Page 2 of The Dangerous Lord

“Well,” Jordan remarked as he returned to reading his newspaper, “you know Miss Hastings won’t refuse you in the end. She’d be a fool to do so.”

“Yes.” But he almost wished she would. He felt no enthusiasm for the marriage.

Enthusiasm isn’t required, he reminded himself. She suits my purposes.

If only the woman didn’t shy away when he looked at her. Or jump when he spoke. He knew why she did so—the rumors about him understandably made her edgy. But her skittishness irritated him all the same. Well, once they were married and she came to know him better, she’d relax. And he’d learn to deal with her timidity in time.

Jordan suddenly shook the newspaper and held it up to examine more closely. “I hope Miss Hastings isn’t the jealous type, or you may find yourself refused after all.”

“Why?” He blew a puff of smoke into the air.

“This column reports that you’ve kept a mistress for over a year.”

“You must be joking.”

“Not at all.” Jordan held up the paper. “It’s in The Evening Gazette.”

“My God, where do they get these things?” Ian’s eyes narrowed. “Though that does explain why everyone’s congratulating me. Hand it here—let me look.”

Jordan tossed the newspaper to Ian. “It’s the ‘Secrets of Society’ column. You know, the one Lord X writes.”

“I don’t read Lord X’s column.” Ian barely had time to read the daily news, much less gossip written by anonymous rumor-mongers for third-rate newspapers. He picked up the paper and added, “I’m surprised you read it.”

Jordan shrugged. “The man’s sense of humor appeals to me. Besides, some of the people he attacks need to be brought down a peg.”

“Including me, I suppose,” Ian said dryly as he scanned the page.

“Not at all. He compliments your good taste in women.”

“This I have to see.”

Discussion of private matters was nothing new in the press, but Lord X was said to be particularly adept at it. No misstep escaped his attention; nothing was too private. Exposing the foibles of those highest in society seemed not only his profession, but his pleasure. Then again, it was easy to speak one’s mind when writing under a nom de plume.

With growing impatience, Ian skimmed past the man’s moralizing about the press, his accounts of a “scandalous to-do” at Lady Minnot’s, and his criticism of the excesses of the Earl of Bentley, whose extravagant new house was an “abomination in an age when soldiers’ widows go hungry.” Then he caught sight of his name:

Though rumors about the Viscount St. Clair's six-year absence from England abound, he keeps his love affairs so private that even rumor disguises his paramours. Thus your faithful correspondent was surprised to see him enter a house on Waltham Street with a beautiful, mysterious woman. Further investigation revealed that the house belongs to the good viscount and the lady has resided there for over a year. Other men would flaunt such a treasure, but Lord St. Clair hides her away, which only proves that discretion is indeed the better part of valor.

He read it again, the words searing his brain. Bloody hell. Waltham Street. He should have realized when everyone began discussing his “mistress” that they meant Miss Greenaway.

But how had Lord X found out about the woman and how much did he know? Had he questioned her? Although she wasn't likely to reveal anything, gossiping scribblers like Lord X could be very persuasive. Ian would have to speak to her at once, make sure she watched what she said to strangers.

He jerked his head up to find Jordan regarding him with undisguised curiosity. “Well? Who is she?”

Coolly, he tore the page from the newspaper, folded it in two, and slid it into his coat pocket. “I’ll tell you who she’s not. She’s not my mistress. Lord X is mistaken.”

And about to discover that not everyone would tolerate the man’s loose tongue. If Lord X knew about Waltham Street, he might know other things, and before the arse revealed them in his nasty column, Ian would put a stop to it.

“But you do own a house on Waltham Street?” Jordan asked.

Ian considered telling him it was none of his concern, but that was sure to rouse Jordan’s curiosity further. “Yes, but not for the purpose Lord X implies. I lent it to a friend of the family fallen on hard times. Nothing more.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he said firmly. “No matter what that fool gossip says.”

Jordan leaned back and folded his hands over his waistcoat. “Is this friend of the family as beautiful as Lord X claims?”

“Why do you ask?” he snapped.