Page 166 of From Rakes to Riches

“Oh, of course. Just not here in London.” Miss Lancaster abruptly turned. “Come, I’ll show you your room. I’m sure you’re anxious to see it.”

“Thank you. I should like that very much, Miss Lancaster.”

The taller woman looked back over her shoulder. “Please call me Prudence.”

“All right, but you must call me Fiona then. Especially if we’re to be friends.” How she hoped they would be friends. Fiona hadn’t had one in a very long time. Not since Abigail Harding had moved to Ludlow after getting married four years ago.

Prudence’s gaze softened and some of the tension seemed to leave her frame. “I would like that.”

“Wonderful.” Fiona grinned and then gasped as she stepped into her bedchamber. It was more than twice as large as the one in their cottage in Bitterley on her cousin’s estate, perhaps three times, actually, and decorated in beautiful rose and gold. There was a large bed, a writing desk, a dressing table, and a grand armoire along with smaller dressers for her things. What she owned wouldn’t fill even a quarter of everything, but then she supposed her new wardrobe would.

Turning to face Prudence, she clasped her hands together. “I have so many questions but let me start by asking when we can go to Bond Street.” There were so many things Fiona was eager to do and experience. Why not start with something close?

“I’m not sure, but soon. His lordship said you would require a wardrobe for the Marriage Mart.”

Halfway to the dressing table, Fiona stopped. If the earl thought she was a biddable young lady eager for the marital yoke, he was going to be quite shocked.

Fiona would try not to be amused.

2

Tobias climbed the stairs of the Phoenix Club with more speed than usual. Was he eager to join his friends in the members’ den or running from his obligations at home?

Both.

As soon as he entered the spacious room that occupied more than half of the first floor, he was greeted by Ruark Hannigan, the Earl of Wexford. Tall with a wiry frame, Wexford was an excellent pugilist with a slightly crooked nose from having it broken more than once. With his black hair, blue eyes, and devilish smile, he was extremely popular with the ladies. As far as his Irishness allowed, that was. He was acceptable enough to flirt with, but an English earl was preferable to an Irish one.

“Overton, I wondered if you might not join us this evening because the arrival of your ward wore you out.”

“I know you are in jest, but it was a distinct possibility. She is full of enthusiasm.” She’d bombarded him with questions at dinner, mostly about things to see and do in London. The poor chit had been horribly isolated in the country. He’d agreed to escort her to the British Museum on Monday.

Tobias followed Wexford to the back corner of the room. A window nearby overlooked the spectacular garden below where lanterns flickered and a rectangular pool with a statue of Aphrodite in the center reflected the light. One of the six chairs at the round table was already occupied by Dougal McNair, another of their friends.

Dark-haired MacNair was a pugilist like Wexford, but his shoulders were broader and his nose still straight. He greeted Tobias and signaled to a footman to bring drinks for the new arrivals.

“Evening, MacNair.” Tobias dropped into one of the leather-cushioned chairs next to the Scotsman.

Wexford took the other chair beside Tobias. “Tell us about the ward. Am I going to want to change my marriage plans?” He grinned, for he’d been clear about not taking a wife until he reached the age of thirty. Which meant he had a good three years left.

Tobias narrowed one eye at him. “Could I tell you anything that would do that?”

“No.” Wexford laughed. “But tell us about her anyway.”

The footman arrived with a decanter of brandy and two glasses, which he promptly filled before departing. MacNair already had one that was half full.

Lifting his glass, Tobias took an eager sip. The activity in his house had been a tad overwhelming, particularly since he’d only just raced home right before his ward’s arrival. An uncomfortable quiet had settled over the household following his father’s death, but Miss Wingate’s presence had completely changed the atmosphere.

“No Lucien?” Tobias asked, glancing around. Lord Lucien Westbrook was the owner of the club and his closest friend.

“He hasn’t come down from his office yet,” Wexford said in his Irish lilt. “I take that back. He just came in.”

Tobias’s back was to the door, so he swung around and saw the tall figure of his friend enter the members’ den, where he was immediately waylaid by a pair of gentlemen. People often sought his company, and not just because he was the owner of London’s most exclusive club. He was also well-known for granting favors to people in need, as he’d recently done for Tobias.

“It’s a damn good thing he found a chaperone for Miss Wingate,” Tobias said, shaking his head. “The one she brought with her from Shropshire is worse than I expected.”

“Worse how?” Wexford asked.

“Well, she dozes off rather easily and, while sleeping, cries out, usually profanely.”

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