Page 13 of Tempted By the English Marquis
Richard’s first port of call, the Theatre Royal, had yielded no result. White’s gentlemen’s club in St James Street was also a disappointment. He would have next gone on to Gideon’s favorite supper club, but on his way out of White’s he had suddenly remembered the ball which was taking place tonight in Duke Street.
And if there was one thing which Lord Gideon Kembal loved, it was a party. Balls were his specialty. His hunting ground for ladies and their private favors.
Think. Think. Where would Gideon be in all of this if he were here?
A horrid dread settled over Richard. If his brother had already found a willing bed partner for the evening, he may have left the party. And if that was the case, Richard’s frantic quest would have come to an abrupt end. One could hardly go knocking on the door of every home in the parish of St. James enquiring as to whether the lady of the house was entertaining a male guest in her boudoir.
Head held high, he scanned the room. Searching. It was times like these he wished his brother were taller or had some distinguishing features. Their cousin Francis Saunders had the right of it, exceptionally tall and graced with a shock of white hair. He stood out in any crowd.
But Gideon was of average height and average build, with reddish brown hair. That particular description fitted many a young man in London high society.
Richard had just decided to head toward the nearest staircase and make a study of the room from the floor above when the familiar, unmistakable roar of his brother’s laughter reached his ears.
“No. I tell you, it all happened. I swear every word is true!” Gideon cried.
Oh, thank god. He is here.
From the sound of it, Gideon was holding court somewhere over in the far corner of the ballroom, no doubt entertaining the other guests with one of his outlandish stories.
After following the trail of titters and bluffing guffaws, Richard happened upon the cluster of young bucks and pretty misses gathered around the Marquis of Holwell. Heads turned as Richard stumbled into their midst.
“Lord Richard Kembal! Perfect timing. My brother will back me up. Didn’t I fight a bear with nothing more than a small wooden sword?” Gideon asked.
A stunned Richard shook his head. “I—I have no idea.”
He briefly met Gideon’s gaze, and for one terrible moment Richard feared he might well burst into tears. Sucking in a deep breath, he gathered his courage. The last thing he or the Kembal family needed was for him to break down in public.
“Lord Holwell, could I have a word in private?” Richard asked.
Gideon’s brows furrowed at the use of his title. He might be average in many aspects, but he was fortunately possessed of a keen mind. A sharp wit. And an uncanny ability to read the emotions of his siblings.
“Excuse me, dear friends,” said Gideon, confidently striding to Richard’s side. “I must attend to my brother. I won’t be but a moment.”
* * *
Gideon took Richard by the arm and steered him toward the staircase. He was a regular visitor to the house and knew where all the private rooms and alcoves were located.
They had only gone a few feet when Richard stopped and turned to him.
“This is not the place for us to talk. We need to leave. We have to go home.”
The tremor in his brother’s voice sent a chill to Gideon’s heart. Something terrible had happened. Richard wasn’t one for melodramatics. He was a gambler and therefore used to hiding his emotions well from others. The look on his face suggested he had heard the worst of news.
“My carriage is waiting out the front in Duke Street,” said Richard.
While it was rude to leave such an event without at least wishing the host a good evening and thanking them for the invitation, Gideon sensed Richard was barely holding onto his control. He would have to remember to send a thank you card in the morning, along with an apology for his sudden departure from this evening’s gala.
After collecting his coat and scarf from a footman, Gideon followed Richard outside and into the street. A plain black hack was sitting in the middle of the road. Richard made a beeline for the carriage.
Perplexed, Gideon followed his brother across to the coach. “Where is the Mowbray town carriage? You know I didn’t take it this evening. You should have come in that.”
“I thought something more discreet would be better suited,” replied Richard, opening the door. Gideon climbed on board after him.
The carriage headed south and turned left into nearby Brook Street. Since it was only a half mile to Mowbray House in Berkeley Square, the need for discretion seemed a little odd.
Gideon sat forward on the bench and faced his brother. “Now what the devil is going on? You look ready to weep. And what is with the cloak-and-dagger unmarked hack?”
They were the sons of the Duke of Mowbray; they didn’t skulk about town.
