Page 22 of To Tempt a Troubled Earl
And could so easily be replaced by another, thought Lando. Regarding his own reflection once more, he fingered the heavy set of pearls draped across his dressing table. They belonged to his late mother, and his hands often strayed to them when he was deep in thought. This Clark fellow clearly hadn’t given up; the dogged Bow Street runner could derail Lando’s scheme in a heartbeat if he located Angel. Even worse, once the scheme was underway, he could unwittingly expose Lando as the orchestrator of it. As he rolled one of the cool pearls between his finger and thumb, Lando’s uneasiness expanded further; he didn’t care for the image of Mr Angel—histemporary distraction—behind bars.
“Jasper must not let Angel out of his sight,” Lando instructed. “When he venturesbeyondGrosvenor Street, obviously.” Within, Lando hoped to have him to himself. Lando’s London bedchamber held few melancholic memories; Charles had rarely visited the earl’s townhouse. Their love affair had been much simpler conducted at Rossingley, away from prying eyes.
“And inform Hargreaves that our guest will be best served if his belongings are moved into the rose room. I’ve always found it one of the most comfortable of this house’s bedchambers, don’t you think?”
“Certainly, my lord,” agreed Pritchard as he fussed with the earl’s powder-blue cravat. It was Lando’s favourite. His Mama had once commented that it brought out the colour of his eyes. Given that she rarely commended anything or anybody, he deduced it must be true. “And the door connecting it to your own bedchamber will be an asset, what with all the important business you have to discuss.”
“Exactly my thoughts, Pritchard.”
Having one’s valet so in tune with oneself was a boon. “And as I’m still so weary after such a dreadfully long journey yesterday—” Lando gave a theatrical yawn that wouldn’t have fooled a frightened rabbit and certainly didn’t fool Pritchard. “—I would prefer not to be disturbed in the mornings. It might prove to be the sort of weariness that drags on for days.”
“I expect Mr Angel will also be struck by it,” observed Pritchard. “After all the travelling.”
“Precisely.”
Chapter Twelve
ONE TENDED NOTto decline a supper invite from the elusive eleventh Earl of Rossingley, if only to placate one’s wife waiting at home, impatient to discover which of the multiplying stories about the former dandy were true. Such an opportunity would allow her to be the first amongst her pals with the news confirming he’d become a delinquent, deformed, a drunkard, or a dolt.
As they met in the drawing room prior to the guests gathering, the earl filled Kit in on the fellows fortunate enough to receive an invitation. The flustered coquette with whom Kit hadtrifledin the carriage had vanished, replaced by a cool, commanding peer of the realm. The teasing snips of information Rossingley casually offered Kit whilst still giving very little away regarding the blastedplan, made him all the more intriguing.
“Lord Cobham loathes Gartside.” All business, Rossingley began ticking his guests off, one by one. “The man broke off an engagement to his only daughter in a very public, very distressing manner.”
“Why am I not surprised,” Kit answered.
“Which is why I have arranged to have them sat side by side,” Rossingley added with a hint of mischief. “Sir Richard also loathes him, though his reasons are of no concern to you.”
“And the other guest?” Kit prompted. The table had been laid for six.
“He is a mystery to all.” Rossingley’s pale eyes glittered. “I daresay everyone will find him fascinating and irritating in equal measure.” He adjusted his impeccable cuffs. “Which is precisely why I have invited him.”
Surveying the earl’s guests as they took their seats, Kit would be hard-pressed to find a more peculiar gathering in the whole of theton. There was a paucity of ladies for a start, but then the earl had never fostered a reputation as a ladies’ man, despite the efforts of many a flirtatious debutante and their scheming mamas.
With his lilac embroidered waistcoat, ramrod frame, and sweep of shockingly white-blond hair, the earl cut a striking figure. Kit mused how Lord Cobham might report back to a disappointed Lady Cobham that Rossingley didn’t appear to have succumbed to any afflictions whatsoever; on the contrary, that fine country air must suit him. And then he might further suggest when this darned thing was all over, they might also retreat to the country, taking their wretched daughter with them. A suggestion that would not land well with his verbose lady.
Sir Richard Hinton, taking up a seat opposite Kit and abstaining from all offers of beverage except for water, wouldn’t report back to anyone at all. Introducing himself as a bachelor, the unprepossessing baronet spoke little whilst observing plenty.
