Ingram, unwillingly caught in one spot by the press of the crowd, became the reluctant confidant of a woman he hadn’t even seen yet, her shrill voice cutting through the murmur like a knife through curd. The elegant blue and silver ballroom was stifling, and there was a general movement just then toward the supper room; even he could not worm through.
And the voice droned on.
“She should be in caps, of course. But look at her! For all the world as if she thinks a beau is going to stride out of the crowd and sweep her off her feet.” The woman tittered. “She must be . . . oh, all of thirty-three? Now she lives for tea, gossip, and to read the most dreadful of novels, you know, only gothics and romances. Too bad. She was rather good ton at one time; never top-notch, of course, but acceptable. ’Course, she is rich now. Oh, yes, positively oozing money. The old aunt left her pots and pots of filthy lucre, if I must be vulgar, and that makes up for a multitude of faults. Gains her access to these events.”
Ingram, impatient and restless, leaned against the stout back barring his progress—his quarry was sure to move on and be lost in the crowd if he did not accost him soon—but the big fellow in front of him was wedged securely and could not move. And he would not retreat, as there was supper to be had yet. Hostage to his spot near the curtained entrance to the refreshment room, Ingram sourly observed the pair who were gossiping. The gossip purveyor was a thirtyish matron, well-dressed, well-moneyed, and she spoke to—
He frowned. Where had he seen the other woman before?
The matron sighed. “I just hope poor Ariadne does not fall for the first gamester or adventurer who says a pretty word to her, for she is terribly, terribly gullible, poor dear. She would give her last sou to be married, or at least courted.”
At that moment the stout fellow moved and Ingram could see the woman being indicated by the tilt of the gossipy matron’s plumed headdress.
She sat alone at the edge of the ballroom, her slippered toe tapping in time to the country dance that was the last number before supper. She was plain, gaunt of face and angular, with spectacles firmly planted on her nose and a hideous dress in pea green highlighting her sallow complexion. Even alone, though, she seemed cheerful, smiling and nodding as a couple passed by her.
Ingram turned away, intent, once more, on finding the man who owed him money, for the fellow was going to be beaten badly within the hour, though he did not yet know it. Ingram let no man cheat him without the severest of reprisals. In that moment, as he passed by the two gossiping women, he remembered whom the one listening so intently was. She was sister to Dapper Dorsey, an ineffectual cardsharp and villainous roué who skirted the edge of respectability so successfully that he managed to never be paid back for his incursions on feminine purse strings. The viscount cast one look back at the gaunt spinster, and then at the two gossiping women. Damn, but he should warn that foolish, gossiping idiot whose ear she was dropping such precious information in.
But no. Not his business. He turned and spotted his prey. There was his business. In ten minutes he would be breaking a nose in the back alley. That would satisfy the debt between them.
• • •
Ingram nursed his knuckles. Who would have thought the cheating dolt would have such a hard chin? And give as good as he got. Limping, Ingram was heading to the supper room to have a bite to eat before leaving the stifling affair, when his progress was arrested by the one sight he had hoped not to see.
The spinster—what was her name?—was still sitting in the same chair on the edge of the ballroom floor. But at her side was Dorsey, gazing at her with a kind of stunned adoration. Nobody was better at that look than he, and women found it irresistible, without exception believing in his fervent declarations of devotion. To Ingram’s eye the man was too good-looking, almost pretty, with curling fair hair and smooth skin. But perhaps that was just the opinion of a man who had had his nose broken on three separate occasions and whose jaw did not quite run straight, the way nature intended.
Ingram plunked down in a nearby chair. Dorsey was leaning toward the woman, whose foolish face was lit with a brilliant smile, displaying strong, even white teeth in a most unladylike display of joy. Dorsey’s sister must have whispered in his ear about the woman’s fortune, and now he was going in for the kill. He was a skilled seducer, and would have the idiotic woman parted from her money in a trice, especially if she insisted on bestowing those radiant, surprisingly beautiful smiles on him.
Damnation.
Fighting with his conscience, Ingram stayed planted on the blue brocade chair as the party swirled around him, frolicsome young women dancing the waltz with dark-clad gentlemen, nobody sparing a glance for the foolish rich spinster and her amorous swain.
Where was her friend? She should be warned. Ingram glanced around, but the woman who had gossiped so effusively about her acquaintance’s money was now nowhere to be found.
