Chapter Three

Caleb Feldham sat in his usual chair and surveyed his kingdom, for want of a better word.

When had it all become so – mundane?

In his youth, parties like this filled him with an excitement that he just didn’t find in the stuffy and staid ballrooms of the ton.

Stuffy and staid seemed almost interesting to him now.

At least, it would be something different.

A burst of raucous laughter sounded above the valiant sounds of the orchestra, and he looked over to see the delectable Lady Anita Fairchild holding court over a group of sycophantic men.

Lady Anita had long since been one of the biggest draws to Caleb’s gatherings.

Her beauty was the stuff all that insipid poetry was written about.

In fact, the current on dit was that the latest offering from that insufferable bleeding heart poet they were all mad for was written about Anita.

Having enjoyed the lady’s company on and off over the years, Caleb could well imagine that she would inspire that sort of worship in others. But not in him.

In fact, nobody had ever driven Caleb to poetry.

In his youth he’d perhaps been more of a sentimental sop.

The evening hadn’t yet descended into chaos, but it would. It was inevitable.

The people who came here came for escape.

Later on, when the Season was well under way, the gentlemen who were currently in situ would be too scared or too busy maintaining a false sense of respectability to come.

Caleb knew well that those same lords and even ladies still conducted clandestine affairs – the ladies with willing footmen or stable lads, the gentlemen usually in the bowels of St. Giles.

None of them were as pure as the image they worked so hard to portray to the ton.

Caleb’s name was blackened everywhere because he wasn’t behind the door about enjoying this particular lifestyle. He didn’t feel the need to pretend.

Don’t you?

The soft, questioning voice couldn’t be ignored.

He’d been pretending for some time now. Pretending that he was satisfied with his lot in life. Pretending that this life, these behaviours didn’t bore him stiff.

But they did.

For months now, he’d been feeling the need to escape his own life.

Escapism is what had driven him to live so licentiously so decadently all these years.

Yet it wasn’t cutting it for him any longer.

Had it ever, really?

Growing up with a father and older brother who both drank themselves into early graves, landing him with a marquisate that he didn’t particularly want, he hadn’t really learned anything but vice.

His mother was a gentle soul, one who couldn’t stand up to her boorish husband. And her sons weren’t exactly taught or encouraged to respect her.

Gerald had happily followed in his father’s footsteps.

But Caleb could never have treated his sweet, gentle mother in such a way. Try as he might, he’d never quite been able to be as horrible as his father and brother.

But the vices – the gambling, the whoring, the drinking and carousing? That, he’d taken to like a duck to water.

Until recently.

Frustrated with himself for being unable to shake off this maudlin mood, Caleb poured a few fingers of his finest brandy, tossing the lot back in one gulp.

Casting his eye around the room, he noticed the arrival of new blood.

Every year, at least a few debutantes fresh out of the schoolroom arrived here just dying to be corrupted.

All of them thought they wanted to indulge in the particular proclivities available here. Most of them couldn’t handle it and after a tiny taste of something illicit, something improper, they scurried back to their demure lives of chaperones and husband hunting.

Occasionally though, a truly wild character walked through the doors.

Caleb wasn’t interested in the young ladies in the first flushes of womanhood and in fact, he tended to steer them away from the more experienced and lecherous men of his acquaintance.

He was his father’s son, but his mother’s, too. And he never allowed a lady to come to any sort of harm in his home.

An oddity, perhaps, amongst the company he kept. But he cared not a whit. He was a little wicked but not truly depraved, and he made sure that everyone who came to his gatherings was safe and consenting.

He watched the new arrivals, masked of course.

Some of the ladies didn’t bother with hiding their identities. Either because they were members of the demi monde or because they were widows respectable enough to be able to withstand a little scandal attached to their names.

They’d still receive their invitations to parties, their vouchers to Almack’s. The ton was proudly hypocritical like that.

The ladies knew well that their husbands were here. Knew well that the women who attended were about as far from respectable as one could be.

But once there was a ring on that finger, or had been at least, they were all willing to turn a blind eye.

So long as the thin veneer that allowed them all to believe they were better than others wasn’t pierced, life went on as normal.

Caleb eyed one particular newcomer to their set, who boldly made her way toward him, a young pup trailing after her with his tongue practically wagging. She’d arrived for the first time a couple of nights ago but hadn’t approached him. Not yet, at least. It seemed that she’d decided tonight was the night.

Even from his corner, Caleb could see she’d eat that green lad she was with alive. The way she moved, the arrogant toss of her head – she was one of the exceptions to the rule of innocent misses who bit off more than they could chew.

And highly likely to be more trouble than she was worth.

Caleb could see more than one set of eyes following the chit. And now, he’d have to spend the night making sure she didn’t get in over her silly little head.

