Chapter 7

Several Evenings Later…

Lori waited until Freddie had a spare moment—not easy when her friend had her hands full with the beautiful, mischievous Conroy twins she was launching—before sidling up to her and saying, “Thank you so much for getting me into this ball.”

Freddie turned her unusual fawn-colored eyes on Lori, the expression in them as unreadable as ever. “You are welcome, Lori.”

“I was wondering—”

“If you could sneak away and eavesdrop and gather information for your Miss Emily column? Or were you hoping to slip away from the ball entirely and gather information for one of Mr. Parker’s other stories?”

Lori’s face heated. “Er,” was all she could manage.

“ Er , indeed. Of course you may go, Lori. But before you leave, I have one question.”

Lori hated to ask, but… “Yes?”

“When were you planning on telling me that two Bow Street Runners visited our house?”

Lori grimaced. “Ah. I was going to tell you, I just, er… Well, I was waiting for the right time.”

“What would have happened if Runners had come to call when one of my clients was sitting in our drawing room?”

Lori briefly closed her eyes. “I am so sorry to bring such trouble to your very doorstep, Freddie. I will move out. I can go and—”

“I don’t want you to leave. And I don’t want you to stop what you are doing, either. I just want you to be honest with me.” The pain beneath her words was worse than anger would have been.

“I will tell you everything from now on, Fred. I promise.”

Freddie made a ladylike sound of disbelief. “I don’t need to know everything, just anything important—like Bow Street Runners.”

There was no point in confessing that the Runners had been as big a surprise to Lori as they had to Freddie. The truth was that Lori should have known that trespassing on Viscount Severn’s property could have such ramifications.

“I swear that I’ll not let that happen again,” Lori said.

“There is one other thing,” Freddie said.

Oh, God. What now?

“Anything,” Lori said, hoping it wasn’t too painful.

“You have worn the same two gowns for months and they are beginning to look… tired. People know you are my housemate and friend, Lori. Many are also aware that you aid me in my work from time-to-time. As such, your appearance—”

“Reflects poorly on you,” Lori finished, not wanting to make her friend say the words. “I know, and I am so—”

“I don’t tell you this to make you feel ashamed, or to make you apologize. I just want you to give me both gowns for refurbishment.”

“Oh! Er, that’s terribly kind of you, Freddie. But, you don’t—”

Freddie set a hand over Lori’s. “I enjoy doing such things, Lori. It will not be a burden, but a true pleasure.”

She saw the truth in Freddie’s warm gaze and said, “Then I accept. Thank you.”

Freddie smiled and they both turned and watched the dancers, entertaining their own thoughts in silence.

Lori had just opened her mouth to take her leave when an angel glided into view. “Good Lord, who is that?” she asked, riveted by the vision of perfection dancing the quadrille with the recently out-of-mourning Earl of Moreland.

Freddie did not need to ask who she meant. “That is Miss Demelza Pascoe, the only daughter of Bryok Pascoe.”

“So that’s the girl all the sporting books call the Dry Goods Princess !”

“That is excessively vulgar, Lori.”

“Sorry,” Lori murmured, wiping the smirk from her face. “She is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. And so young! I feel ancient just looking at her. How old is she?”

“She had her seventeenth birthday only a few weeks ago.”

“Is that disapproval I hear in your voice?”

“Yes,” Freddie said without hesitation.

“Seventeen isn’t a terribly early age to have one’s first Season.”

“It is for her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Miss Pascoe’s mother died giving birth to her and her father did not want to be bothered with the raising of her, so she has spent most of her life in a convent. The girl is as innocent as a kitten.”

Lori gestured to Freddie’s current clients, who were dancing as well. “The Conroy twins just turned eighteen so they are scarcely a year older.”

“That is true, but the twins have spent the last two years attending country assemblies and moving in society, even if it was rather rustic. They haven’t been torn from a nunnery and pitchforked into the ton with all the subtlety of a veal calf being led to the auction block.”

Lori blinked at her friend’s uncharacteristic vehemence. “I’m surprised Mr. Pascoe didn’t ask you to launch her,” she said after a moment.

“He did. I told him I would sponsor her if he waited, but he refused.”

“He wouldn’t agree to wait another year?”

Freddie hesitated, a delicate pink color staining her exquisite cheekbones. “I could not promise him next Season as I had already accepted a client. In any case, I advised Mr. Pascoe that it would be better to wait two years. The girl is beautiful and an heiress. She doesn’t need to fling herself into a marriage right away.”

