Deb Marlowe - Regency Rebels - Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss / An Improper Aristocrat

He sighed. It was still early, but he could not go home, it would be under siege, buried in a flurry of activity as his mother prepared for her party. As his wheels met terra firma once more, he turned the curricle smartly and set off for his club.

It appeared that even this small pleasure was to be denied him. There was a crowd of gentlemen at White’s. Charles pushed his way through the crowd, looking for an empty seat. He finally found one, at a corner table. The vacancy was probably owing to the cloud of gloom that hung over the pair of occupants, nearly as tangible as the heavy haze of smoke in the air.

Charles paused as he grew closer. It was that infamous pair of his erstwhile friends, Matthews and Henley. What the hell.

‘Gentlemen,’ he bit out. ‘Do you mind if I join the ranks of your dismal consortium?’

Matthews did not even look up. Henley rolled one bleary eye at him and waved for him to take the remaining seat.

Charles dropped into the chair and waved at a passing porter. Glancing at the empty brandy bottles still on the table, he sent the man off for another.

A brooding silence reigned in the corner, which suited Charles perfectly. A swirl of troubles floated through his head. He had to focus, had to find a way to salvage what was left of his life. But only one thought consistently rose to the top of the maelstrom: Sophie.

Good Lord, he’d kissed Sophie. Devoured her, more like, as he thought back to that shockingly intense embrace.

He’d had no business kissing her. It had been an idiotic thing to do. Cruel, even, when he thought of the harsh words he’d uttered afterwards. But how could he not have kissed her? When she had stood there, so beautifully tousled, so dangerously perceptive, so close to the unspeakable truth? And why, then, had he spent the fortnight since reliving it?

Because it was nigh on impossible not to, that’s why. Bad enough that he was obsessed with thoughts of the dratted female, but suddenly so was everyone else in London, and as much as he bemoaned his own notoriety, he almost cringed more at Sophie’s.

The porter returned with the brandy and with a clatter began to clear away the empty bottles. Matthews looked up in surprise, and then started even further at the sight of Charles. ‘Good Lord, when did you get here, Dayle?’

‘A good ten minutes ago, you drunken lout,’ snapped Henley. He gave Charles a good once over. ‘Though I must say, Dayle, you look as bad as I feel.’

‘Just looking at the pair of you makes me feel worse,’ Charles retorted. He sighed, then. ‘Sorry. What is the trouble with you two?’

‘Female trouble, what other sort is there?’ asked Henley.

Matthews was pouring them all a glass of the brandy. He flourished his own high. ‘Women, bah!’

Charles lifted his own glass in a show of solidarity and they all drank deep.

‘Got to get leg-shackled, Dayle,’ Matthews said in a voice of deepest mourning. ‘Don’t want to. Family insists.’ His head lolled a bit, but he got himself under control and fixed a reddened eye on Charles. ‘M’father put his foot down. Cut my quarterly allowance. Refuses to cover my expenses. Not even my debts of honour, not until I fix my attention on some deb.’ He shot a hateful look over at Henley. ‘And my so-called friends have deserted me in my hour of need.’

‘I’ll tell you one final time—you keep away from my sister!’ Henley shouted. ‘When she marries it will be with far better than the likes of you.’ He turned to Charles. ‘Tell him, Charles—you wouldn’t want a sot like him marrying your sister, would you?’

‘Dayle ain’t got a sister, toff head,’ snorted Matthews. He stopped and Charles suffered an instant dislike for the light dawning in his unfocused eyes. ‘But you do got that pretty little filly your mother has been squiring about town,’ he said with sudden enthusiasm. ‘She’ll do. Will you do it, Dayle? Fix me up with an introduction to the girl? Slide in a good word for me?’

‘No,’ Charles spat.

Matthews gasped, then looked like he was going to cry into his brandy.

‘See?’ Henley crowed his triumph. ‘Dayle don’t want you pawing any of the females in his family, either.’

‘She’s not family,’ Charles said, trying to keep his temper. He tried to look apologetic. ‘Listen, Matthews, Miss Westby is not your conventional débutante. She’s not the sort of girl your father would probably even wish for you be courting.’

‘Don’t try to turn me up sweet, now. It must be me you object to. Nothing wrong with the girl. She’s got breeding, and money. Your own mother dotes on her, and so do the Lowders.’

‘Seen the Duchess of Charmouth take her up in her carriage at the park, myself,’ Henley put in. ‘Heard her Grace asked for the girl’s advice on her new ballroom. If the duchess embraces her, the rest of the ton will have no choice in the matter, even if the chit has spots and six fingers on each hand.’

That was the problem, Charles thought. Embrace her the ton already had, with a vengeance. Her name was on everyone’s lips, as much as his own. Suddenly everyone had an amusing little tale to tell of Miss Westby. The events she attended were an instant success. The vivid colours of her gowns were touted as a natural expression of her artistic temperament and were aped by matrons, widows and any woman old enough to escape pastels. The Prince Regent himself demanded an introduction, examined her portfolio, and spent an hour discussing designs with her. Now her passion for décor was an asset, not an oddity, and the fickle haut monde clamoured for her advice.

It was galling. He behaved like a monk and was cursed for a fiend. She broke half of polite society’s rules and they worshipped her for it.

Not that he could blame them. She’d hit their insular little world like a mortar shell, scattering insipid young misses like shrapnel, but she’d done worse to him. She’d bewitched him with her beauty, seduced him with her laughter. She’d made him forget.

He had forgotten his companions. They were both staring at him with knowing expressions on their faces.

‘Perhaps you aren’t the problem after all, Matthews,’ Henley mused. ‘Perhaps Dayle wants the chit for himself.’

‘You got the Ashford girl all wrapped up,’ complained Matthews. ‘You don’t need both of ‘em.’

Charles had had enough. He stood. ‘I must go. I wish you good hunting, Matthews.’ He threw a handful of coins down on the table, enough to pay for the entire evening’s tally of drink, and he strode out, calling for his vehicle.

He had wasted enough time, mooning like a schoolboy. He didn’t have time for it. He had to concentrate. He must work out this mess that passed for his life—for the sakes of those who no longer had one.

He forced his thoughts back the encounter he had had with Mills this morning. A small, dark man. A file tracing his activities. It was devilish little to go on. Though he racked his brains, he could not think who might hate him so. The only people he’d ever truly wronged were dead. And now to find his enemy had been watching him so closely for years? It made no sense, but it sent a shiver of unease up his spine.

Perhaps Jack had made some progress. With luck, his brother would be in his rooms and they could have a private word before the party. He took the ribbons from his groom and set out.

He was passing Humphreys, the renowned print shop, where the usual crowd gathered to see the new prints in the windows, when the cry went up.

‘It’s him!’

‘Hey, Dayle! Can I have an invitation to your next party?’

A chill descended over Charles and he pulled the horses up short. On the street, an older woman pulled a young lady away. ‘Don’t look at him, dear,’ she said, with a sniff. ‘Let us go.’