Chapter Thirty-Six

London, December 1815

Monty hunched his shoulders against the cold.

London, out of season, was a different world. Gone were the bright colors and vibrant chatter of the ton. The cold weather had driven them indoors, or to the sanctuary of their country estates.

Snowflakes swirled about him, thickening the air and almost obscuring the buildings at the far end of the street. Monty continued along the pavement, which was already covered with a thick layer of snow, bearing the occasional footprint of other fools who'd chosen to venture outside.

Then his destination came into view—a white-fronted building with steps leading to the main door, flanked by two thick columns. He approached the door and lifted the brass knocker, wincing as the cold from the metal penetrated his gloves to the skin of his fingers.

He waited, but there was no response. Then he stepped back. The windows were unlit. Most of the houses were lit from within by flickering lights visible in the windows, which resembled a row of eyes watching over the world outside.

Except this one.

Footsteps approached, and a bright accent of color emerged from the gray air as a couple approached him.

"I say—Whitcombe!" a voice cried. "What the devil are you doing here?"

It was Dunton, his greatcoat barely covering his porcine frame, the buttons stretched almost to breaking point, his multiple chins resting on the scarf about his neck, giving his head the appearance of a blotchy mushroom. Beside him, her hand possessively on his arm, was Lady Arabella Ponsford.

Monty inclined his head. "Dunton, Lady Arabella—a pleasure. I could ask you the same question."

"I'm escorting Lady Arabella to take a turn about the park," Dunton said.

He turned and gave her a smile, his eyes glittering with lust. She sneered but nodded, a cold smile on her lips. Monty could swear he saw her shudder.

"Is your aunt in town, Lady Arabella?" Monty asked.

"Why should she be?" she replied, a note of irritation in her voice. "I'm of age now, and can do what I please."

"No young woman may do what she pleases," Monty said.

"I beg to differ, Whitcombe," Dunton said. "This delightful creature is now mistress of her destiny."

Lady Arabella scowled, her brow furrowing into a frown, rendering her usually beautiful face quite ugly.

"I can speak for myself," she snapped.

To think—Mother wanted me to marry that creature!

Dunton glanced at the building, then let out a bark of laughter. "Of course! Have you come to satisfy yourself that they've reaped the reward of their labors?"

"They?"

"The Howards, of course!" Dunton chuckled, spraying droplets of spittle. Beside him, Lady Arabella wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Have they left London?" Monty asked.

"Sir Leonard's given up this house," Dunton replied. "I believe he's somewhere in Cheapside—or so Lady Arabella's modiste said. I suppose it's best that he return to his kind."

"His kind?"

"Shop folk," Dunton said. "I can't abide shop folk who try to foist their hideous offspring onto the likes of us. And he's no reason to stay now both daughters have left."

"Both?"

Monty's small bud of hope disintegrated at Dunton's words.

"I think congratulations are in order," Dunton said. "What do you think, my dear?"

Lady Arabella, her eyes the color of ice, inclined her head in the manner of a queen acknowledging her subjects.

I'm too late.

Eleanor must have married Colonel Reid. And some foolish man had taken her sister on. Monty thought Juliette had managed to snare Dunton, but Dunton must have transferred his affections to Lady Arabella, with her title and significantly larger fortune.

Honestly, he didn't know which out of Juliette and Arabella was the worse prospect for a happy marriage. Not that Dunton would care—he'd resume his whoring once Arabella had given him an heir.

"Is Colonel Reid in town?" Monty asked.

"Why the deuce would you care?" Dunton scoffed.

"I'd like to pay my respects to him and his bride."

"His bride?" Confusion clouded Dunton's expression, then he threw back his head and roared with laughter, emitting another spray of spittle. "Ha! You don't know, do you?"

"Know what?" Monty asked, itching to slam his fists into that fat, fleshy face.

"Reid's returned to his regiment. The congratulations are for myself and Lady Arabella."

For a moment, Monty simply stared at them.

Then Lady Arabella frowned. "Have you forgotten your manners?"

"Forgive me, no," Monty said. "I congratulate you both. I cannot think of a couple better suited to one another."

Dunton licked his lips as he glanced at Lady Arabella, who met Monty's gaze, her eyes narrowing, as if she caught his true meaning.

"So—Reid has gone," Monty said.

"It's no wonder, considering the scandal." Dunton shook his head in mock indignation. "That fool should never have entangled himself with the Howards—to be publicly humiliated by the younger daughter might garner pity, but to be fooled a second time by the elder is to expose oneself to ridicule."

Monty's stomach clenched. What had happened? Where was Eleanor?

"A scandal, you say?" he said, his voice rising.

"Involving both Miss Howard and her sister." He turned to Arabella. "The younger Miss Howard was your particular friend at one point, wasn't she?"

"I've told you not to speak of her," Arabella said sharply. "She was never a true friend—I always had reservations about her background, and her behavior proved me right."

"For heaven's sake, will one of you tell me what's happened?" Monty cried.

"I say, old boy, there's no need to speak like that," Dunton said. "I don't know rightly what happened, but a few months ago, Miss Howard was revealed to have leanings of a very…sordid nature."

"Revealed?"

"I believe it happened during a dinner party, where the two Howard girls entered into an altercation about a lover. Something to do with erotic drawings, or so I heard."

Monty's gut twisted. Drawings…

"You had a fortunate escape there, Whitcombe," Dunton continued, "or the scandal could have tainted your name."

"And…the lover?"

"It must be Reid," Dunton said, "given that he fled London the next morning. I should give him credit for his virility—but only a desperate man would shag a daughter of a trader, let alone two of them."

"Dunton!" Lady Arabella slapped her fiancé's arm.

He stared at the offending hand, and for a moment, Monty thought he'd forcibly remove it. Then his hoglike eyes creased with a smile of obsequiousness.

"I apologize, my dear. A man shouldn't speak of whores in front of his betrothed."

"Miss Howard is no whore," Monty said.

"So you weren't foolish enough to shag her, then." Dunton chuckled. "Just as well—you'd likely catch the pox, given how often she'll have spread her legs by now."

Lady Arabella gave a sharp huff, her breath misting in the air, and Dunton glanced at her, spite glittering in his expression before he smiled.

The two of them were as bad as each other—and they deserved each other. But Monty would gain no satisfaction from quizzing them. Clearly they knew very little and merely indulged in gossip born of speculation.

But he had to find Eleanor.

And if he had to turn over every house in Cheapside to do so, he'd not stop until he had.