“I pity her,” Lori said, her eyes once again drawn to the beauty and her partner. “Especially as she has already attracted Moreland’s eye. He is a handsome man, but I cannot like him for some reason. I daresay he’s in the market for a new wife now that his mourning period is over.”

Freddie clucked her tongue. “I did not know his wife personally, but I do know the poor woman was with child almost constantly for the past sixteen years and gave Moreland only daughters.”

Lori snorted. “ Only daughters. Lord, Freddie, I never believed you to be so harsh on our sex.”

“You misunderstand me, Lori. If there is no son, then everything will pass to some relative and those daughters will be left to fend for themselves.” Again, she spoke with unaccustomed vehemence.

Lori desperately wanted to ask Freddie if that is what happened to her, but she bit her tongue. Her reserved friend had never spoken about her past in all the years Lori had known her. It was doubtful that she’d suddenly share the most intimate details of her life in the middle of a ballroom.

Instead, Lori changed the subject. “You said you have already accepted a client for next year—who is it?”

Freddie’s lips tightened until they were almost white. “The Duke of Plimpton’s daughter.”

“But I thought you had told His Grace no. ”

“I had.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“Honey wrote and begged me to reconsider my decision . ”

All Lori could manage at this fascinating intelligence was, “Oh.”

Honey—or Honoria Keyes as she was professionally known—had been a teacher with Lori, Freddie, and four other dear friends who had all met at the Stefani Academy for Young Ladies.

After the school closed, Honey had flourished as a portrait painter, which is how she’d met her husband, the Marquess of Fairchild, the Duke of Plimpton’s brother and heir.

Honey’s relationship with the duke should have guaranteed Freddie’s sponsorship for his daughter, and yet Freddie had rejected Plimpton’s first request. Lori was certain the duke must have done something to anger Freddie, although she had not been able to discern what.

It was interesting that Honey had needed to write and change Freddie’s mind on the matter.

Honey had lived with Freddie before her marriage to Saybrook. In fact, the house Lori and Freddie lived in still belonged to Honey.

“Did you feel compelled to accept the duke as your client because we live in Honey’s house?” Lori asked.

Freddie gave her a startled look. “No, of course not; Honey would never coerce me. Indeed, she persists in trying to gift me the house.” Freddie sounded frustrated.

Personally, Lori thought Freddie should accept the gift. Saybrook was wealthy and Honey hardly needed a modest house in London whereas it would represent a lifetime of security for Freddie.

Knowing Freddie’s thoughts on the matter she wisely kept her opinion to herself.

“I am glad you are going to sponsor Lady Rebecca,” Lori said after a moment.

Freddie raised her eyebrows. “But you think launching young girls into society is barbaric.”

“That is true,” Lori conceded. She grinned and added, “But you are a woman grown and no schoolroom chit, Freddie and the delicious duke is quite obviously interested in you for more than launching his daughter.”

Freddie’s blush and stern frown told Lori that she was not mistaken in her guess. “I cannot imagine what gave you such an idea,” she said icily.

“It was Honey who told me that the duke wishes to remarry,” Lori said, unable to resist a little smirk.

“That may be so, but it does not follow that I am his intended.”

“You would make a lovely duchess, Freddie.”

Freddie’s expression became even more quelling. “In the highly unlikely event that any man asked me to marry him, I would say no. ” She pursed her lips in disapproval and then added, “I must say your attitude is something of a surprise given your views on marriage in general.”

“The married state is not right for me, but that does not mean it is not a good choice for others.”

You mean for women who have not already made such a shameful mess of their lives that no decent man would ever want them?

Lori ignored the old taunt, which still caused her a sharp twist of pain even after seven long years.

Some of Freddie’s icy reserve melted. “But you adore children, Lori. Out of all of us who taught at the Stefani Academy you were the only truly natural teacher. Indeed, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who is so good with young people.”

Lori forced herself to smile and give an insouciant shrug. “I do not need my own children. I have my brother’s five daughters to love and lavish with affection.”

If she kept telling herself that often enough, maybe she would one day believe it.

You’ve been saying the same thing for seven years and you don’t believe it yet…

Lori gritted her teeth and firmly shoved the subject of the children she would never have out of her mind.

She smiled at her friend. “You have deliberately led me away from the point, Freddie. We weren’t talking about me; we were talking about Plimpton and his intentions toward you .”

