A Season for Love (7 page)

Nor did Mr. Trimby-Ashford indulge in
cutting remarks about other members of the
ton
, particularly the feminine half, that was
characteristic of a certain set of gentlemen, particularly certain
followers of Lord Byron. It was, in fact, Peyton’s good heart that
had brought him to White’s after a night on the town he truly
wished to forget. Somehow, he and his valet, Reed, had poured him
into his good claret wool jacket, biscuit pantaloons, and a
matching waistcoat embroidered with a multitude of gold
fleurs de lys
. He was well aware,
however, that he was far from his usual jaunty self; with only his
shining Hessians—solely due to the efforts of his valet—living up
to the sartorial elegance he coveted but could never quite
emulate.

On a wave of relief over not being noticed,
Mr. Trimby-Ashford escaped White’s front room and its collection of
viper-tongued gentlemen, moving into the quiet confines of the
Reading Room. A room that appeared to be full of nothing more than
pairs of booted feet planted in front of comfortably upholstered
chairs, for an open newspaper obscured each gentleman’s head and
torso. It was, Peyton thought in a moment of whimsy, almost as if
the newspapers in White’s Reading Room had suddenly sprouted
feet.

After wandering in an erratic course around
the room, peering down at the faces hidden behind the newspapers,
Mr. Trimby-Ashford finally discovered his quarry. Raising his
rosewood cane with a handle that sported a snarling golden griffon,
he poked the broad expanse of newsprint directly in front of
him.

From behind the newspaper a disembodied voice
growled:. “Go away.” Peyton inserted his cane beneath the newspaper
and lifted.

“
Bloody hell!” roared Lord Frayne,
“watch where you stick that thing. You nearly—” Noticing that he
and Peyton were the cynosure of a sea of disapproving eyes, the
viscount broke off, though he continued to mutter dire imprecations
beneath his breath.

“
Sorry,” Peyton apologized. “Been
looking for you, don’t you know. Thought to acquaint you with
the
on dits
I heard last
night.”

“
Good God,” Tony exclaimed, as if he
hadn’t heard his friend’s remark, “what is that appalling mistake
about your neck?”

“
That,” said Mr. Trimby-Ashford,
hunching his shoulders in the faint hope it made his cravat less
visible, “is a Mathematical, which was supposed to have been a
Trone d’Amour, but neither Reed nor I were at our best this
morning.”

“
If that’s a Mathematical, your
geometry is a trifle off, dear boy.”

“
Never did have the knack of geometry,
Tony. Wouldn’t have made it through Eton without you, don’t you
recall?”

For a moment the two old friends stared
at each other, then Tony Norville’s lips curled into a thin smile,
Peyton’s into a sigh of relief. The viscount waved him into a
chair. As his friend flipped up the tails of his claret coat and
settled close beside him, Tony noticed the chairs on either side of
him were the only vacant seats in the room.
Oh, wise gentleman members of White’s. Give the bear with the
sore paw a wide berth.

“
I examined the betting book on the way
in,” Tony said, “so I imagine I have a good idea of what’s being
said.”

Mr. Trimby-Ashford leaned forward, keeping
his words for his friend alone. “The odds against are longer at
Brook’s as well,” he hissed. “Gone just yesterday from two-to-one
to five-to-three.”

“
When I came in an hour ago, I was
informed—with considerable sympathy, mind—that the odds were
expected to be three-to-one by tonight.”

“
Eight days without a word,” declared a
newcomer, “what else could you expect?” Sir Chetwin Willoughby
paused to drag the other empty chair closer to his friends.
“Wedding’s scheduled for Saturday morning, ain’t it?” he added,
twisting the knife.

Tony didn’t bother to look up, or he might
have noticed the casual elegance of Sir Chetwin’s attire. The
baronet was everything Peyton Trimby-Ashford desired to be. Tall,
darkly handsome, his was a face that stood out in a crowd, whereas
Mr. Trimby-Ashford could be the model for Everyman. Sir Chetwin’s
gray eyes were as cool and cynical as his attitude, making him an
excellent foil for his two more easy-going companions. Although he
never attempted to outshine the polished urbanity of Viscount
Frayne, the baronet came close to it. He had been heard to admit,
however—with deliberate ennui—that it took him a tad longer.