The third of the earl’s guests, a Mr Arthur Hamilton, not only puzzled Kit but, as Rossingley had forewarned, became a source of increasing annoyance. Over the entrées, Kit mostly ignored him, deciding the flamboyant young American was nothing more than a bothersome social butterfly. Over the excellent venison, however, Kit revised that opinion; the man was a street rat masquerading as a bothersome social butterfly. By dessert, he concluded the man was both. He also deduced that Mr Arthur Hamilton was a fellow sodomite and one with clear designs on pinching the earl from under Kit’s nose. Which simply would not do.
And then there was the final guest. Sir Ambrose Gartside himself. The less said about him the better, but prematurely balding, self-important, and weaselly summed him up perfectly. One of those folks whose only path to making their own candle shine brighter was to blow out someone else’s, using whatever means they had at their disposal to do it. That Kit maintained a veneer of civility was neither tactic nor sentiment but a clear instruction issued by the earl prior to his guest’s arrival.Trust me, his lordship had ordered, impaling him on those silvery-blue eyes.Remember,Angel,I have a plan.
Gartside had no idea who Kit was, of course. And having been introduced by the earl in rather vague terms as ‘a man of business visiting from the provinces’, he’d immediately dismissed him, with a barely disguised sneer, as unimportant.Trust me.Fortunately, the earl’s warning still rang in his ears because the alternative to Kit’s cordiality was chaos, and Kit didn’t think his exquisitely mannered earl would be too thrilled if his dinner party dissolved into a common brawl. He comforted himself with the reminder that if the mysterious plan failed and he still wanted to kill Gartside, he’d lead him to a quiet spot and strangle him.
Therefore, despite occupying the seat adjacent to the earl and consuming the most tender, succulent mouthfuls of meat, Kit was out of sorts. Not only was he forced to curb his anger while making polite discourse within six feet of his sister’s attacker, but he was also contending with Mr Hamilton’s determined efforts to render his charming host helpless with laughter. Which he did far too frequently. Adding to his woes, Kit also prayed that Lord Cobham didn’t examine him too closely. Whilst one plethoric iron-haired gentleman in evening dress looked very much like another, Kit had a niggling suspicion that around six months ago, he’d relieved Lord Cobham of a silver snuff box.
But what truly soured his wine was that he simply couldn’t fathom why his earl had gathered such an odd group at all. Yes, Cobham had a daughter in a similar predicament as Kit’s own poor sister. But why invite him to dine with Gartside? Sir Richard, Kit had been apprised, had neither wife, sister, or daughter, and neither did he have a country estate or a fondness for card games. So, what was his objection to Gartside?
As for Mr Hamilton, Kit wouldn’t have the man within ten miles of his own dining table if ever he had sufficient funds to purchase such a piece of furniture. And he would gladly banish him to another continent if he continued batting his lashes at the delectable earl.
And then there was Gartside. Unless one could add being a sodomite to Sir Ambrose’s list of crimes, which Kit hugely doubted, Kit was totally befuddled as to why the earl would ever invite such a thorough bastard into his house to sit alongside Cobham and the rest of them in the first place.
Kit had to patiently drum his fingers until the dessert course came to an end to find out. He had a feeling he wasn’t alone in his musings, as by the time the earl’s guests retired to the sumptuous drawing room, Grosvenor Street’s well of mannerly conversation had run dry. A restlessness settled amongst them or perhaps a realisation that this was no ordinary supper gathering. When the earl’s townhouse butler, Hargreaves, finally withdrew, Lord Cobham—no stranger to his host’s port already this evening—pounced.
“What the deuces is going on, Rossingley? You behave like a recluse for three years, then pop out of the woodwork and demand my presence at dinner with—” he threw his lofty gaze in the direction of Gartside, Mr Hamilton, and Kit, himself, before adding, “these gentlemen.” He saidgentlemenin the tone one used after mistakenly stepping in horse muck. “Are you so out of touch?”
The earl responded with a beatific smile. “Believe it or not, my good sir, we all of us have much in common.” Adopting the master of the house’s rightful position of warming his backside against the fireplace, he eyed his attentive guests thoughtfully. “A great deal in common, in fact.”
“Is it that when we take our last breath, we all go to the same place?” suggested Mr Hamilton in an affected drawl. He flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his coat as he treated Lord Cobham to a weary look. “Because I’m at a loss to see how I could possibly have an association with anyone who finds Palmerston’s views on the General Maritime Treaty in any way worthy of a fifteen-minute monologue.” Lord Cobham frowned while Kit suppressed a smirk. “And if I ever find myself in that unfortunate position, then could my last breath be sooner rather than later?”
