She hadn't seen her chaperone for ages and hoped the dear was not lying sauced beneath a table somewhere. Before she could start her search, high, cultured accents drifted from behind her.
"Fine party, what," said a gentleman's voice. "Plenty of prime quality here tonight."
"I'd say it's not so much prime as overdone," a female drawled in reply. "Lydia's done up the place like a stage … and not Theatre Royal, either. Our hostess has a taste for Haymarket."
Another lady giggled in response.
Now Percy knew it was impolite to listen in on another's conversation (Mama always said that eavesdroppers deserved what they overheard), yet she couldn't help but peek through the narrow space between the sarcophagi. She saw the three speakers consisted of a rail-thin redhead with a haughty expression, a plump blonde dressed in debutante's white, and a gentleman whose curled, windswept coiffure likely required more time to style than Percy's own simple coronet.
"Lady Eleanor, surely you are not implying that the Stanhope soiree is in poor taste?" The gentleman raised thin eyebrows.
"I don't bother to imply anything, Lord Carlton. I simply say it as it is." The redheaded Eleanor sniffed. "One need only have eyes to see that the guest list is hardly crème de la crème."
With a frisson of unease, Percy knew she should stop spying on the trio. Instead, she leaned closer to the gap.
"You are absolutely right as usual, my lady," the blonde said in a simpering voice. "Why, I do believe I saw a barrister by the punch table."
"That is not the worst of it. The place has been overrun by Cits. Did you not see who Lord Gregory was dancing with earlier?"
The blonde's face scrunched in thought. "Miss Appleby?"
"No, sister dear, Lady Eleanor is referring to the chit in yellow," the gentleman said in a snide tone. "Dear me, what is her name … it's ridiculous, Aphrodite or something …"
Percy's cheeks grew hot as she looked down at her pale jonquil skirts.
"She smells of shop," Lady Eleanor said. "And she's no less common this Season than she was the last. Do you recall what she told Lord Overton last year?"
The blonde giggled. "How could I forget? He gave such an amusing account of it. He asked her about her hobbies, and she regaled him with the details of some sordid novel she was working on. A novel, imagine that!"
"Common, as I said. The only reason anyone is paying her any attention is that vulgar dowry of hers." Lady Eleanor sneered. "'Tis like waving a red flag in front of maddened bulls."
"Impoverished ones, more like." The gentleman finished off his champagne. "Ain't a title I know of who don't need more blunt, and chits with plump pockets are in shortage this Season. In point of fact, I may have to have a go at our little shop girl turned authoress myself."
"My dear Miss Fines, is that you standing by those atrocious remains?"
At the sound of the musical voice, the gossip halted on the other side of the sarcophagi. Percy spun around. Mortified, she recognized Lady Marianne Draven, a bosom friend of the Marchioness of Harteford. With her moon-bright hair and classically sculpted features, Lady Draven cast all other females in the shade. Tonight, a gauzy silver gown caressed her willowy figure, and a string of emeralds circled her slender neck, the jewels outshone by her striking green eyes. Percy much admired the widowed baroness who was not only beautiful, but also independent and terribly clever.
"Good evening, my lady." How much of the sniping had Lady Draven overheard? Despite the humiliation churning her stomach, Percy managed a proper curtsy. "It's so nice to see a familiar face."
The baroness smiled. "I imagine so, when so many of the unfamiliar ones are less than hospitable." In a voice that delicately carried, she said, "In my opinion, there is a thing more vulgar than your dowry, Miss Fines. Would you like to know what that is?"
Shame and misery stole Percy's words.
"Sour grapes." The edge of Lady Draven's flawless mouth curled with derision. "I, for one, am hardly surprised that the gentlemen tonight would rather enjoy champagne than cut-rate wine ... or should I say, whin-ing?"
Percy heard a furious gasp from the other side of the sarcophagi and instantly felt better.
"I find the air here rather stuffy," Lady Draven continued. "Won't you join me on a circle around the floor?"