“Ah, you must excuse me, Lori,” Freddie said, turning toward the dance floor. “This set is finishing. I must speak to both girls.”

Lori snorted. “This discussion has only been tabled, not finished.”

Freddie pretended not to hear.

***

Even though the ballroom was packed more tightly than a crate of salted cod, Fast immediately spotted Miss Fontenot.

She was, in his opinion, one of the loveliest women at the ball. However, it had not been her beauty which had attracted his gaze, but rather her spectacularly dowdy ballgown. He recognized the dress, of course. It was the same one she’d worn last year at Avington’s betrothal ball and at every ton function since.

She must have chosen the most unattractive material in England—a brownish beige shade that put him in mind of burnt porridge—and yet she still looked stunning. He suspected Lorelei Fontenot would look appealing dipped in mud and rolled in gravel, but he could not help imagining what she would look like in a gown that truly fit and flattered her.

Fast scowled at that last thought.

“You’re a fool,” he accused under his breath. Why the hell was he picturing the pestilential shrew garbed in a ballgown? She was a plague upon his house, and he shouldn’t spare so much as a thought for her, not to mention a positive one.

And yet he could not pull his eyes from her.

At the moment Miss Fontenot’s gaze was focused, like so many others in the ballroom, on Miss Demelza Pascoe, a woman so beautiful that it fairly robbed a person of breath.

Almost as startling as the girl’s beauty was the fact that she was dancing with Fast’s erstwhile chum, Bevil Norman, who was now the Earl of Moreland.

How could Bevil possibly be courting so soon after Louisa’s death? Was he really finished mourning her so soon?

But then Louisa hadn’t given Bevil an heir, had she? And Fast knew that Bevil would set great store by such a thing.

Although he had not spoken to his old friend since returning to England, he suspected that Bevil—who’d been something of an impoverished social outcast when he, Fast, and Percy were at Eton together—was fiendishly proud of his unexpected elevation to an earldom. He would not be content to allow the title to pass out of his hands to some distant cousin just because he did not have a son. Bevil would marry again and it seemed that he was determined to choose a wife who had many fertile years ahead of her.

And then there was the fact that the Pascoechit was an heiress. Fast had heard rumors that Bevil was in debt and desperately needed money. Like so many others, Bevil had wildly invested in the Exchange these past few years and had come out a loser.

Regardless of his need for an heir or money, it irked Fast that Bevil could even think of another wife when Louisa had been dead barely a year.

Louisa.

All three of them—Percy, Fast, and Bevil—had made fools of themselves chasing after Louisa. Louisa hadn’t just been lovely— a diamond of the first water—she’d been kind, clever, and witty. She had been everything.

And Bevil Norman—Fast’s impoverished friend—had been the lucky man who’d married her.

Fast knew that his twin had deeply loved Louisa. But had Bevil? Or had he only wanted her because of what she would bring to him: status and a sizeable dowry?

And now he was courting another wealthy beauty. Like Louisa, Miss Pascoewas a diamond of the first water. But Louisa had been the same age as the three of them while Miss Pascoewas a mere child. Even in a ballroom filled with very young women she was notable for the purity she seemed to radiate.

Bevil Norman’s wooing of such a young girl was more than a little revolting.

Somebody should stop the man, but it wouldn’t be Mr. Pasco. The industrialist had made no secret of the fact that he was willing to trade his daughter for the grandest title.

Fast smiled to himself; the heir to a marquessate bested a mere earl, didn’t he?

Not pausing to examine his actions too closely, he strode to where the Pascoe chit held court under the watchful gaze of her chaperone, Lady Sarah Jowett.

He elbowed his way through the flock of cockerels posturing for Miss Pascoe and presented himself to her chaperone.

A delighted expression flickered over Sarah’s handsome face. “What a lovely surprise to see you here tonight, Lord Severn. It has been a long, long time.”

Fast cocked an eyebrow. “ Lord Severn , Sarah? Is that how you greet your long-lost cousin?”

She laughed. “Are we cousins? I thought the relationship was a bit more tenuous than that.”

He grinned and bowed over her hand, scandalously kissing the inside of her wrist and earning another throaty chuckle. “I’m delighted to see a friendly and familiar face.” He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and lowered his voice. “I was terribly sorry to hear about Benedict. He was a good man.”

“Thank you, Fast. That he was,” she agreed quietly, quickly shaking away her grief and smiling. “I daresay I know why you are here.” Her sharp blue eyes slid to her charge.

