Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

Rafe watched from afar as the guests arrived one by one. He’d been taking brandy and cigars in the study with Swifdon but a seat in a corner of the drawing room provided a better view of the proceedings.

One by one Pengree ushered in the guests. This small group would be staying overnight and attending the ball the next evening. Derek Hunt, Duke of Claringdon, and his wife, Lucy. Garrett Upton, the future Earl of Upbridge, and his new wife, Jane. Upton’s mother, Mary. Viscount Berkeley, Sir Roderick Montague, Adam and Collin Hunt, the duke’s brothers, and finally, Lord Edmund Fitzwell.

Rafe disliked the man on sight. He narrowed his gaze on him. Rafe supposed he was handsome enough, if one liked men with short-cropped blond hair and light blue eyes and a bit of an arrogant attitude that was off-putting to say the least.

Minutes after the baron had strolled into the room as if he owned the entire town house, Rafe stood and made his way over to meet the man. Daphne scurried in between the two and looked as if she might jump from her skin with fright when she introduced them.

“Lord Fitzwell, Captain Rafferty Cavendish.” Her gaze darted back and forth between both of them as if she expected Rafe to blurt out their secret in front of the room at large.

Rafe was accustomed to quickly sizing up a situation, watching for small clues. People always gave away cues. For instance, Daphne was twisting her ring finger so vigorously Rafe wondered if it might come off. It smacked of guilt. He smiled to himself. Conversely, Lord Fitzwell had swallowed, his Adam’s apple working, which belied his seeming ease in the rest of the company.

Lord Fitzwell bowed. No doubt the tightness of his obviously expensive custom-made buckskin breeches made raising his back a bit difficult. But Rafe stuck out a hand the man was forced to take. The baron’s clasp was firm. But his hand was smooth. Clearly the lord had never worked a day in his life. No doubt the most danger he’d ever encountered was seating himself in his carriage.

“Captain Cavendish,” Fitzwell drawled, flashing a white-toothed grin at Daphne that made Rafe want to punch him in the gut. “How exactly are you acquainted with the Swift family?” The implication was clear. What was a mere army captain doing rubbing elbows with the haute ton ?

Rafe arched a brow at Daphne.

Daphne’s nostrils flared and she jerked her head in a shake. Rafe had been so preoccupied by Lord Fitzwell, he hadn’t taken a good look at Daphne since she’d entered the room. Why was she wearing a marmish fichu? It gave the effect that she was being swallowed by a lace monstrosity.

Rafe forced his attention away from Daphne’s insane fichu and back to the baron. “I’m a longtime friend of the Swifts,” Rafe answered, squeezing his hand too hard. He let go but didn’t fail to notice that Fitzwell flexed and rubbed his palm. Rafe grinned at him.

“Claringdon and I both served with Cavendish in the army, you know, Fitzwell,” Swifdon offered. But Rafe couldn’t help but think, of course he didn’t know. Men like Fitzwell didn’t know anything about the harsh realities of war. They preferred to read about it over snuff and lace cuffs in their gentlemen’s clubs. They would never deign to get their soft hands mussed with blood and dirt on the battlefields.

“Well done.” Fitzwell gave Rafe a throwaway smile before returning his attention to Daphne, or more precisely, her brother. “It’s good to see you again Lord Swifdon.” He glanced over Swifdon’s shoulder. “I’d not realized the Duke of Claringdon would be here.”

Swifdon turned to include the duke in the conversation while Rafe eyed the baron carefully. He blinked rapidly. Fitzwell was a liar and not a particularly adept one. Everyone knew Swifdon and Claringdon were thick as thieves, their wives close friends. Of course Claringdon would be at a party hosted by Swifdon. Claringdon turned toward them. Fitzwell leaned closer to the duke and opened his mouth to speak.

“Have… have you met his grace?” Daphne rushed to ask. She looked flustered. Her pale skin was turning a bit pink underneath her fichu. Rafe had never seen Daphne flustered. It was disarming to be sure. He watched her from behind his brandy glass with ill-concealed amusement.

“I have not.” The baron’s smile widened. The man had far too many teeth. He immediately bowed to Claringdon. There was something irritating about that bow. A bit too practiced. A bit too obsequious.

Claringdon inclined his head.

“His grace, the Duke of Claringdon, please meet Lord Edmund Fitzwell,” Daphne said.

“My pleasure, your grace.” Fitzwell clicked his heels together and bowed again. There was something irritating about that, too.

“Nice to meet you,” Claringdon said, eyeing the shorter man carefully.

Lucy, Claringdon’s wife, was introduced next and the baron acted as if he’d never been in the presence of a duchess before. It was “your grace” this and “your grace” that.

“Makes one want to start a drinking game, don’t it?”