"I'd love to." Once they were out of ear-shot of the trio, Percy said in a rush of gratitude, "Thank you for intervening, my lady. Though, I must confess, the situation was in part of my own making. I ought not to have eavesdropped."
"Perhaps not. But Eleanor Worthington and her smug superiority set my teeth on edge."
Lady Draven coolly surveyed the room as they walked; one had the feeling those green eyes missed little. All around, gentlemen hovered like insects, trying to get her attention. Fascinated, Percy made note of how she shooed them away with a glance or a flick of her fan. Percy strove to keep her own pace as sedate and graceful as her companion's. To quash her tendency to rush along or, as Mama described it, pell-mell, as if all the world's afire.
"I fear I shan't ever fit in here, my lady," Percy said in glum tones.
"Good God, why bother to try? You've spirit, which I'll take over insipidity any day," Lady Draven said. "By the by, let us drop the tiresome formalities, shall we … Percy?"
"Absolutely, Marianne," Percy said, flattered. "And whilst I do enjoy your company ever so much, I feel I should ask … being seen with me won't bring down your countenance, will it?"
"My dear, you have the wrong impression," the other drawled, waving her feathered fan. Between her long, gloved fingers, diamonds glittered on the sticks. "Between the two of us, I far outrank you in notoriety."
Percy grinned. "In that case, I can only hope you don't rub off on me."
Marianne's laughter pealed like silver bells. "A minx after my own heart. How delightful. Now tell me—what have you heard from the Hartefords of late?"
"The last letter I received was over a fortnight ago. Helena wrote that they were enjoying Venice immensely, though the twins were driving everyone mad. Apparently, one of them nearly overturned the gondola during a trip through the canals whilst the other got them ejected from a cafe on the Piazza for trying to lure the pigeons in with his tea cakes."
"The little hellions take after their mother it seems."
"Jeremiah and Thomas, like Helena?" Percy said, surprised. "Surely not. She is the most proper lady I know."
"You'd be surprised." Her lips faintly curved, Marianne said, "And you, Percy? How are you faring in your family's absence?"
"Oh, I'm keeping busy ..."—trying to save my brother, kissing a ruthless rogue—"... with a little of this, little of that." Percy sounded nervous even to her own ears.
Green eyes narrowed. "Indeed. Who is your chaperone tonight? At an event like this, sticklers are everywhere."
"My companion Lady Tottenham came with me. But I'm afraid she's gone missing. You haven't perchance seen a short, robust lady with a turban that resembles a giant green macaw perched upon her head?"
"I can't say I have." The other lady's lips twitched. "But with that description, I shall certainly know what to keep an eye out for. Now tell me, how are things progressing with Portland?"
Percy's cheeks warmed. "How did you know? Did Helena menti
on something?"
"Not a bit," Marianne said. "But you've been discreetly monitoring his movements throughout our conversation, and he's pretending not to look your way at this very moment."
"Lord Portland's looking at me?" Delighted, Percy stopped in her tracks and craned her neck to get a clearer view of him.
"Lud, Percy, keep walking. That's no way to go about flirting."
Apparently, Marianne was right. The moment Percy caught sight of Lord Charles, he turned away, leaning down to murmur something to an exquisite brunette.
"I asked Helena how to flirt properly, and all she told me was to be myself." Sighing, Percy took up the stroll again. "Easy enough for her to say, seeing as how Nick is madly head over heels and finds anything she says or does utterly ravishing."
"Sickening, isn't it?"
"Beyond. And when one is a lowly merchant's daughter in love with the most sought-after viscount ..." Percy gave a dejected shrug. "Let's just say I could use a little help." Just like that, an idea struck her. "Could you teach me how to win Lord Portland's affections, Marianne?"
The lady said something under her breath. Something sounding curiously like, Not again.
"I beg your pardon?" Percy said.
"Never mind." Marianne sighed. "If I may ask, why this interest in the viscount?"
