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Credit had most likely been offered once his mother’s will was announced but that meant Foster had spent little time grieving and a lot of time planning his debut into high society.
A bitter taste rose in his mouth. Aunt Iris deserved better. The man might make all the right noises and, admittedly, being the illegitimate and unknown son of a rich widow meant he was not overly close to his mother, but to leap straight into planning how to spend her money made his stomach curdle. It simply wasn’t how Iris wanted her wealth used.
“I thought we could go to the ball together,” Foster offered brightly. “I have the carriage.” He gestured out of the front door, white gloves flapping in his hand, where an open landau awaited, the yellow and black paint gleaming in the glow of the lamps at either side of the door.
Blake arched a brow. “When did you get that?”
“Herriot was selling the thing. Got it for a song.” His cousin grinned. “Barely been used either.”
Blake eyed his cousin briefly before retrieving his hat and gloves from the butler. He didn’t know much about Foster’s life before Aunt Iris’s death, save that he had been hidden away and provided for after being conceived outside of his aunt’s marriage.
His elocution and carriage implied he’d been well educated, and pockmark-free skin told Blake he’d been looked after carefully. With shiny fair hair, carefully pomaded into roguish curls and even white teeth, there was little to indicate Foster was anything other than a privileged young man—Blake’s equal at least.
Though given Foster was now heir to Iris’s fortune and Blake wouldn’t inherit for years if his father had anything to do with it, technically Foster was his better.
But there was something about him that did not sit right with Blake. Plenty of people would say it was because Blake had been set to inherit from his aunt and yes, his aunt’s broken promises stung, but there was more to it than that.
Foster wastooperfect. Apart from his illegitimacy, not a whiff of scandal clung to him. How did a man of nearly thirty not have at least one lover waiting in the wings to divulge information about him? According to the private investigator, little could be found out about Foster’s life prior to his appearance in London. The man might as well be a ghost.
A bland, quick-to-smile, eager ghost who reminded Blake far too much of a golden retriever. Though he’d take a dog any day. Give him animals over men like Foster and their lack of personality. He liked his friends flawed. Like him. At least then he didn’t have to feel even more like a rake than usual.
Foster glanced at his feet, his cheeks reddening slightly. “I, uh, was hoping you might not mind introducing me about.”
Blake groaned inwardly. The sincerity of the request would melt even the most frozen of hearts. “Of course I can,” he muttered. “But we’re taking my carriage.” He wasn’t going to ride in a vehicle determined to draw as much attention as possible. Not that he usually minded attention, but tonight was different. He only had one woman on his mind.
With any luck, he could palm Foster off on some eager unmarried woman in want of a fortune and speak with the lady in question. He could let it go, of course, but his curiosity would not let him. Why the devil was a young daughter of a Duke disguising herself as a boy and besting seasoned men at cards?
He shook his head as they climbed into the carriage and Foster gave a little bounce upon the seat. First he had his cousin to deal with and now this wild woman. His hand automatically went to the scratch on his cheek.
A wild woman who had nearly damned well stabbed him. She was a disaster waiting to happen. If he had not followed his instinct about him—her—she might well have ended up dead in a ditch somewhere, her own knife turned against her.
He tapped the roof and settled against the leather seat, huffing and shoving one of the cushions aside to settle in for the journey to Almack’s. The roads would be busy, despite the late hour, thanks to thetonswarming upon London in their droves, all eager to get together and gossip and drink the night away. He’d be happy to join them usually, though he preferred the drinking to the gossiping. Tonight, however, he needed to be on his guard. As keen and innocent as Foster might seem, that pull in his gut would not go. His cousin might have already ingratiated himself with several family members and a few of the regulars at the gentlemen’s club but Blake would not let himself be pulled in so easily.
Just as he would not let Lady Demeter Fallon make a fool of him. He knew her secret.
And he wanted to know more.
Chapter Five
Demeter had never been more grateful for Aunt Sarah’s consistently bold taste in headwear. Tonight, at Almack’s, it was a Gloucester turban overlaid in white gauze and enough ostrich feathers that she imagined there was an ostrich running around somewhere entirely plucked. It created the most excellent shield to duck behind, most especially when Mr. Jacob Blake was announced alongside his cousin.
She knew he’d be here. Of course she did. He rarely missed a ball and usually spent the entire night dancing with beautiful women—but a small part of her had hoped he’d changed. Maybe he’d decided balls were a bore. That he no longer liked dancing. That he was going to play the country gent for the rest of his life and she’d never have to see him again.
Naturally, she would miss him; but far better to miss him than have to sit and wait and pray he hadn’t recognized her the other night.
Demeter positioned herself to the side of her aunt, moving with her as she turned so that the feathers always blocked her from view of the spiraling staircase that ensured all those who entered could be seen by the crowd.
Blake would relish the moment whereas Demeter hated it. All eyes upon her made her want to melt into the ground and slip down the stairs, drip by drip. She braved a quick peek around the feathers and gripped her glass of ratafia tightly, until the crystal stem dug into her palm.
He always looked so well in evening dress. It highlighted his strong build and shoulders and the perfectly tied cravat emphasized a jawline that really should be carved into marble. She would not be the only woman looking at him, she knew that much. No doubt he’d end up in the bed of one of the widows here tonight.
She shouldn’t be jealous. It was the most pointless of emotions. After all, she wouldn’t even know where to start with a man like Blake. She’d likely throw her glass over him if he so much as talked to her, then stutter a few syllables and run away.
She eased out a breath, feeling her pointless stays strain with the exertion. So much for being bold and daring. When it came to the opposite sex, she was but a shy mouse, scurrying away lest they even acknowledge her.
“There’s something strange about that man.”
Demeter frowned and glanced Blake’s way again. “I do not see what is strange about him.”