“
Four days,” Tony confirmed, his
customary insouciance totally vanished under a cloak of
gloom.

“
How’s your sister holding up?” Peyton
asked.

“
Not well.”

“
And Lady Worley?” Peyton added, more
from good manners than inquisitiveness.

“
You do not wish to know,” said Tony,
repressively. “As if Jen did not have enough on her plate without
listening to my mother rant from morn ’til night.”

“
Lay any bets yourself?” Sir Chetwin
inquired, inspecting his fingernails with studied
interest.

“
Who, m-me?” Peyton stammered. “Are you
mad?”

“
I believe he was asking me,” Tony
said. “And, yes, I’ve considered it. Just to even the odds a bit,
you understand. Scarcely pleasant to know that most of the
ton
has wagered Longville won’t
show.”

“
He said he’d be back.” Peyton sounded
plaintive, as if begging for reassurance.

“
I said
he
said he’d be back,” Tony responded, a bit
obscurely.

“
And not a word of explanation?” Chet
prodded.

“
I’ve told you,” Tony snapped.
“Nothing. Not one miserable word since he and that minx of a
daughter drove off as if the devil were after them. It’s as if they
disappeared into a void.”

“
Like those old sailors who thought
they’d drop off the edge of the world,” Mr. Trimby-Ashford
contributed.

The viscount heaved a long-suffering sigh. “A
fine analogy, Peyton. Thank you.”

“
Sorry, Tony, but your family’s in a
devilish fix. I was at four events last night. That’s all the
tabbies talked of.”

“
Cut line, Peyton,” Chet snapped. “You
may be absolutely right, but you’re not telling Tony anything he
hasn’t told himself a countless a number of times.” He turned to
the viscount. “What does Worley say? Does he propose an
action?”

“
A suit for breach of promise?” Tony
shrugged. “He might, certainly he has grounds. But, truthfully, I
think he has something stronger in mind.”

“
A duel!” Peyton cried. “But he can’t,
Tony. He’s too old.”

“
Not to mention it’s illegal,” Chet
drawled.

“
I believe he had someone younger in
mind,” the viscount murmured, twisting his signet ring until it was
perfectly centered on his finger.

Mr. Trimby-Ashford and Sir Chetwin stared.
“He’s your friend,” Peyton blurted. “Lord knows why, but Longville
actually seems to like you. You’re one of the few people I know
who’s been granted the privilege of using his Christian name.”

Which was more than his sister could say,
Tony thought glumly.

“
Impossible,” Peyton declared. “You
can’t shoot a duke. You’d have to emigrate to the Canadas . . . or
the Antipodes.”

“
Thank you for your confidence in my
skills.”

“
More like, the only thing you’ll need
is a coffin,” Sir Chetwin declared. “Longville’s as deadly a shot
as I’ve ever seen. And I hear he’s not without
experience.”

“
Lord, yes,” Peyton said. “With all the
women he’s known, I shouldn’t be surprised if— Ah, um, beg pardon,
Tony. I’m sure I never meant to insult your—”

“
Leave it,” Sir Chetwin advised. “You
are on the verge of a yawning abyss.”

A great stirring in the outer room
caught their attention—a most unusual occurrence in any gentlemen’s
club, particularly one as exclusive as White’s. The three young men
raised their heads, almost as if sniffing the air. Their eyes fixed
on the doorway. Sir Chetwin was just bestirring himself to go in
search of the source of the disturbance when a gentleman burst into
the Reading Room, his voice rising above the clamor echoing from
the front. “Longville’s back!” he chortled. “I’ve won a thousand
pounds. Told those fools he’d never welch. Wouldn’t leave her at
the altar after what happened with the first one. Never hold his
head up in the
ton
again.”

Slowly, Viscount Frayne rose from his seat.
Around the room newspapers lay unheeded in gentlemen’s laps. “How
do you know he’s back?” he inquired softly.

“
Paid an urchin to watch his house,”
the gentleman countered swiftly. “Told him to fly straight here the
minute he saw Longville’s coach.”