"Isn't it obvious? He is the most handsome and distinguished man in the room. And he has an artistic sensibility—"
"Allow me to be direct: how well do you know him?"
"Not well. But look at him." Percy risked a peek over at the object of her affections, who was now surrounded by a bevy of debutantes. Blast it. "He is all that any girl could hope for."
"Hmm."
"You do not agree?" Percy said in astonishment. "But Lord Portland is highly regarded. Mama would swoon to have him as a son-in-law, and even Nicholas approves, which is saying something."
"Do you not find Portland a rather staid match for your own disposition?"
Percy made a face. "If that is your polite way of saying I am a hoyden, trust me I've heard it in no uncertain terms from Mama. She says I am too impulsive by far and could use a husband with a firm hand."
"You are a woman, not a child, Percy." Marianne's tone took on an icy quality. "What you'll want is a husband who will respect you as an equal."
"Of course I want that," Percy said earnestly, "but I also know I must reform my ways."
Yet another reason why you should stay away from Hunt!
"I, for one, find your artlessness charming, but"—Marianne's white shoulders lifted in a motion as chic as any Frenchwoman's—"as you wish. I will provide you with guidance. I cannot, however, guarantee the outcome."
Percy wanted to hug her new mentor. "Oh, that would be marvelous. Thank you, Marianne!"
Unable to help herself, she looked back at Lord Charles again. Dash it all, he was bowing over the brunette's hand ... A firm grip took hold of Percy's arm. Startled, she turned back to a level emerald gaze.
"Lesson one," Marianne said, "is to rein in your emotions. Your object of interest does not wear his heart on his sleeve nor does he wish it of any lady he chooses to pursue."
"Oh. Right." Drawing her gaze ahead, Percy focused it on the most convenient item, which happened to be a buffet table. "How is this?"
"He may think you're famished, but at least he won't think you're pining over him," Marianne said. "Relax, dearest. Act as if you're having the time of your life."
Percy forced out a chuckle. "How am I doing?"
The other sighed. "We had better call in the reinforcements. Now, here's my advice—flirt with every single one of them, but say yes to only two dances. You'll want to leave the third one free."
"Every single one of who? And why leave the third?"
Instead of answering, Marianne stopped in front of a pair of chairs. In a graceful, sensuous movement, she seated herself in one of them and motioned for Percy to take the other. Marianne fanned herself with white feathers, an inviting smile curving her lips.
Within a minute, they were besieged by gentlemen.
Percy said yes to a cotillion and a reel.
By the time she returned from the second dance, flushed from the exertion as well as the flattering prattle of her partner, she found Marianne surrounded by an impenetrable wall of males.
"I say, Miss Fines, would you care for a turn about the room?" her partner said as the strains of a waltz began to play.
Before she could reply, a grave voice cut in.
"I believe the next dance is saved for me," Lord Charles said.
*****
The following morning found Percy treading back and forth across the parlor. In her current state, she feared she might wear a trail through the flowers and vines of the Wilton carpet. Due to the excitement of the prior evening, she was giddy from lack of sleep to begin with. Then Charity had sent word that she meant to visit Paul this morning and would stop by afterward to report in.
Charity ought to have arrived hours ago. Percy's thoughts whirled with increasing panic.
I should never have allowed Charity to go through it. What if something has happened to her? Should I go after her ... but what if I compromise Paul's location?
The door bell rang.
Rushing out into the foyer, Percy opened the door before Violet could reach it and yanked Charity inside. "If Lady Tottenham asks," she said to the maid, "Charity and I will be in my room."
"That one? She never asks." Violet snorted and trotted off.
Percy turned to her friend. She'd been so relieved to see Charity that she hadn't noticed the other's disheveled appearance. Now, with growing concern, she saw the wisps of ash brown hair that had escaped Charity's top-knot and the crumpled state of her friend's gown.
"Charity?" she said.
"Let's go upstairs," the other girl said in a tremulous voice. Once the door to the bedchamber was closed, Charity burst out, "Oh Percy, it was horrible."