Damnation.
Dorsey was kissing her palm, and she was coloring an unattractive flame red.
Hellfire and damnation.
Ingram looked away. He should leave. He had done what he came for, and that was to plant a facer on a lying, cheating knave. He could leave and forget he had ever seen . . . what was her name? Miss Ariadne something. No one had talked to him and he would ask no young lady to dance. Ingram was skirting the fine edge of being considered bad ton; another scandal and he would be dropped from the invitation lists of all the better hostesses. He knew it and didn’t give a damn. Or so he told himself often. Right now, because he was a viscount and well-moneyed, he was invited everywhere. When people stopped inviting him, he would concentrate on his business enterprises and consort with those who valued him for who he was.
The irony was that Dorsey, with no money and of doubtful ton, was invited everywhere because people genuinely liked him and thought him a fine fellow. His occasional “lapses,” as they were called in polite circles, had been successfully hushed up to preserve the women in question’s reputations. In fact, most of his thievery had gone undetected. But Ingram cruised in many circles and Dorsey was known in the money-lending spheres, his name bandied about as a cardsharp and cheating varlet.
Miss Ariadne Whatever-her-name-was, eyes wide in an absurd parody of the most innocent of green girls, was listening intently to Dorsey’s honeyed words.
Ingram, unwilling hostage to his own conscience, rose from his seat and moved closer, concealed by a couple at the edge of the ballroom who were having a whispered conversation of their own.
“. . . knocked flat on my back,” Dorsey was saying, his emotion-filled voice quavering. “Never have I met a lady who has done that, who has made my heart beat faster just at the sight of her brilliant eyes and . . . and handsome . . . handsome teeth.”
Ingram rolled his eyes. This was Dorsey’s idea of flattery? Surely the woman would tell him to take flight.
“Mr. Dorsey,” she said, in a breathy, high-pitched voice. “You overwhelm me with your kindness.”
“No, my heart, my life, you overwhelm me! I am stricken, flattened. Please, tell me there is no one else. Tell me I do not need to feel the agonizing pangs of jealousy.”
“I . . . I have no other beaux.” Here, she giggled.
Ingram was set to walk away. There were hundreds of foolish spinsters and it was not his business—
“Then say you will meet me at . . . oh, anywhere. I long to see you in private, to touch your hand. I would suggest my little house at Richmond . . .”
“Mr. Dorsey!”
Good. She was going to tell him he was an impudent donkey for suggesting such a thing. He strained to hear her next words, to make them out through the hissing altercation that consumed the standing couple.
“Mr. Dorsey,” she said. “I could never meet you out of town like that. But perhaps we could have a moment alone somewhere closer . . . Vauxhall, mayhap?”
Oh, for— Ingram circled the quarreling couple that had concealed him ’til now and presented himself before Dorsey and
his quarry.
“May I have this dance, Miss . . .” The name finally came back. “Miss Lambert?”
Classic Regency Romances
by Donna Lea Simpson
The Viscount’s Valentine
A Rogue’s Rescue
A Scandalous Plan
Reforming the Rogue
Lord St. Claire’s Angel
Noël’s Wish
About the Author
Donna Lea Simpson is a nationally bestselling romance and mystery novelist with over twenty titles published in the last eleven years. An early love for the novels of Jane Austen and Agatha Christie was a portent of things to come; Donna believes that a dash of mystery adds piquancy to a romantic tale, and a hint of romance adds humanity to a mystery story. Besides writing romance and mystery novels and reading the same, Donna has a long list of passions: cats and tea, cooking and vintage cookware, cross-stitching and watercolor painting among them. Karaoke offers her the chance to warble Dionne Warwick tunes, and nature is a constant source of comfort and inspiration. A long walk is her favorite exercise, and a fruity merlot is her drink of choice when the tea is all gone. Donna lives in Canada.
The best writing advice, Donna believes, comes from the letters of Jane Austen. That author wrote, in an October 26, 1813, letter to her sister, Cassandra, “I am not at all in a humor for writing; I must write on till I am.” So true! But Donna is usually in a good humor for writing!
Contents
Cover
The Viscount’s Valentine
Title Page
Copyright
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Excerpt from A Rogue’s Rescue
Classic Regency Romances
About the Author
The Viscount's Valentine (Classic Regency Romances) Page 9