“You mean other than saying hello to you?”

“Yes. Other than that.” She chuckled and said to the angel beside her, “Demi, this is Lord Severn, a dear, dear cousin of mine—several times removed. He was the first person I danced with in my debut Season.”

“I didn’t think you remembered,” Fast said. He certainly hadn’t, but he kept that to himself. He turned to Sarah’s charge. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Pascoe,” Fast bowed over the younger woman’s hand with considerably more formality than he’d done with Sarah.

The girl—for that is what she was—dropped a graceful curtsey and dimpled up at him. “It is an honor, Lord Severn.”

She had a sweet, soft voice and eyes that were the same shade of blue as Caribbean waters. She was every bit as stunning up close as she’d been from across the room.

And she was far, far too young and innocent for Bevil.

“Is it too much to hope that you might have a dance free for me, Miss Pascoe?”

The angel glanced doubtfully at Sarah, who nodded.

“I have the supper dance, my lord.”

“Fortune has indeed smiled on me tonight, Miss Pascoe.” He bowed to the girl and exchanged a grateful look with Sarah, who would have advised her charge to always save a few dances for late arrivals, and took his leave.

Fast had barely gone three paces when Bevil’s voice came from behind him. “One moment, Fast!”

Rather than feel pleasure at the prospect of talking to an old friend, his stomach tightened unpleasantly. Fast was a bit startled by how much animosity he felt toward his erstwhile bosom beau. Was it possible that he was still jealous that Bevil had married Louisa? Even after all this time?

Abashed at the thought, Fast forced himself to smile before turning.

“Fast, old man!”

“Moreland, how good to see you. You barely look a day older than the last time I saw you.” The earl had indeed aged gracefully, the only signs that he was nine-and-thirty the few silver hairs at his temples and faint crow’s feet at the corners of his hazel eyes. Otherwise, he was as trim and elegant as ever.

“I could say the same thing about you—but, I daresay, for entirely different reasons.” Moreland’s mocking gaze lingered on Fast’s shoulder-length hair. “Did nobody tell you that queues went out of fashion along with brocade frock coats and buckles on one’s shoes?”

Fast merely smiled at the unsubtle dig. “I wished to tell you that I am extremely sorry for your loss. Louisa was a wonderful woman.”

The earl’s expression instantly turned somber. “It is tragic that you missed seeing Louisa by only a few months.” He blinked rapidly, as if his emotions were threatening to overcome him. “It was a difficult year, and I hope I’m forgiven for neglecting to call upon you while I licked my wounds and mourned my beloved wife.”

Fast felt nauseated by the other man words. And then immediately guilty at his reaction. Why was he thinking such hateful thoughts about a man who’d once been his friend?

“I know you were close to Louisa at one time.” Moreland’s lips twitched so faintly it was almost imperceptible. “Very close. As was Percy, if I recall correctly.”

Fast’s gaze narrowed at the disingenuous comment. The other man knew damned well that Fast and his twin had both been in love with Louisa. Moreover, Bevil had to know that if not for Percy’s death and Fast’s banishment Louisa never would have consented to marry him. Fast and his twin had left poor Louisa in a poor position. Ton society would not have been kind to a woman caught in the middle of such a scandal—no matter that none of it was her fault.

It was Fast’s belief that Louisa had married Moreland because she’d had no other choice. In short, he had won her hand by default. Had Moreland punished her for that?

Perhaps the marriage had been a happy one, but Fast somehow doubted it. Bevil had kept Louisa pregnant and sequestered on his Yorkshire estate while he’d enjoyed himself in London. While it wasn’t unusual for a peer to breed his wife to death in pursuit of an heir, it was unusual to keep a woman in a secluded location when she had once been the toast of the ton. Fast hoped Louisa hadn’t suffered as much as he feared she had.

“Do you know that woman?”

Fast followed Moreland’s gaze and was unsurprised to find it aimed at Miss Fontenot, who was glaring not at the earl, but at Fast.

“Only slightly,” Fast said, inexplicably hesitant to bring her to the other man’s attention.

Moreland snickered. “She certainly seems to know you, Fast. Is she another of your conquests? I understand you’re cutting a swathe through the widow population of the ton .”

“You are very well-informed regarding my activities.”

“You’re an extremely popular topic of conversation, but I’m sure you must know that.” He laughed and then added, in an exaggerated voice, “ The King of the Rakes returns to England after a decade and a half! Who can resist such a juicy story. Isn’t that why you’ve avoided popping into White’s—because you don’t want to see your name in the betting book?”