EIGHT
Looking out the window of his office, Gavin came to a disturbing conclusion: Persephone Fines was driving him mad. He wasn't sleeping, he barely ate—even his work was beginning to suffer. In just two days, he was to meet with the club owners. Was he strategizing on how to manage the cutthroats? Devising an alternative plan in the likely scenario that the meeting blew up in his face?
No. He wasn't. Instead, he was thinking of her.
Like a pebble trapped in his boot, thoughts of her poked at him. Constantly. He couldn't get their kiss out of his head; apparently, she didn't have the same trouble. According to his plan—a bleeding fantasy, more like—she would have come to him by now; instead, he'd seen hide nor hair of her since Plimpton's. And the wager expired today. He was never indecisive, and yet here he was torn up over what to do concerning the taxing chit.
On the one hand, he wanted to track her down and demand that she agree to the bet—fat lot of good that would do. He swiped irritably at the back of his neck. His wiser, rational side advised abandoning this hare-brained proposition altogether; he could find another way to hurt Morgan. Through Morgan's wife, for instance. Before meeting Percy, Gavin had considered the marchioness the best way to tear out Morgan's heart. How had he forgotten about that? How had he gotten so twisted up over Percy that he'd lost all focus?
His hands fisted. He was not a man who lost control. Least of all over a female.
So Percy hadn't come up to scratch? Fine. He had his pride; he wouldn't force her into it. He'd seduce the bloody Marchioness of Harteford instead. His gut clenched in denial. Or he'd arrange for someone else to do it. Whatever. The minute the fucking Hartefords returned from Italy he would set the new plan into play ...
Hearing footsteps, Gavin felt his pulse sped up. He willed a golden head to appear ... but instead Alfie marched into the office. Gavin's snarl faded when he saw the taller, ganglier boy the urchin had in tow. Dressed in the tattered uniform of the stews, the new lad had brown hair that stood in unruly tufts and ears that would do justice on
an elephant. He also sported a fresh, purpling bruise upon his cheek. His left eye had swollen to the size of a walnut.
"Mr. Hunt, this 'ere is Davey." Alfie jerked a thumb at his companion. "'E's 'ad a bit o' a problem wif 'is last employment. Thought you might set 'im up like the others."
"I see." As Gavin came near, he saw the newcomer flinch. Instinct—it never left you. In a grim tone, he said, "How old are you, Davey?"
"I'll be fourteen in the spring, sir." Davey's voice was little more than a whisper. "I'm stronger than I look. I'm a 'ard worker, an' I always get the job done."
"What happened at your last place of employ?"
Davey's gaze fell to the carpet. "I swear I didn't do nothin' wrong," he mumbled.
Knots tightened in Gavin's chest. He knew too well how easily pleas of innocence were ignored. "Have you any family?" he said quietly. "Anyone to take you in?"
Biting his lip, Davey shook his head.
"You may stay here if you like," Gavin said. "You will be trained to work in the club—housekeeping or the kitchens. As long as you fulfill your duties, you'll have fair wages and room and board."
Davey looked up, and for an instant Gavin saw himself in that thin, battered face. The flicker of hope in the boy's good eye pierced his chest, releasing a spurt of cold rage. Predators on the weak—they deserved to be punished.
"Who did this to you?" he asked.
Fear filled the boy's expression. "I—I can't say, sir."
"Can't or won't?" Before Gavin could press on, he heard a feminine voice outside the office.
"My concerns are urgent, and I must see Mr. Hunt immediately." There was a low, murmured reply, and then the voice said more stridently, "No, I will not wait. This is matter of life or death. Kindly convey my message forthwith, sir."
Percy's bold fire warmed him, melting away some of his tension. She's come to me at last ... not that I was worried. I was right all along about her. As usual, the cheeky chit knew how to make an entrance. Life or death, indeed—she could have made her living on Drury Lane. A minute later, the harried-looking footman appeared. Before the man could utter a word, Gavin said, "Send her in."
Her Wanton Wager Page 7
