Chapter 2

Chapter

Two

L ater that evening, Beckett sat in a leather wingback chair at Whites, idly sipping his brandy and staring onto St James Street. He tapped a finger against the crystal tumbler, thinking of Lady Genevieve and where she could have been possibly going this evening when their paths had crossed. Quite a serendipity, in fact, since she was obviously sneaking out somewhere in the dead of night, but the question was to where and to whom?

Were her parents aware of her nightly pursuits? A woman such as herself, an heiress with the face of an angel—as much as she acted like the opposite with that fiery red hair—should not be walking the streets of Mayfair at that hour of the night. She was courting trouble, and he would never forgive himself if anything happened to her, not now that he was aware of what she was up to.

He would have to speak to Martin about his suspicions and get him to forward the information to her parents to keep her safe.

Beckett took another sip of brandy, and the smooth texture of the beverage went down well after a night of revelry with his best and oldest friend, Martin. He could not remember a summer or London Season that did not involve the Duke of Curzon's family. His family, too, if truth be told. The only one he knew and loved. Lady Genevieve the exception. The termagant was a thorn in his side for the past fifteen years. Ever since she threw herself at his head that long-ago summer, their relationship had never been quite the same.

And he could understand why. She had embarrassed herself, and he had laughed at her immature infatuation with him.

But now… Well, now she was a woman enjoying her third Season in London. A beautiful, voluptuous woman whom many men had wanted to marry. And several had, in fact, proposed to Genevieve, and yet she denied them all. She had turned up that pretty little nose and politely said, I do not instead of I do . Not that Beckett could blame her. Her romantic heart yearned for love, and if she gave some of the gentlemen a little more attention, perhaps she could find that elusive emotion sparking between herself and another, but she did not. She was too busy with her friends, Lady Charlotte and Lady Matilda. Three eligible women who seemed determined to remain spinsters forever.

But then, mayhap not.

Where was Genevieve going this evening in one of her finest gowns? Not that Beckett took much heed of what she wore, but she was up to something, and he was determined to find out what that was before she found herself in trouble.

A ruckus sounded near the entrance to the drawing room, and Beckett turned. Mr. Roger Venzellons sauntered in with his merry band of fellow Americans. The man made Beckett's eye twitch and he followed their progression across the room to the bar where they stood and ordered an obscene about of drinks from the footman.

The leather chair across from his squeaked as Lord Wolfson joined him, glancing toward the bar. Beckett sipped his brandy and returned his attention to his present company, which was far superior to Roger Venzellons.

"I heard Mr. Venzellons is after a wealthy English bride to take back to New York," Wolfson interjected. "He's built a grand place in Manhattan and requires more chattel to decorate it. Do you think he has anyone in mind?" Wolfson finished, lighting a cheroot.

"I figured when he and his posse arrived at the beginning of the Season they were after brides. I have yet to discern any great interest in the Season's debutantes. Only those of the married, unsatisfied kind of ladies are taking up their time, but what do I know? I'm not in their sphere of friends, so I'm happy to be proven wrong."

"Ah, well, you're not wrong. I was at Lady Russel's ball earlier this evening, and he was there, but his interest may lie in a direction that may shock you."

Beckett studied Wolfson, who clearly debated telling him this tidbit of information. "Well, will you not disclose what you have learned?"

"I can tell you all, but you must promise not to react. Not in any way. Take the information that I'm going to give you and be calm with it. Do you promise me that?"

Beckett narrowed his eyes, and Wolfson schooled his features. A sinking feeling that he would not like what he heard settled in his gut.

"Very well, I promise not to react to this news. Now get along with it and tell me." His patience waned, and he ground his teeth, never having much patience.

"Surprisingly, at the Russel ball, Lady Charlotte and Lady Matilda were there, but no Lady Genevieve, which I thought odd, considering the three of them rarely do anything alone. They're like a circle of friends as solid as a wheel. But Lady Genevieve was not there, and that was how I came across another bit of information that may interest you."

Beckett cleared his throat. The mention of Genevieve in this conversation was not what he had thought their discourse would lead to, and yet, the unsettling pang that twisted his innards left him on edge.

Was Genevieve in some kind of danger? Was she in trouble? What had the nuisance chit been up to that her family did not know about?

"Go on," he said.

"I was standing at the side of the ballroom, talking with several friends regarding very little important information, when I heard Lady Charlotte and Lady Matilda speaking of their disappointment that Lady Genevieve could not attend and had not arrived as agreed. And yet, when I searched for Lady Genevieve's family, they were not in attendance, which I thought odd. Until…" Wolfson paused. "Lady Matilda mentioned another ball happening tomorrow evening that Lady Genevieve was determined to sneak out to and meet them as agreed."

The foolish minx.

Was that what he caught Genevieve about in the garden earlier? It would certainly explain her interest in roses at midnight. To attend Lady Russel's ball was foolish. But why the desire to attend in the first place? The ball would put her reputation at risk should any of the haute ton find out. Was Mr. Venzellon's attendance the reason?

"Is there anything else I should know?" Beckett asked, wondering if he really wanted the answer.

"Well, yes. Later that evening, I heard Mr. Venzellon say he was disappointed the pretty heiress Lady Genevieve was not in attendance. That he had looked forward to continuing his courtship with her." Anson tipped his head in the direction of the Americans.

The hairs on the back of Beckett's neck rose. "What else did the blaggard state?" he asked, taking a calming breath.

"You promised to remain calm. Not cause a scene, Tyndall," Wolfson reminded him.

Beckett rubbed a hand over his jaw, nodding. "Of course, I will not. As your friend and a gentleman, I will not outwardly react. Now tell me."

Wolfson sighed. "Apparently, Mr. Venzellons sees Lady Genevieve as his English rose and bride whom he will return to New York with to sit on his trophy shelf. He stated that he looked forward to riding the pretty maiden and breaking her in, only to then, after declaring such a purpose, disappear from the ball with the dowager Russel and not return until an hour or so later, much more disheveled than when he left."

Beckett fisted his hands and set down his crystal glass before he broke it. That would explain where Genevieve was sneaking off to, and he had stopped her foolishness. Did she even like the stiff-rumped fop? Beckett glanced at the American, studying him a moment, and could not see the allure—other than his wealth, supposedly…

"You are upset. I can see the muscle in your temple flexing," Wolfson stated, a concerned frown between his brows.

Wolfson ought to be concerned. For that matter, Mr. Venzellons ought to be, too. Genevieve could not marry an American. She loved her family too much to move to the other side of the world. He would never see her again, spar with her as they did. Not that he was looking to marry anyone and, least of all, Genevieve, but out of principle, he did not want her to be broken in and ridden by some ass who did not know how to speak about her respectfully.

"Keep this information between us, Wolfson. I shall speak to Lady Genevieve about it, and if I have no success in making her see her interest in Mr. Venzellons is foolhardy, I shall communicate my displeasure to her family. They ought to know how Genevieve, a duke's daughter no less, is being spoken of in town. I doubt they are contemplating a match with Mr. Venzellons, not when so many good English gentlemen would suit much better."

"I wholeheartedly agree. That is why I thought you ought to know. You're the closest person I know of their acquaintance who is not family."

"Thank you, yes, I appreciate the heads-up. Now, shall we go downstairs for a game of billiards?" If he could not hit Mr. Venzellons with a stick, the second-best thing would be a ball.

"Yes, let us go. Best of three games?" Wolfson asked.

"Perfect," Beckett said, standing and walking from the room, but not before glaring at Venzellons for good measure. Whether the pompous ass noticed or not, he did not know, but at least it made him feel better for a moment.