Biting back a curse, he watched as she boldly approached him.

“Lord Guilford.”

Caleb ran a bored gaze over her.

She was just like the rest of them. Golden, perfectly coiffed curls, run-of-the-mill blue eyes just visible beneath the ivory silk mask, slim, perfectly proportioned curves shown off to advantage in virginal white.

She’d have them eating out of her hands.

Caleb felt not even a flicker of interest.

“Welcome to my home, Miss?”

Her lips curled.

“I think it best that I stay anonymous, don’t you?”

She probably thought she sounded seductive.

But to Caleb, she just sounded painfully young.

She shouldn’t be here.

An unexpected attack of guilt caught him short.

How many other such ladies had fallen from grace in these very rooms? Why had he never noticed before? More to the point — why was he noticing now? While he made sure the men here were aware of what would be tolerated and had footmen stationed around the place to make sure that no force was used against any female, he’d never really stopped them from skipping happily though na?vely to their ruin. And he was starting to think he should have. Or at least tried to.

“Perhaps that is wise,” he gritted. “Do keep your wits about you. This isn’t your typical Society soiree.”

He watched with vague amusement as her chin tilted upwards.

“I can take care of myself,” she said.

She seemed to believe that, too.

Na?ve little fool.

“I highly doubt that,” he snapped, uncaring that her eyes widened and her cheeks flushed. Whether in embarrassment or anger, he didn’t know. “You would do well to remember that most of the attendees here have played this game a lot longer and a lot better than you. If you had any sense, you’d turn and walk away now.”

“I-I –“

Her stuttering triggered another unexpected wave of guilt.

Caleb looked past her to the white-faced lad who’d been listening in a sort of fascinated horror.

Caleb had seen the fellow before in passing. He didn’t know how he’d come to be here or how he’d gained access in the first place.

A friend of a friend, perhaps.

Caleb didn’t discriminate as to class. Another oddity about his Grosvenor Square townhouse.

“You.” The young man’s eyes snapped to Caleb’s dark glower. “Perhaps, it would be prudent to take the girl home. I assume you –“

“Eliza!”

A screech reverberating around the cavernous room, calling a halt to the din of chatter, laughter, and music.

Caleb looked up to see a hooded figure dashing towards where he sat.

“What have we here?” he muttered to himself.

The figure, a lady, presumably, from the high-pitched screech she’d emitted moments ago, practically skidded to a halt before them.

“Eliza!”

The voice was breathless now, though he still couldn’t see a face. The cloak she wore swamped her, the hood huge completely covering her face.

She reached out and placed a gloved hand around the girl’s – Eliza’s – arm.

“We are leaving at once.”

She began to drag Eliza out, but the silly girl had dug her heels into the Aubusson carpet and wasn’t budging.

“Eliza. Make. Haste.”

Her words were interspersed with huffing and puffing, and Caleb found himself oddly amused by her shenanigans.

She sounded like a stern governess, but her voice was low and throaty, and he suddenly, quite desperately and inexplicably, wanted to know what she looked like.

“Perhaps, I can be of assistance.”

Caleb stood from his chair and stepped forward, towering over both the mystery lady and the little termagant who wouldn’t move.

“I don’t need any assistance from the likes of you, ” the hooded figure hissed, and Caleb was surprised, and more than a little intrigued, by the vitriol in her tone.

“Are we acquainted?” he asked, trying – and failing – to see past the voluminous hood.

“No, we are certainly not acquainted and nor shall we ever be.”

For some reason, her ire and clear disapproval amused him.

“You have me at a disadvantage, miss,” he said smoothly. “For you clearly know who I am, yet I do not know who you are.”

Caleb had never seen a person radiate disapproval before, but he was certainly witnessing it now.

Her sigh sounded as though it came from the sensible kid boots she was wearing beneath her oversized cloak.

“My lord.” She knew he was a Peer then, though she sounded singularly unimpressed by that fact. “Any woman with a modicum of sense knows who you are – and should know to avoid you and your ilk at all costs.”

Her head turned slightly to the young woman, who was looking mutinously in the opposite direction.

“Now, I will be taking my charge and leaving this iniquitous place before either of our eyes are sullied by the immoral, un-Christian deprivation you so enjoy. Good evening.”

Her charge. A governess, perhaps?

She looked rather small in stature, certainly a good deal smaller than his own six feet and two inches. Slight, too, from what he could see under the yards of material she wore. So Caleb could only assume that her righteous indignation lent her a super-human strength.

For she managed to drag the young hoyden across the ballroom and out of his sight while his guests hurried to get out of her way.

Caleb stared after her, half amused, half intrigued.

Just who was she? And why was he so interested in that answer?