Rafe turned to see Sir Roderick Montague at his elbow. Sir Roderick was a confirmed bachelor who was more interested in his clothing and carriages than ladies. He had an eye for detail, fashion, and a famous biting wit. He’d been a close friend of the Swifts for years and he and Daphne often attended many of London’s amusements together with other friends.

“Eh?” Rafe turned to the knight.

“Let’s take a drink every time Fitzwell here says ‘your grace,’” Sir Roderick offered.

Rafe was forced to turn his head to hide his laugh. “I expect we’d both be beneath the table in a trice,” he whispered back.

“You’re probably right. The cut of his coat is fine, though, I’ll give him that. Looks a bit like you, Cavendish.” Sir Roderick sniffed before blending back into another group of guests.

Rafe eyed Lord Fitzwell again. That pompous oaf didn’t look like him… did he? Rafe narrowed his eyes. Regardless, Fitzwell was being far too effusive about telling Lucy Hunt how beautiful she was. Perhaps Rafe took these things for granted. He’d known Claringdon and Swifdon for years through the military. They didn’t intimidate him. Quite the opposite, actually; he forgave both men their social status because of their connections to the military. Fitzwell, however, had no such connection.

“Tell me, your grace. How did you get such unusually colored eyes?” Lord Fitzwell asked Lucy.

Lucy, who had one blue eye and one hazel, turned to look directly at the baron. “Why, I ordered them from a shop, of course,” she answered simply, with a completely straight face.

Lord Fitzwell blinked at her as if he had absolutely no idea what she was talking about.

“Oh, that is too much fun,” Rafe heard Sir Roderick say under his breath.

Rafe scanned the baron from head to toe. His hair was too slick. His cravat too neat. His coat too lint-free. His boots too polished. His nose too straight. His eyes too blue. No. There was not much to like about Lord Fitzwell. Not much at all.

The duke and duchess soon extracted themselves from the baron’s company, and Rafe watched as Fitzwell made his way around the room, ingratiating himself with the other guests. First Swifdon, and then each man of the next successive rank. He completely ignored the Hunt brothers, mere misters, and of course he didn’t bother saying another word to Rafe.

Rafe returned to his seat in the corner. Being ignored by that pompous jackass didn’t bother him. Rafe had dealt with people like Fitzwell his entire life. People who believed the measure of a man was taken by his title and lineage and little else. Rafe turned the brandy in his glass and stared into its amber depths. He’d long ago given up caring about the doings of the nobility. He wasn’t a part of it and he never would be. He concentrated on his job. And at the moment, his job had brought him to Mayfair to the elegant party of the Earl of Swifdon. It was true he respected Swifdon and Claringdon, and Donald had been a fine fellow. But they were clearly the exceptions to the rule. Rafe wouldn’t even be here tonight if it weren’t for his needing Daphne. He took a deep breath. Daphne. The lady might be diminutive but she certainly knew what she wanted and how to get it. And apparently, at the moment, she wanted Lord Fitzwell. She remained at his side laughing at his jests and generally peeping up at him with those wide gray eyes above that questionable fichu.

Rafe let his gaze rake over the baron one last time. Fitzwell walked with a self-satisfied swagger, and after he was done greeting those whom he obviously felt were worth his attention, he posted himself to the right of the duke’s elbow and proceeded to comment on every word out of Claringdon’s mouth.

Rafe’s eyes narrowed on Fitzwell. Everyone had a tell. If you looked long enough, you’d see it. Told you a great deal about a man. Yes, everyone had a tell. And he’d just witnessed Lord Fitzwell’s. Rank and status were his gods.

The drawing room door opened just then and a heavyset older woman wearing a purple turban came strolling slowly into the room thumping a well-worn cane in front of her.

“Aunt Willie!” Daphne exclaimed, turning and rushing toward the lady.

“Daphne, my dear, you look as fresh as a daisy.” The woman took a moment to pull a quizzing glass from her ample bosom. “Is that the fichu I made for you last winter, dear? It looks just right on you.”

Rafe struggled to keep a smile off his lips. Ah, that was why Daphne was wearing that thing.

Daphne’s mother, the dowager countess, hurried over to greet her older sister as well, and the three of them returned to the group standing in the middle of the room. Daphne helped her aunt sit in a large chair that faced all the occupants. “This is my aunt, Lady Wilhelmina Harrington,” Daphne announced to the room at large.

“And who is your rumored bridegroom, Daphne?” Aunt Willie asked, gazing about the room, her quizzing glass pinned to her cloudy grayish-blue eye.

Daphne winced. “Oh, Aunt, I—”

Aunt Willie pointed her quizzing glass directly at Rafe. “Because I certainly hope he’s that delectable young man right there.”