Page 20 of A Scoundrel in the Making

Chapter Seven

Dinner began as a tired affair that paled in comparison to the gay parties Abigail had attended in Paris. Guests talked of other parties, dresses, horses and even food. The conversation between Mr. Morrison and Baron Aidair about a gaming hell where Mr. Morrison had won several hundred pounds was the most interesting conversation she heard. The man he’d beat had challenged him to a duel.

Englishmen took too personally their losses. Of course, the French were known for fighting, but a dispute usually centered around a woman. She smiled at the recollection of a young count who challenged a gentleman who had proposed a very indecent meeting with her involving another gentleman. Abigail suspected the count’s proposition had more to do with his interest in the other gentleman than in her. The young count, however, remained determined to defend her honor.

Perhaps, when she finished this mission, she should return to France. Of course, she wouldn’t be able to move in certain circles where she was known as Carlotta Durand. Well, perhaps she would, if she didn’t mind being Carlotta. That alias had afforded her some pleasure.

She felt strangely anxious to end this mission. The only way to do that, however, was to locate the Honors. As she had little hope of doing so, the two weeks that stretched out before her seemed interminable.

Wine flowed liberally, and Abigail indulged without restraint. Lord Russell sat at the head of the table halfway down from her, which left no chance of gleaning any information from him during dinner. The chair to her right remained empty. Lord Reade sat to her left. Mrs. Russell must have heard that Abigail was his latest conquest and had seated them together. Who was his most recent real conquest? From what Fanny said, he was much sought after, though she hadn’t heard of him until the night they met.

Abigail reached for her glass and covertly glanced at him. She glimpsed the flick of his eyes at her hand and the thinning of his mouth. She’d caught similar looks from him with each refill of her wine glass.

“Lady Buchman,” said young Baron Aidair, who sat across from her, “I understand you spent time in France. You were brave to visit in these tumultuous times.”

“Not so brave,” she said. “I speak French like a Parisian, so no one knows I am English. Also, I did not visit Paris. That is too dangerous. I have friends in the north near Lille, so I entered through Belgium.” She smiled. “I was barely in France.”

The light of adoration gleamed in his eyes and she sighed when he said, “I still say you are brave.”

“If I recall, your brother owns Talsworth Castle,” said the woman to Lord Reade’s left.

“That is correct,” he said.

Abigail sipped wine and half listened to the Baron go on about the war and Napoleon’s sanity. Talsworth Castle. She’d heard of it. Built in the late thirteenth century—even before Castle Caithis—and located on the Isle of Skye, if she recalled. Lord Reade was brother to Lord Kinwall? A few months away from the world of espionage and she’d lost her edge. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask what nobleman he was related to. The Kinwall title went back at least four hundred years. Mr. Russell, direct descendant of Oliver Cromwell, would be green with envy.

“I have never been to Skye,” the woman said to Lord Reade in a low, sultry voice.

“Indeed?” he replied.

A stab of jealously pierced her heart at the sensual note in his voice. He was here with her on assignment but couldn’t refrain from trifling with other women—while she sat beside him. What difference should it make? It wasn’t as if anyone believed him loyal to his new lover. Her gaze caught on his fingers as he grasped the stem of his wine glass. Warmth ripped through her at the thought of those fingers tracing a line along her jaw, down her neck to the rise of her breasts over the neckline of her bodice.

She grimaced inwardly. Good Lord, she’d fallen prey to his damned charms. But she had to admit, those long, tanned fingers were beautiful. Abigail kept her gaze fixed on them as he lifted the glass and pressed the rim to his lips. Full, moist lips that would feel—

“Lady Buchman.”

Abigail jarred from her thoughts. For a heartbeat she thought Baron Aidair had spoken. Then she registered the man standing to her right and looked up into Viscount Chaluim’s face. She froze. Dear God in heaven. Lord Chaluim was a guest at this house party? How would she accomplish anything with him pursuing her as he had at Lady Bingley’s party?

Eyes fixed on her, he pulled out the empty chair beside her.

“Lord Chaluim,” Lord Reade said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Lord Chaluim paused in lowering himself onto his seat and angled his head in acknowledgement. “Sir,” he said, then sat and returned his attention to Abigail.

“How was the drive here?” Lord Reade asked. “It looked like rain earlier.”

Lord Chaluim looked past Abigail at him. “It was raining hard when I arrived.”

“You were fortunate not to have encountered any difficulties on the drive.”

Chaluim frowned. “Why would I have any difficulties?”

Reade took a drink of wine “Why, the rain, as I just said. The road from Inverness becomes muddy rather quickly. I’ve seen more than one carriage mired during a bad rain.”

“Of course, your carriage is never mired,” Lord Chaluim said with asperity.

The couple across the table to Abigail’s right exchanged a glance. They, too, recognized Lord Chaluim’s goading.

Lord Reade, however, went on as if he and Lord Chaluim exchanged mere pleasantries, “On the contrary, I have, on half a dozen occasions, found myself stuck in the mud.”