Page 66 of Avenging the Earl's Lady
Shaldon would have no doubt sanctioned such a maneuver.
Traffic snarled around a brightly lit townhouse where a society event—a rout, a supper ball, a musicale—was being held.It was not a house she was familiar with but passing the throngs of gaily dressed ladies inspired black thoughts.
She was outside looking in again—the opposite was true of course, but with the stench of the coach swamping her, her mind was muddled with memories.Reginald had favored a strong cologne, and he’d smoked endless cigarillos.
And the vomit…heavens.She’d been sick from the moment her son was conceived and for entire months thereafter.
How funny that she could remember how Reginald smelled, but not his face.She squeezed her eyes shut and tried, but all that came to her was her father’s popped eyes and his cold voice ringing out clearly.
My daughter, a trollop, chasing after a whoreson.And what did it get you but a bellyful and your brother dead because of you.You’ll be a pariah, Jane, shut out.Respectable society won’t have you near.
Heart pounding, she grabbed the seat as the hackney lurched through one crush and then screeched to a stop at another holdup.
Nausea rose in her, tightening her chest, constricting her breathing.
He’d been wrong, her father.Respectable society had accepted her.Whether they still would after her affair with Shaldon became known, as it certainly must, was questionable.
As Lady Shaldon, her chances of acceptance would be better.She’d wear a countess’s coronet and be wrapped in the earldom’s respectability.
And she could almost feel the Earl of Shaldon’s arms around her.Would it be such a bad choice?
The hackney rolled a few feet and then stopped again.
The thick fetid air was clouding her judgment.She reached for the door.“We’ll walk the rest of the way.”Stumbling out ahead of Ewan, she let him settle their fare while she caught her breath.
He offered his arm, still glowering, and they went down a mercifully quiet side street.Two unmarked black coaches had stopped in front of a darkened mews.No lights lit the interior, no grooms perched on the back.The coachmen sat poised to drive off.
The hair on her neck prickled, and she squeezed Ewan’s arm and stopped him.
Quiet voices reached them.A gentleman walked out, darkly clad, his tall beaver hat hiding his hair, a woman on his arm.A lone street lamp caught sparkles from gems at the lady’s throat, the silky swirl of her gown, and the gold of her hair.And the man’s face.
Her heart thumped wildly, her breath catching.She pulled Ewan into a shadow and watched the Earl of Shaldon take the Duquesa de San Sebastian into his arms for a passionate embrace.
Her legs sagged under her and she settled onto a step.
“My lady.”Ewan glanced over his shoulder, and turned back to her, his face grim.
“Shh.”She took great gulps, trying to breathe.
He plopped down next to her, warm and sturdy and mercifully speechless.They waited as coach doors closed and horses clomped away.
The family partyhad finished by the time Shaldon returned home.His eldest, Bink Gibson, and youngest, Lady Perpetua, and their spouses had left, and the other ladies had also retired.His heir, Bakeley, and his youngest son, Charles, lounged in the library, a half-empty bottle of brandy at hand.
“No Lady Jane tonight?”Bakeley asked.
“She chose to stay at Hackwell’s.She’s savoring her independence.”He pulled up a chair and ignored the smirk Bakeley sent Charles.“I’m glad you’re both here.Tell me what you know about this Major Payne-Elsdon.”
“If you recall, he was seen with the Duque’s people in Southwark,” Charles said.
“I do remember.”Payne-Elsdon had been part of the group attempting to abduct Graciela, but he’d slipped away before the final confrontation.
“Of course you do, Father.”Charles rolled his eyes and sat down near him.“He cheats at cards.Quite well, in fact.We’ve none of us been able to puzzle out how.But he wins a great deal and loses very little.”
“He might just be good,” Bakeley said.
“No.He’s a villain.Excellent swordsman they say.It’s well known that he’s killed men in duels on the Continent.”Charles drummed his fingers on the arms of the chair.“Gadding about France, Italy, and Spain, doing what, no one can say.He’d pick his marks, mostly wealthy young bucks, before dinner, and kill them before breakfast the next day for sheer sport, they say.He’s been leaning on Penderbrook.I can’t determine why.”
He knew why.“I’m sorry to say, Charles, I believe it’s because Penderbrook is your friend, and you’re not fool enough to engage with him.”
