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Dante stared at him, then offered a slight, knowing smile. “Sorry to gainsay you, brother, but you are in no position to decide what happens to Amelia. You are not her father, brother, or guardian.” He smirked. “Or husband.”
He rubbed his eyes, ignoring his last remark. “I know. But someone has to look out for her.”
“So, Saint Driscoll steps up?”
“Enough.” Driscoll stood. “I’m for a drink right now and then home to bed.”
The brothers left the office together and took the stairs to the gaming floor.
Driscoll handed Dante a snifter of brandy. “Are you headed home? Or to Mrs. Bancroft’s?”
“I should head home, but . . .”
They drank in silence and then departed. They took their separate carriages, Driscoll brooding the entire way home. He stepped out of the vehicle and looked up at the building where his flat was located. He shook his head as he climbed the steps. He really should think more on finding a decent house. Something in Mayfair, or Baker Street, maybe Portman Square.
Perhaps that had something to do with his ennui lately. A sense of not moving forward. Was it truly time to give marriage a serious thought? A more respectable house and neighborhood? Set up his nursery?
The idea of attending the Marriage Mart events to find a bride never appealed to him. So many young, giggling girls and their ferocious mamas.
Maybe the right woman was not rushing from event to event looking for a husband. Perhaps as he’d noted previously, and as Dante had so casually mentioned, the true woman—for him—was right under his nose.
He smiled.
* * *
“There’s no getting away from it, Newton, you have to start attending these fancy ton balls and find your sister. I’m losing my patience.” Daniel Lyons took another sip of brandy and stared bleary-eyed at his drinking partner.
Randolph waved his hand, almost knocking over the bottle of brandy that sat between them. “I doubt I would be accepted at any respectable event. And I haven’t attended one in months. Years, maybe. Not really sure.”
“Nonsense. You are a viscount; you will be welcomed at any fancy affair. Especially with all the desperate mamas looking for husbands for their darling daughters. I hear there are dozens of wealthy girls from America anxious to marry a title. At least you’re young and passable in looks. More than most others who are hoping to save their hides by marrying money.”
Randolph burped. “I’m not that far down that I need to sell my title to some American chit with beady eyes and a large nose. Anyway, I don’t know why you think Amelia would be at any of those things. I’ve told you dozens of times, the girl doesn’t know anyone in London.”
Lyons slammed his glass down, sloshing liquid onto the table. “Bloody hell, man, she knows someone. She had no money to go anywhere else.” He narrowed his eyes at his friend. “Unless you’re lying to me about the blasted girl disappearing and don’t want to make good on your bet.”
Randolph’s jaw dropped. “How dare you accuse me of being dishonorable! I would never renege on a bet.”
“Dishonorable enough to sell your sister into prostitution.” Malcolm Pringle, up to now the silent member of their little imbibing group lazily slouched in comfortable chairs in White’s, spoke up. “Not well done, Newton. She is your stepsister.”
“Mind your business, Pringle. This doesn’t involve you,” Lyons snapped.
Pringle shrugged. “Just saying.”
“Well, say it to yourself. The chit is under Newton’s control. He can do with her what he wants.”
“Sad life women have.” Pringle stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles. “Doesn’t seem right that she can be bartered away like a horse. Or slave.”
F
or a fleeting second Randolph felt an embarrassed twist in his stomach. Then he pushed the thought away to dwell on something else. Maybe he should attend some of these ton events. He doubted Amelia would be at one, but perhaps he could find himself a wealthy wife. Like Lyons said, he had a title, and never had a problem attracting the ladies.
Of course, he’d never before tried attracting one of the respectable ones. But he could always try.
“Lady Broomfield is holding some sort of ball next week. I’m sure there’s an invitation in the pile most likely sitting on your desk at home,” Pringle said, reminding Randolph of the stack that he almost never went through. Warm lemonade, giggling debutantes and marriage-minded mamas bored him to tears. The girls were so well guarded a man was lucky to even get a kiss.
Randolph stretched. “I just might do that.” He grinned at Lyons. “Maybe I’ll find a rich wife and then I can pay you off and forget about Amelia.”
Lyons shook his head and glared at him, his snifter of brandy halfway to his mouth. “No deal. I want the girl.”