“
Was the duke alone?”

“
That was the odd part,” the gentleman
frowned. “Urchin told me Longville had a young woman with him and
some sort of dragon, a chaperon, one supposes. And a boy. Thought
that last was a hum, myself, a child’s imagination.”

“
Thank you,” Tony murmured. And sat
down before his legs buckled in full view of society’s most
elite.

“
I wonder if our jolly gentleman is not
counting his chicks too soon,” Sir Chetwin muttered. “’Tis nearly
four days to the wedding. Just because Longville’s back don’t mean
he intends to have her.”

“
I might not be able to put a bullet
through Longville, Willoughby, but I can jolly well manage to put
one through you,” Tony growled.

“
Sorry. I have a sad addiction to
realism,” the baronet confessed.

“
You still don’t think he’ll have her?”
Peyton Trimby-Ashford looked as appalled as he sounded.

“
It’s a queer kettle of fish,” Sir
Chetwin pronounced.

“
Indeed,” Tony muttered. “If you will
excuse me, gentlemen, I must be off. I rather think I prefer to
beat my prospective brother-in-law to the door of Worley
House.”

“
If he intends to go there at all,”
Peyton intoned mournfully.

“
Then I know how to find Longville
House,” said Anthony Norville, Viscount Frayne, heir to the Earl of
Worley, and protector of sisters.

“
I daresay there’s a great scrambling
toward the betting books,” said Lady Eugenia through lips as tight
as bowstrings.

“
I said nothing about bets!” her
brother disclaimed. Hastily.

“
You forget the years I spent with the
army,” Jenny reminded him, without rancor. “Men will bet on
anything, from a cockfight to the gender of Lord Anybody’s
next-born child, to which gentleman will win a courtesan’s favors.
Why should they not wager on the Duke of Longville’s marriage? ’Tis
irresistible, I’m sure. Tell me, Tony, how will the duke’s return
affect the odds?”

Lady Eugenia, suddenly aware her voice had
risen in a most unladylike manner, ducked her head, sinking her
teeth into her lower lip in deep chagrin. She had revealed more
than she had intended. As dear a brother as Tony might be, she
clung to her privacy, unwilling for anyone to know the full extent
of her hurt. She would not escape, she feared. No doubt Tony would
pounce upon her brave show of indifference, recognizing it for the
false façade it certainly was.

Yet—sterling brother that he was—all Tony
said was, “He’ll be here, Jen. Give Longville time to wash off the
vestiges of travel, and he will be here.”

But Jen had caught the bit between her teeth.
“He has no choice, is that your meaning, Tony? The Duke of
Longville cannot, in all conscience, fail to speak to the woman he
is supposed to marry in four days time?”

“
Even
he
must have realized by now,” Tony sputtered, “that he could
not simply go off like that, without any explanation.”

“
But he did,” Lady Eugenia stated
flatly. “So what makes you think the great Duke of Longville has
recovered any sense of what is due his betrothed?”

“
Very well,” Tony snapped, “if you wish
to think the worst, Longville will come, if only to find some way
to break the engagement. I’m sorry, Jen,” he added swiftly. “It so
happens I think you and Longville are suited. You’ll make him a
good wife. I’ve spent more than a week as furious with him as you,
but I think you must be realistic. Give him an opportunity to
explain.”

“
Do not throw the baby out with the
bath water,” Jenny muttered between clenched teeth.

“
Exactly.”

“
That’s all very well for you to say,”
his sister shot back. “
You
are
not the cynosure of every eye in the
ton
.”

“
Nor do I care for pistols at
dawn.”

“
Good God!” Jenny exclaimed. “Surely it
will not come to that.”

“
Beg pardon,” Tony said, his back
ram-rod stiff. “Naturally, cool heads will prevail. Can’t have
blood on Weston’s finest, don’t you know,” he added, smoothing his
long fingers over his dark blue jacket fashioned by London’s most
famous tailor.

“
Papa!” Jen cried. “Do not attempt to
gammon me, Tony. Papa has put you up to it, for duels are not your
métier.”