Though feeling in no great charity with her friend at the moment, she felt compelled to come to his defense. “I haveno idea what you mean,“ she said haltingly. “Jamie is a solid, intelligent gentleman, and a loyal friend who?—”
“Who appears to be blind as a mole, not to speak of abandoning you for the charms of some undoubtedly flighty young miss.”
“We have been friends since childhood. He hardly thinks of me in any other sort of way.”
“As I said, a fellow of little imagination.” Marcs signaled for a nearby footman to approach and took two glasses of champagne from the man’s silver tray.
“I was thinking more of ratafia punch, or perhaps a nice claret,” she muttered, eyeing the subtle cream on cream stripe of his silk waistcoat as he pressed a glass into her hand.
Marcus gave a deep chuckle. “What? Plans to assassinate more than my character?” He took a sip of his drink. “You truly dislike me, don’t you?”
Her face was turned toward the darkened garden, obscuring her features. It was several moments before she answered him. “As I have said before, sir, it simply seems that we do not rub together well.”
“Hmmm.” He regarded her over the rim of his glass, swirling the tiny bubbles to even greater effervescence. Augusta suddenly felt his presence doing the same thing to her insides. “I should have thought that one who purports to read Voltaire and Descartes would rely on empirical knowledge, not mere rumor, to pass judgment,” he continued in a low voice.
“Ah, but then you don’t really believe that a mere female can comprehend such learned thinkers anyway,” she shot back.
“I am relying on my own extensive observations to come to such conclusions,” he replied rather dryly.
“It is no wonder, with the sort of female company you obviously keep. In fact, I am amazed that you tolerate any contact with us peabrains at all!”
His eyes drifted down the front of her new gown, which exposed a good deal more flesh than she was used to showing. “Lady Augusta, there are reasons other than discussing philosophy to have, as you say, contact with the opposite sex.”
Well aware that her creamy expanse of bosom and bare arms was turning a decided shade of pink, Augusta forgot all her previous charitable thoughts about the earl and was goaded to further heated words. “And no doubt you are well versed in all of them! You should stick to such frivolous pursuits rather than trying to fool people into thinking you gave a fig for serious matters. What sort of wager did it take to prompt you to stand up in Parliament and make a mockery of the plight of working children?”
It was the earl’s turn to react as if he had been stung by a wasp. “Why do you think it impossible for me to have an interest in anything meaningful?”
“For the same reason you think it impossible that I can understand the ideas of the Philosophes.”
That took him aback for a moment. “Well, have you read the books I saw in your arms at Hatchard’s?”
“Yes! Would you care to quiz me on them?” She raised a brow. “Or perhaps you haven’t actually looked at them yourself.”
He drew in a sharp breath, then let it out with a reluctant smile. “You are a real firebrand, aren’t you,” he murmured.
Her eyes grew wide with shock. Ducking her head, she smoothed at the skirt of her gown with slightly trembling finger. “There seems to be little point in continuing this conversation. Good evening, Lord Dunham.” With that, she walked away as quickly as she dared.
A short while later, safely seated next to several of her mother’s close friends Augusta found that she was still shaking from her confrontation with the earl. What was it about the dratted man that made her forget all her resolutions to keep arein on her tongue? Her hands tightened in her lap on recalling his last words.
It was pure coincidence, but she must be more careful in voicing her views, else one of these days she would land herself in real trouble.
Five
“… It is most unsettling to see a jaded buck of the ton such as the Earl of Dunham make sport with a cause that both of us take so seriously. No doubt it is some mere whim or wager, something akin to betting on which fly shall land in the claret or which raindrop shall reach the bottom of the pane first, that has set his attention in that direction, and in another week or so we will find that he has tired of it and moved on to something else. I should like to know, however, who drafted his speech, for there were many sensible observations contained within it. Now, if only there were truly a gentleman of his stature who felt as we do, and was willing to stand up and speak out in good faith …”
The earl finished reading, then laid aside the latest letter with a snort of frustration. “The Devil take it,” he muttered under his breath. Had he really such arackety reputation that everyone—from an ill-mannered chit to a venerable scholar like his new friend—thought him incapable of aught but frivolous thought? His hand came up to loosen the carefully knotted cravat at his throat.
The damnable thing suddenly felt as constricting as his own former habits. He yanked it off with another oath, this one a trifle louder than before. The fact that a person holding a low opinion of him was not entirely unjustified was still rather hard to swallow, but what bothered him most was what one certain individual thought. His mouth pursed in irritation, for he wanted Firebrand to respect him in person as well as on paper.
To hell with what Edwin Peabody’s sister thought.
Well, his own private concerns could wait for later. Right now, he was determined to be of whatever help he could to his friend. He reached for a sheaf of scribbled notes and leafed through them slowly. It had taken over a week, using every resource—reputable and otherwise—to gather such a wealth of interesting information on the six men mentioned in his friend’s letter. Why, he never would have guessed that the staid Beckenham would have a stout mistress tucked away in a little cottage in Chiswick, along with a brood of three children born on the wrong side of the blanket. Or that the hulking Kendall, who could flatten most any man who stepped into the ring at Gentleman Jackson’s, raised delicate orchids.
Both of them had been eliminated in his mind as being capable of any sort of nefarious deed—along with Biddlesworth, who seemed only slightly less vacuous than the pack of slobbering hounds who had run of the once-elegant family townhouse. The earl had to shake his head at that name appearing on the list. It wouldn’t be at all surprising to find the fellow gnawing bones if one called on him at supper time. Even now, he fairly barked when nervous or taken by surprise.
That left three possibilities. Marcus ran his hand over his jaw as he contemplated them. It would help considerably if he knew exactly what wrongdoing they were suspected of. Firebrand had been deliberately vague, hinting only that one of the men was, in all likelihood, guilty of a most dastardly deed. He knew none of them well enough to make a judgment as to whether that was possible, but there were several odd things that had popped up in regard to the second name on the list. To his mind, that was the gentleman who appeared the most likely candidate.
Taking up a thin cheroot from his desk drawer, the earl lit it and slowly blew out a series of swirling rings that floated up toward the carved acanthus leaf molding. There were other ways to delve into the fellow’s life—and that of the other two men—that he hadn’t yet tried. However, for now he would simply send on to Firebrand what information he had gathered and wait for more specific word on what he was looking for.
