Page 1 of Nothing But a Rakehell
Chapter 1
Colm Newland, Lord Keswick, stood up from the card table—and promptly swayed on his feet.
“Well, damn, Kes, but you’ve gone bosky.” The Earl of Chester frowned up at him.
Keswick blinked.
“Nonsense,” Lord Whiddon objected. “He’s just a trifle disguised, at best.”
Keswick left off staring at his friends and frowned down at the cards he’d left on the table. He’d stood up with a purpose. What had he meant to do?
“I think we’re all sunk beneath the mahogany,” Mr. Barrett Sterne declared. “But perhaps only a few inches.”
“No. Keswick’s bosky,” Chester insisted. “Completely bosky. Damned if I ain’t, too.”
“Don’t know what else you’d expect,” Keswick finally spoke up. “Dayle keeps a damned fine cellar. And he’s not too stingy to share it, either.”
He frowned—and his stomach rumbled. Oh, yes. That’s what he’d meant to do. Pillage the buffet table. A bit of food would be the just the thing to soak up some of Dayle’s excellent wine. “I’ll bring back enough for the lot of us.”
“Be careful out there,” warned Sterne. He gestured toward the door, through which music and laughter drifted.
“Aye. I saw the Vernon girl eying you the same way Chester does a fine chop at Lapwell’s.” Whiddon laughed loudly at his own joke.
“A chop does sound just the thing,” Chester mused. “Or perhaps a nice, thick beefsteak.”
“Perhaps we should all go with you, Kes,” Sterne offered. “The debutantes are thick out there and the wine is sure to have dulled your reflexes.”
“Nonsense!” Keswick took offense. “My reflexes are more than—”
He winced as a coin bounced off of his forehead.
“See?” Chester announced in triumph. “Bosky!”
Keswick gathered up the shards of his dignity. He would show them. He turned and made his way out of the card room, growing steadier with each step. Perfectly normal. He turned toward the ballroom—
“Oof!”
He collided full on with someone emerging into the passage from another room. Flailing, he reached out for support and found himself gripping a thin shoulder.
“Lord Keswick!”
It was Miss Vernon’s shoulder and her shrill gasp ringing in his ear.
He let go at once, and made his apology, but the girl looked triumphant instead of scandalized. Instantly wary, he bowed and turned to leave. “An accident. Again, I offer my apologies. Please, do excuse me.”
But the girl reached out and grasped his arm. “I will forgive you only if you will dance with me, my lord.”
Still a little befuddled, Keswick worked desperately to scrape his wits together. He’d seen the predatory look in this girl’s eye. Lord knew, it had to be noticeable for Whiddon to have remarked upon it. The last thing he needed was to engage her in this . . . condition.
“Alas, that’s a pleasure that must be delayed, Miss Vernon. I am on a mission and cannot indulge myself.”
“Surely you can postpone your errand for a short time, sir. Just long enough for a stroll on the patio, perhaps?”
He saw her glance toward the room she’d just left. Following her gaze he saw her particular friend, Miss McNamara, give her a slight nod.
It smacked of conspiracy and sent a surge of clarity up his spine and into his brain. “Alas, it is an urgent matter.” Carefully, he disengaged his arm. “Another time, I hope.” Stepping away, he moved into the ballroom. A glance over his shoulder showed the two girls whispering and turning to follow him.
Exasperation stiffened his posture. For a moment, he was tempted to scold her for the relentless flirt she was—but he’d had a substantial amount to drink and she was sober and on the prowl. He couldn’t risk her and her friend maneuvering him into a compromising position and forcing his hand. He cast about the crowded room, but the only exit he could see was across the dance floor and onto the patio. Too dangerous by half.
