Sarah MacLean: The Season

Will snorted in laughter. "Spoken like someone who has never been to a ball with our mother. I promise you, Alex, as difficult as she can be with you, she's just as impossible with us. The duchess wants a wedding... any wedding will do."

Gavin joined in. "I second that. Last season our mothers aligned against me — I thought for sure I was done for. I danced scores of quadrilles with any number of desperate young ladies before I realized it would be smart for me to beg off attending balls altogether." His tone turned thoughtful. "I had planned on doing the same this year... but seeing Alex take London by storm just might be entertaining enough to drag me to a society gathering or two."

"Be careful what you ask for, Blackmoor," Nick interjected. "It is I who has been forced to play partner to her during her dancing lessons. She's not the most graceful of ladies."

"Nor the lightest. Mind your toes, chap." Kit, as usual, delivered his barb with an impish grin thrown in the direction of an increasingly irritated Alex.

With a chuckle, Will interjected, "Ah, well, as brothers, we can rest easy from the fate of Alex's clumsiness. We'll never have to dance with her again.

Wednesday evening, she shall be loosed upon the men of London. I'm sure someone in the mix won't mind partnering her."

With an exasperated groan, Alex leveled her gaze at the men in the room. "Well, I console myself with this: No matter who I end up having to dance with, he can't be more boorish than you three oafs. Lord save your future wives."

A noisy truce fell upon the group, and the conversation turned to the upcoming season and the ever-present gossip that would be the talk of the ton in the coming weeks: who had eloped with whom while away from town for the winter; which notorious rakes were on the hunt for wives this season; which balls were certain to be filled to the brim with the brightest stars of the town. As the conversation went on, Alex noticed that Gavin became more and more quiet, retreating into himself. She was not surprised when he stood to excuse himself and leave the house. No one took notice of the fact that she followed him out of the room.

In the wide hallway of Worthington House, Alex placed a hand on her friend's arm. Gaining his attention, she asked quietly, "Are you well, my lord?" He noticed the caution in her words.

Meeting her clear emerald gaze, the corner of his mouth lifted in a half smile. He reached out and tapped her chin with his finger — a brotherly gesture he'd been performing for most of her life — and said wryly, "No need to walk on eggshells, Minx. I'm fine." He redirected his gaze to some faraway point and continued, "It feels good to be back in London... away from Essex and all that comes with it." He returned his attention to her. "And with you about to have your first season" — his half smile turned into a rakish grin — "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else.... I'm eager for the fireworks to begin."

Alex didn't, miss the change in topic. She shook her head as though rejecting the whole idea of a season and turned a sympathetic look on Gavin. "My lord... if you should ever need to talk... about anything... I am here.... I hope you know that."

Gavin's grin disappeared, replaced by firm lips set in a determined line. His next words came out in a manner that brooked no rebuttal. "Once again, I'm fine, Alex. Thank you for your offer, but I assure you that there's no need for it. Now, if you don't mind... I have an important meeting for which I really shouldn't be late."

With a short bow he was gone, leaving Alex with the distinct impression that she'd been summarily dismissed. And Alexandra Stafford did not like being dismissed.

He took a long drink of scotch and leaned back in his chair, staring into the distance. To an unsuspecting onlooker, the paper held carelessly in his hand would appear forgotten and unimportant. The exact opposite was true.

Scrawled across the parchment were two lines of text.

Young Blackmoor is out of mourning.

Find out what he knows .

His mind was swirling with possibilities, turning over the various next steps that lay before him. While the young earl had been prepared for his new station since birth, it was guaranteed that he hadn't expected to assume it so abruptly or so early in life. The odds that he'd been apprised of any information by his father were slim, but even slim odds left too much of a possibility for discovery. He could not risk discovery.

As it was, the death of the elder earl had set his French associates on edge. They had been very angry about his actions, and he'd had to work tirelessly to prove that he was a worthwhile partner. It continued to cost him dearly as he struggled to regain their trust.

He swore harshly under his breath. His first thought was to do away with the new earl altogether, but he recognized that this would bring investigation and suspicion down upon them all, especially if there was information hidden somewhere in Blackmoor House. The dead earl had been loathsome but never stupid. Whatever he had known, he would have documented. If that documentation were found, they would all be in danger.

To date, he had told his partners that he did not believe them in danger of discovery, but they were beginning to doubt him. He could see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices. He had to tread lightly. The only way to ensure his safety was to do as they commanded.

He must discover exactly how much the earl's brat knew about his father's life — and his father's death.

"Bloody fantastic that you've got this entire house to yourself, Blackmoor." Christopher Stafford leaned on his billiard cue and looked across the table.

"Who needs a men's club when your closest friend has a place like this right next door?"

The new Earl of Blackmoor glanced around the room, taking in the rich oak paneling, the deep green of the billiard table, and the weathered leather chairs that established this room squarely in the domain of men. He'd inherited the room and the London townhouse along with his title but found little pleasure in the knowledge that he was the master of it. Before he could reply, a crack from the table signaled a successful shot. Nicholas, the middle Stafford son, straightened from sinking a ball in the side pocket and addressed his younger, less tactful brother.

"Christ, Kit. It's not as though he won it in a game of chance. Have some care."

Kit's face flushed as he turned a chagrined expression on Blackmoor. "Sorry, old chap. I didn't mean to suggest..."

Blackmoor saved his friend from having to finish his apology, with a dry interruption. "No harm done, Kit — you've never been the most tactful in the family. I expect such from you periodically."

William chuckled at his brother's expense. "I'm just happy that he's skilled with numbers — gives him something to do besides talk himself into a corner.

Do you have any port in this house?" The future Duke of Worthington redirected the conversation artfully, the way he had been trained to do since birth, easing the situation for both his friend and his brother.

Blackmoor gave a last glance at the billiard table, recognizing that Will was poised to win as usual, and turned toward a section of bookshelf. "Port is a capital idea. Right this way, gentlemen." Throwing a hidden switch, the Earl swung a section of wall back, revealing the room that had been the seat of the male Blackmoor line for generations. The study was enormous, occupying a rear corner of the townhouse, boasting two full walls of floor-to-ceiling windows that framed luxurious views of the property's perfectly manicured side and rear gardens.

As Nick and Kit burst into the room, Will and Gavin stopped just inside the door to the study. Turning a knowing look on his old friend, Will said quietly, "It just doesn't feel right, does it?"