Page 8 of Unmasked by the Marquess
“To let people know what kind of show they’re in for? Like when the circus sends a boy into town ahead of the caravan, shouting about all the oddities one can see for a penny?”
Alistair had to choke back a laugh. “And who is the circus freak in that metaphor? It can’t be your sister.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, affecting a mock-philosophical tone. “Perhaps we’re all circus freaks at the end of the day.”
“Is that from Tacitus too?” Despite his best efforts, Alistair felt a smile tug at his mouth.
“Were you listening to us?” Selby asked brightly. “Miss Allenby is brilliant. She reads Latin, which is remarkable enough, but she also reads Greek.”
Alistair did not care one jot who read Greek and who didn’t, and momentarily forgot why he had invited the Allenby girl in the first place. “Miss Allenby is my father’s natural child,” he said, suddenly conscious that he was trying to warn Selby off Amelia Allenby. What did he care if the lad made an unfortunate match? It would serve him right for being so impertinent, after all. And wasn’t that what Alistair wanted to do, teach all these hangers-on why they shouldn’t beg him for handouts and favors?
Selby didn’t seem surprised at the revelation, though. “That explains the resemblance.”
Alistair was taken aback. “Resemblance! I think not. She has orange hair and freckles.”
“Your eyes—”
“Her eyes are blue, and mine are brown. You’re having me on.” But he’d let him have his little joke, if it kept him nearby.
“I meant the shape.” His mouth was twitching in a repressed smile. “And of course your hair. Your hair is almost black, but it has a reddish tint, especially near the bits of gray.”
He must have looked affronted, because Selby hastily continued. “No, don’t look like that,” he protested. “It’s handsome! Very distinguished.”
Alistair was about to sarcastically offer his thanks when Selby touched him lightly on the arm and said, all earnestness, “It goes well with the title and the money. Stern lord of the manor, and all that.”
Once again, he had to stifle laughter. “Why, you insufferable wretch. Indeed, one would never know that you had only recently arrived in London. All the best people discuss a marquess’s graying hair in his own drawing room. Very polished manners. Very refined. The freak show metaphor is seeming increasingly apt.”
Selby laughed, another pop of champagne, and Alistair felt gratified out of all proportion that he had amused the fellow.
And that Selby thought his infernal gray hairhandsome.
Only after his guests had left, and Alistair was surveying his now-empty drawing room, did he realize that he had sadly underestimated both of the Selbys. If their success tonight had been any indication, they would take the town by storm. No doubt his dinner guests would spend tomorrow spreading word of Lord Pembroke’s charming protégés. By the evening of the ball, everyone would be falling over themselves to meet brother and sister. They would have vouchers to Almack’s and invitations to all the season’s best events. No doubt they could even rustle up some connection to present them at court if they put their minds to it.
It also occurred to him that their names were going to be inextricably tied up with his. He had, he realized belatedly, taken a risk in associating himself with such unknown, untested figures. His scheme of using them to deter future requests did not depend on their manners, but if either of them erred in the slightest, it would reflect on his judgment.
He had been so caught up in his own petty desire to score a point off his aunts and Mrs. Allenby that he had lost sight of what truly mattered—his name, his family reputation. He had worked tirelessly to restore the honor his father had discarded.
And he had let a momentary whim cause him to jeopardize it entirely.
Charity wasn’t surprised to discover that at White’s, the gentlemen threw money around like they were emptying the contents of an ash can. She enjoyed cards as much as the next person, but when the lordling sitting across from her tossed three golden guineas into the center of the table, she felt positively puritanical in her distaste.
Or maybe she simply was jealous. Imagine having enough money to wager pound after pound on a silly game of vingt-et-un.
Imagine living a life so comfortable that losing a few pounds at a game of cards seemed exciting. It was nothing to the gamble Charity and Louisa had taken.
“I’ll sit the next hand out,” she said, sliding her chair back from the card table.
She made her way to an unoccupied settee in a dark corner of the room, intending to render herself as unobtrusive as possible for the rest of the evening, until she could make her excuses and return home to Louisa.
“Wise,” said a gravelly voice. Lord Pembroke lowered himself beside her, and she wondered how long he had been watching. She felt the seat cushion sink towards him under his heavier weight. “It’s only a matter of time before they’re too drunk to hold their cards and begin wagering on what color waistcoat will be worn by the next man who walks up the stairs.”
Charity had heard of such goings-on at White’s, but had never thought she’d see those antics with her own eyes. “I daresay if I had a bit more money I’d act the same,” she mused. There was no sense in trying to hide her lack of funds from Lord Pembroke. He had surely divined that the Selbys would have no need of his assistance if they had unlimited resources.
Pembroke must have made some discreet gesture to a waiter, because Charity soon found herself being presented with a glass of brandy delivered by a white-gloved hand. She took a grateful sip.
“If you were to flip through the pages of the betting book over there,” he said, gesturing across the room with his own glass of brandy, “you’d find a good number of wagers placed by my father. One day when I was feeling especially sorry for myself, I added up the amount he had lost, and I discovered it would have been enough to purchase an establishment for my brother and disencumber a number of properties that were weighed down by mortgages.”
It was hard for Charity to accept that a peer of the realm with a house on Grosvenor Square and a horse as fine as the one he had ridden in the park the other day could have much cause for self-pity, but when she turned her head and studied his austere profile, the stern set of his jaw, she knew he was sincere about his troubles. “You speak freely of your father’s vices,” she observed.