“Not really.”

The other man scoffed. “Come now! No curiosity at all to see what is being recorded?”

“None.”

“There are bets on when you’ll marry. Who you’ll marry. Whether your grandfather will be making the choice for you. And many more besides.”

“Thank you for making me aware.”

“So, will he?” Moreland persisted, undaunted by Fast lack of interest.

“Will who what?”

Moreland gave him an exasperated look. “Will your grandfather choose your bride for you?”

“Alas, the Marquess is the one who controls the purse strings, so I daresay I’ll do as my grandfather wishes if I want to go on in any sort of style.” Fast felt no shame about lying so blatantly.

“Good Lord, Fast! All those years at sea on a privateer vessel and you are not a wealthy man? I was given to believe the prize money was like low-hanging fruit.”

“Are you asking me how much money I made, Bev? How vulgar.”

The other man flushed. “Just seems odd that you would have stayed away so long if you weren’t successful.”

“I couldn’t come back until I was summoned, could I?”

Moreland opened his mouth to say something, but then froze, his gaze flickering over Fast’s shoulder. “Don’t look now, but the fierce female you hardly know is headed your way.”

Bloody hell.

Fast sighed and turned to his tormentrix. “Miss Fontenot, fancy seeing you here.” He bowed. “What a pleasure.”

“Lord Severn.” She dropped a curtsey so brief it didn’t even merit the name. Her striking green eyes slid to Moreland. Again, he felt reluctant to introduce the two, but it would insult her not to do so.

“Bevil, this is Miss Lorelei Fontenot.”

She dropped a far deeper curtsey. “It is a pleasure, my lord.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” Moreland said, his tone so pompous and condescending it set Fast’s teeth on edge. The earl bowed over Miss Fontenot’s hand in a way that would probably cause most virginal young misses to flutter and blush.

Miss Fontenot, who was made of firmer stuff, looked faintly amused.

But when Bevil didn’t immediately release her hand, she gave it an unsubtle tug and then turned away from the handsome lord.

The earl frowned at the rude dismissal, but Miss Fontenot’s attention was already fixed on Fast, so she did not notice.

“I was surprised when your two friends called on me the other day, Lord Severn.”

He returned her smirk, amused by her fire; most people wouldn’t be so sanguine to be visited by not one, but two, Bow Street Runners. “I’m so pleased to hear you enjoyed meeting them. I do hope their visit served its purpose.”

“Oh, I think you might be surprised at the interesting repercussions that brief visit will yield.” A taunting smile lurked in her eyes.

Fast raised an eyebrow at her barely veiled threat. “How intriguing that sounds.”

“You two seem very well-acquainted,” Moreland said. “How did you meet?”

Fast had forgotten they weren’t alone and turned to find the earl eyeing Miss Fontenot in a way that made his hands curl into fists.

“Lord Severn came to my rescue in a time of need,” Miss Fontenot said.

Could the woman have said anything that was more likely to pique a person’s interest?

Moreland opened his mouth, no doubt to ask for details, but Fast didn’t give him a chance to speak. “Miss Fontenot broke a strap on her sandal at Lady Marten’s picnic and I repaired it for her,” Fast lied. Where he’d met the woman—and why—was none of Moreland’s damned business.

Miss Fontenot gave Fast a querying look—obviously curious as to why he had lied—but she did not contradict him.

Moreland, however, looked disappointed by his mundane answer and changed tack. “Fontenot is an unusual name.”

“It’s not so unusual if one is French,” Miss Fontenot countered with the same casual incivility she’d always employed with Fast. Moreland’s frown said he didn’t find her dismissive treatment as amusing as Fast did.

Miss Fontenot either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Indeed, instead of soothing the earl’s ruffled feathers, she heightened his displeasure by turning her shoulder to him and saying to Fast, “I need to talk to you privately.”

“I’m not sure a ballroom is the best place to—”

“This next dance is a waltz. Do you have it free?”

Fast felt rather than saw Bevil’s jolt of surprise at her bold words.

“Are you asking me to dance, Miss Fontenot? I don’t recall that ever happening before.”

Rather than slink away in shame as a ton miss would do, she boldly met his gaze. “I daresay manners have changed a great deal since you were a young man.”

Fast laughed. “Well done , Miss Fontenot.”

She grinned. “So? Will you waltz with me, my lord? Or is your dance card full up?”