Lord Kipwick had asked offhandedly, as though merely making conversation, but when Rook looked across the table at him, he saw an earnestness to his expression that made Rook wish no one turned to him for advice. Investing was always a risk, and there had been a couple of times, in the beginning, when he’d guessed wrong. One could minimize the risk with thorough research and a study of what was happening in the world, applying common sense, but it couldn’t be eliminated completely. “I’ll know more once I attend the demonstration.”
“I received an invitation to it today.”
He had as well. Uniform letters, but obviously it had not come from a stationer. Nothing embossed, nothing decorative. Nothing fanciful. Nothing distracting. It struck him as exactly the sort of invitation Miss Garrison would prefer. Straight to the point.
However, it also indicated that a ball would followthe demonstration, and he was rather certain that was the mother’s doing, a continued attempt to land herself a son-by-marriage.
The other three gentlemen at the table nodded and murmured, confirming they, also, had been solicited. Like him, they were all unattached. Like him, they were all lords. While they couldn’t hold a candle to him when it came to coins in the coffers, they were comfortably well off. He didn’t particularly like the notion of them fulfilling Miss Garrison’s desire for investors or imagining the brightness and gratitude that would sparkle within her eyes with their commitment to her enterprise. She would no doubt view them as heroes of the tale, saving her family’s business from doom.
Perhaps when next they met, he’d agree to provide the needed funds. To hell with her having to rely upon anyone else. Only he didn’t want her grateful to him for his money—he didn’t want any financial transaction to be responsible for her looking at him as if he’d hung the moon. He wanted her not to care about his wealth, not to yearn for it. But instead to yearn for him.
He didn’t want to buy his way into her heart.
Into her heart?What the devil was he even on about here? He wasn’t the type to give his heart away, not any longer. And he certainly didn’t want to own her heart, to have her gift him with it. A gentleman did not toy with a woman’s affections if he had no plans to ever place a ring on her finger.
“Sam Garrison seems almost as anxious to marry off his sister as he is to find investors,” Lord Langdon said.
“She’s a bit of a strange bird, though,” Lord Falstone uttered, his attention on his cards.
“In what manner precisely?” Rook asked, notbothering to disguise the menace slithering through his voice.
Falstone must have noted it, because with eyes as wide as saucers, he jerked up his head to stare at him. “Are the rumors true, Rook? Are you courting her?”
“I merely don’t think any lady needs to be disparaged, especially one who has committed no offense, and I’m truly curious regarding what caused you to make your statement.”
“Well, uh, our discourse when I danced with her.”
Rook glared and arched a brow. “By all means, do go on.”
Falstone cleared his throat. “Well, uh, you see, ah”—another throat clearing—“she mentioned how much more practical it would be to have a smallmechanizedpencil attached to a dance card rather than one that required sharpening to expose more... graphite, I believe is the term she used... and then went on to explain how the mechanized pencil worked”—no doubt in response to Falstone’s perplexed expression, but then looking somewhat befuddled tended to be his usual state—“and told me the first patent for such an instrument went to two Englishmen, a little over fifty years ago.”
Before Victoria sat on the throne. Fascinating. He imagined that Miss Garrison had intimately explored at least one mechanized pencil. “You didn’t find that at all interesting?”
“It’s a writing instrument, old chap.”
“Most gents would have appreciated a discourse that went beyond the usual weather, fashion, and flowers.”
“But her enthusiasm for the details and how the blasted thing worked... a lady should care nothing for that.”
Rook was tempted to say that a lady should care nothing forFalstone. Not to recognize or value Miss Garrison and her clever mind proved the idiocy of the man was beyond the pale.
Kipwick gave a low laugh. “Then you’d best avoid her, Falstone, when the next opportunity arrives for dancing with her. She’ll no doubt explain precisely how the roulette wheel works.”
“What gives you the impression that would be her next topic of conversation?” Rook asked, truly curious as to how the man had drawn that conclusion.
“She’s been staring at the one over there for nigh on ten minutes now.” He nodded toward an area behind Rook.
Rook twisted around. Because there were tables between here and the roulette wheel where she was standing, he was able to spot her easily enough. She seemed mesmerized by the spinning wheel, and he could well imagine that she was indeed striving to determine exactly how the contraption operated. Because that was what her inquisitive mind craved, an understanding of how things worked. Turning to those at his table, he tossed down his cards. “If you gents will excuse me, I’m going to seek my entertainments elsewhere.”
In the days following the Trewlove ball, when she’d finally had a chance to have a moment alone with Sam, she’d asked him if he’d visited the gaming hell that Lord Camberley had mentioned. Indeed, just as she’d suspected, he had been frequenting the club to meet gentlemen and use the opportunity to sell them on thenotion of their business. Or so he’d claimed that to be his endeavor.
But they’d barely walked through the door when he was standing behind those sitting at the roulette table and placing his bets. And Leonora had found herself intrigued by the spinning wheel. Surely it couldn’t be as simple as she envisioned. The wheel spun one way, the tiny ball traveling in the opposite direction circled the bowl until it lost its momentum and dropped into a slot. Shouts of joy mingled with groans of despair then filled the air. Slaps on backs occurred, whether a person won or lost. A gaming hell that included men was much noisier than the Elysium, whose clientele was all female.
It was so crowded, mostly ladies sitting while gentlemen standing behind them reached over and between to set tokens on numbers or squares on either side of the table. The racket was nearly deafening. Theclack, clack, clackof the ball bouncing as it hit barriers until it settled into place. She watched as the croupier used an L-shaped stick to gather up the losing bets—Sam’s included.
More bets placed, another spin of the wheel, a hurling of the ball—
She knew she needed to move on to address her purpose in coming here. When Sam had confessed where he was spending his time, she’d decided to join him tonight in order to pass out the invitations to their demonstration to anyone who might have an interest. Surely if they had a membership here, they had a modicum of wealth—unless they were all like Lord Camberley and in debt to the gaming hell. But she’d spent most of her day typing—she’d decided that was how to describe the action taken on the writing machine because in asmall way it resembled typesetting—out the invitations. Two dozen were weighing down her reticule.
