Page 114 of The Rake's Daughter
“We heard you before,” Lord Salcott snapped. “But you’re talking rot.”
Lord Pomphret glared up at him. “ ’S’not rot. I tell you—”
“Offensive, drunken rot.”
“Bart Studley was my good friend and—”
“And yet he chose to makemehis daughter’s official guardian—and I have the documents to prove it.”
Izzy bit her lip. What was he doing? Perjuring himself? All he had was that dreadful letter her father had written about her.
Lord Pomphret said mulishly, “I tell you, that girl, the black-haired chit, is Bart’s bast—”
“I said,enough!” Lord Salcott raised a hand in a threatening gesture.
Lord Pomphret staggered backward a couple of steps, shouting, “He struck me! You all saw that. He struck me!”
The men who’d entered with Lord Pomphret moved away, distancing themselves. A couple of them laughed uncomfortably. One said, his voice loud with disgust, “He never even touched you, Pomphret—get a grip, man.”
Lord Salcott pulled off his gray kid gloves and said in a menacing manner, “If you continue to spout any more of this offensive nonsense, you will be answerable to me. Understand? As his daughter’s guardian—appointed by Sir Bartleby himself.”
Pomphret scowled and muttered something Izzy couldn’t hear.
“What’s that you said?” Lord Salcott said in a threatening voice. He slapped his gloves into the palm of his hand in an unmistakable gesture.
Izzy clutched Clarissa’s arm. “He’s going to call Pomphret out. Because of me. Oh, ’Riss, I can’t let him do it. I have to stop this.”
She tried to move, but Clarissa held her tight. “Don’t. You’ll ruin things.”
“Ruin what? He could be killed because of me, defending my nonexistent honor.”
“Hush. It’s a brilliant move, and I think it’s working. Pomphret is obviously drunk, and Lord Salcott has a reputation as an honorable man. He hasn’t even told any lies. He hasn’t claimed to be your guardian, just Papa’s daughter’s, which is me.”
“But Lord Pomphret is—”
“A pig, remember? And we should—” Clarissa broke off with an arrested look. “I’ve just had the most splendid idea. Follow me.” Towing Izzy with her, she headed toward a group of ladies, many of whom they knew from the literary society. They were talking in hushed voices, their eyes darting from Lords Pomphret and Salcott to Izzy and back.
Izzy hung back a little. “Come on, we must be bold,” Clarissa hissed, pulling her on. Izzy blinked. It was the kind of thing she usually said to Clarissa.
“Good evening, ladies,” Clarissa said breezily. “What a to-do! Of course that nasty Lord Pomphret always did drink too much, didn’t he, Izzy?” To the ladies she explained, “He was an occasional guest of our father’s when we were growing up.” She wrinkled her nose. “Not our favorite of Papa’s guests at all—we used to avoid him whenever possible, didn’t we, Izzy?”
“Tried to,” Izzy said dryly, wondering where her sister was going with this.
The ladies exchanged glances.
“Yes, he wasn’t so bad when we were small, but when we grew older...” Clarissa pulled a face. “Of course, that’s why he hates us.”
“Hates you? Why?” one of the ladies asked.
Clarissa looked at Izzy. “Do you mind if I tell these ladies? In strictest confidence, of course.”
Izzy gave a reluctant nod. She knew where this was going now. “In strictest confidence?”
“Oh, of course,” the ladies assured her. “Strictest confidence.” They moved closer.
Clarissa began. “As you all know, my sister is the beauty of the family. When she was fifteen—or were you sixteen, Izzy?”
“Not quite sixteen.”
