“Five pounds.”
“I’ve always fancied older women.” George smile turned wicked. “They know what they’re about. Especially in the bedroom. Ten.”
Thad nodded. “Ten. I forget that your actress is almost forty.”
“Forty-three. You’ve lost track.” George stood, bounced the stiletto again, then held it lightly by the tip, aimed, and let fly. Itflipped and embedded into the wall, six inches above the knot. Grinning, he took out his wallet and handed Thad a ten-pound note. He paused a moment, then added a twenty-pound note. “For yesterday.”
Thad tucked them away. “But you won’t be marrying your actress.”
George retrieved the stiletto and sat next to Thad. “Not that I haven’t considered it. We are remarkably well suited.”
Thad coughed a laugh. “Not that you have mentioned this to your father.”
His friend returned the grin. “Nah. Da would not appreciate the sentiment. He still wants me to woo some sweet young debutante and add a title to our vast fortune.”
Thad stared at him. “He believes that’s possible.”
This time George was the one who shrugged. “Da is a dreamer. Always has been. The lack of invitations to any sort of Society event has not yet dissuaded him. He has even made a list of families who have the dual attraction of debuting daughters and lack of blunt due to mismanagement. He finds that an equation that might work for us.”
“Nothing more optimistic than a deluded dreamer.”
George tucked the stiletto into a sheath in his boot. “What are you going to do?”
“Not much I can do. The meeting is tomorrow morning. Ten.”
“Ghastly early. Is that why you’re not drinking?”
“That and I haven’t eaten today. Ale without bread is not a good mix for me. Inevitably leads to more debt.”
George peered at him, and Thad wondered briefly if his friend knew exactly why he had not eaten that day.
Apparently he did. “You can’t be that anxious.” He paused. “You’ve spent your allowance.”
“Only five more days to the first of the month.” Thad patted his pocket. “And thirty pounds goes a long way.”
George stood. “If you’re eating pies off a costermonger.”
“Some people live an entire year, two years even, on thirty pounds.”
“And they live in the Rookeries.” George gestured to the door. “I know a pub where the women are warm, the stew hot, and the ale cold as ice. Let us indulge before you trod off to your doom, my friend.”
Chapter Three
Wednesday, 26 April 1826
The Lyon’s Den, Whitehall, London
Ten in the morning
Laudanum. I swearthere must be laudanum in that tea.
Mary, who had been offered and had partaken of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s tasty beverage that morning, had found that it unexpectedly eased the trembling in her hands. They had arrived a bit early, but their hostess had greeted them warmly and sent for tea and biscuits. Mary had waved away the latter, her stomach far too tense to eat. She had, in fact, skipped breakfast as well. But now she wished had at least taken some of the dry toast from the sideboard as a low snarl accompanied the tightening in her belly.
The man who had entered and moved to stand at the right side of Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s desk was, without a doubt, the most beautiful man Mary had ever seen. So beautiful she began to rise, only to have Kit’s hand on her shoulder hold her in the chair. Unruly curls, dark and shimmering with drops of rain, crowned his head. He stood not quite as tall as Kit, who could fill most doorways, but had a lean frame. Wide, gray-blue eyes,like the wild waves of the sea, highlighted sharp cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and a strong chin. His well-made kit included a skirted indigo frock coat, a forest green waistcoat with silver embroidered pinwheels, and white buckskin breeches tucked into dark green boots.
Tight breeches, covering the muscular thighs of a man accustomed to riding stallions across the moors. How magnificent he would look on a hunt, racing across the fells of Kirkstone Abbey, face reddened by the cold, hair unkempt and wild in the wind.
Mary swallowed hard.
