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“I understand,” he said gently. “And if you wish to retain it, I won’t object. That said, the new residence is quite a bit larger, stands alone, and boasts a proper garden in the back.”
Now that pricked her interest. Her current abode had only a small, glassed-in conservatory. She’d longed for a real garden for some time.
“Lord Fane lives to the north,” he went on as a footman rushed up to assist them in disembarking. “Cork runs to the west immediately behind—all townhomes, there, with the exception of the two houses behind yours—and in the house to the east is Lord Mallowby,” continued Harrow quietly as they walked up the steps. “I’ll be only a few minutes away.”
“I suppose living in Mayfair would be more convenient,” she said, biting her lip.
“Yes, and much more private,” he agreed. “We won’t have to worry about your neighbors hearing everything the way we do here.”
And it would be a right rub in my uncle’s face. Old Burlington Road lay just three streets west of Bolingbroke’s residence in Golden Square. Far too close for his comfort, no doubt, and in a much more prestigious neighborhood. Looking up again at her front door, she bid it goodbye in her mind. “I shall make ready,” she told Harrow.
“Excellent. I know you’ll love it. Now let us prepare to once again scandalize London,” he whispered with impish glee.
Chapter Three
Two days later
“Why could it not have been me?” moaned Westing, tossing aside the paper he’d been reading.
Lucas had already read it. The night of the ball, a young maid had fled Lady Diana’s house after bearing witness to what she’d termed “utter depravity” within its confines. The girl claimed Lord Harrow had invited another male guest to join him for an evening with his mistress as hostess. According to the maidservant, they’d plied said guest with strong spirits and then both men had joined Lady Diana in her bedchamber to, as the girl had put it, “engage in such wickedness as warrants eternal Hellfire.”
“You don’t actually believe it, do you?” Lucas scoffed. “Was it not you who told me he’s the jealous sort?”
“This is the second time I’ve heard of him allowing another to enjoy her charms,” said Westing, ruefully shaking his head. “I did not believe the first such rumor.”
“I suppose now you must consider it truth.”
“And a bloody Frenchman, too!” exclaimed Westing with rancor. “Why not let a solid Englishman have a go? It’s an insult, I tell you.”
“You see?” Lucas laughed, settling himself by the fire. “Did I not tell you to make him an offer?”
“It was probably the result of him trying to keep up with that damnable Frenchie,” groused his friend. “Brandy is like mother’s milk to that lot, you know. I’ll wager Harrow barely remembers that night.”
“I have my doubts,” Lucas told him. “The man had a duel the morning after, and I understand he bested his opponent.”
A snort erupted from Westing. “A mewling infant is capable of besting Brampton. Even I, on my worst morning after a good night’s drenching and wenching, could fell him with one shot.”
“Perhaps, but what about with a blade?”
“Was i
t swords?” said the other man with a frown.
“The account I just read said it was,” Lucas affirmed. “A crapulous man would have been at a severe disadvantage, even with a sluggard like Brampton. He most certainly would not have been able to disarm Brampton within seconds and then slap his broad backside with the flat of his blade as the old tosspot bent to retrieve his errant weapon.”
“Bloody hell, did he really?”
Lucas laughed at his friend’s wide-eyed incredulity. “Indeed. And then he bled the poor fellow. Thus, I expect this sordid tale of a threesome is just that—a fanciful exaggeration of far less licentious events.” Through his work for the Foreign Office, he’d come to understand the papers regularly embellished their so-called “witness accounts” in order to feed London’s appetite for gossip. “The wilder the tales, the better the sales” was their philosophy. He’d have to find the author of this piece and ask him how much truth there was to it. “I imagine the maid was paid quite handsomely to attest to such debauchery.”
“Perhaps.” A smile twitched at one corner of Westing’s mouth. “You’ve got to admit, though—it is a hell of a tale. It would not surprise me if even Lady Harrow got her hackles up over it.”
“From what you’ve said of the woman, she’ll likely invite Lady Diana over for tea to discuss the details.” Lucas sipped his sherry and stared into the fire. The truth was that he’d seen Lady Harrow recently, and the woman was, to put it plainly, plain. Lady Diana, however, was anything but plain. He’d only seen her at a distance, of course, but what he’d seen had made him want to weep: honey hair, light eyes, and a form that was lush enough to give a dead man a stiff-stander.
“…going to the Latham party next Wednesday?” Westing was asking.
Stirring himself from his musings, Lucas grimaced in distaste. “Not by choice, but yes.” He sighed at the other man’s askance look. “If I fail to be sociable and attend such events with minimal regularity—even if only for half an hour—my mother forces me to escort her to them. I’d much rather go on my own. Less risk of my neck getting caught in a marital noose.”
“Lady Diana will be there,” his friend murmured, giving him a sidelong look.
