as his wife, and then storm the enemy’s position and capture her.
Sipping his brandy, Tony recalled that he’d been first to point out the need for a safe refuge. With a French mother and French godmother intent on encouraging any and all comers to bat their lashes at him—both ladies were aware such a tactic was guaranteed to make him take the matter of finding a wife into his own hands without delay—it had been he who had sounded the warning. The ton was not safe for such as they.
Set on in the gentlemen’s clubs, hounded by fond papas as well as gimlet-eyed matrons, all but buried beneath the avalanche of invitations that daily arrived at their doors, life in the ton as an unmarried, wealthy, titled,
Too many had fallen on the battlefields of the Peninsula, and more recently at Waterloo.
They, the survivors, were marked men.
They were outnumbered, but they’d be damned if they’d be outgunned.
They were experts in battle, in tactics, and strategy; they weren’t about to be taken. If they had any say in it,
That was, at the heart of it, the
“Anything more?” Christian glanced around the table.
All shook their heads; they drained their glasses.
“I have to make an appearance at Lady Holland’s soiree.” Charles pulled a face. “I gather she feels she lent Trentham a helping hand, and now wants to try her luck with me.”
Gervase raised his brows. “And you’re giving her the chance?”
On his feet, Charles met his gaze. “My mother, sisters, and sisters-in-law are in town.”
“Oh, ho! I see. Thinking of taking up residence here for the nonce?”
“Not at present, but I won’t deny the thought has crossed my mind.”
“I’ll come with you.” Christian strolled around the table. “I want to have a word with Leigh Hunt about that book he’s writing. He’s sure to be at Holland House.”
Tony stood.
Christian glanced his way. “Are you still glorying in solitary state?”
“Yes, thank heaven—the mater’s fixed in Devon.” Tony resettled his coat with a graceful shrug. “I have, however, been summoned by my godmother to a soiree at Amery House. I’ll have to put in an appearance.” He looked around the table. “Anyone going that way?”
Gervase, Jack, and Deverell shook their heads; they’d decided to retire to the club’s library and spend the rest of the evening in companionable silence.
Tony bade them farewell; grinning, they wished him luck. Together with Christian and Charles, he went downstairs and into the street. They parted on the pavement; Christian and Charles made for Kensington and Holland House, while Tony headed for Mayfair
Reluctance dragged at him; he ignored it. Any experienced commander knew there were some forces it was wise never to waste energy opposing. Such as godmothers. French godmothers especially.
“Good evening, Mrs. Carrington. A pleasure to meet you again.”
Alicia Carrington smiled easily and gave Lord Marshalsea her hand. “My lord. I daresay you recall my sister, Miss Pevensey?”
As his lordship’s gaze was riveted on Adriana, standing a few steps away, Alicia’s question was largely rhetorical. His lordship, however, had clearly decided that gaining Alicia’s support was crucial to securing Adriana’s hand; while acknowledging Adriana, he remained by Alicia’s side and made conversation in a distant, distracted fashion.
That last, something Alicia viewed with amusement, was due to his lordship’s absorption with Adriana, talking animatedly with a coterie of admirers all vying for her favor. Adriana was an English rose gowned in pink silk a shade darker than that generally worn by young ladies, the better to exploit her luxuriant dark curls. Those sheened in the chandeliers’ glow, creating the perfect frame for her bewitching features, her large brown eyes set under finely arched black brows, her peaches-and-cream complexion and lush, rosebud lips.
As for Adriana’s figure, deliberately understated in the demure gown that hinted at rather than defined, it enticed. Even gowned in sackcloth, Alicia’s sister was a package guaranteed to capture gentlemen’s eyes, which was the reason they were here in London, in the very heart of the ton.
Masquerading.
At least, Alicia was; Adriana was who she purported to be.
While making the appropriate responses to Lord Marshalsea, Alicia monitored all those who paid court to her younger sister. Everything to date had gone exactly as they, sitting in the tiny parlor of their small house in Little Compton, in rural Warwickshire, which along with the surrounding few acres were all they—she, Adriana, and their three brothers—jointly owned, had planned, yet not even in their admittedly unfettered imaginations had they envisioned that events, people, and opportunities would fall out so well.
Their plan, desperate and reckless though it was, might just succeed. Succeed in securing a future for their three brothers—David, Harry, and Matthew—and for Adriana. For herself, Alicia hadn’t thought that far; time enough to turn her mind to her own life once she’d seen her siblings safe.
Lord Marshalsea grew increasingly restless; taking pity on him, Alicia eased him into Adriana’s circle, then stepped back, effacing herself as a good chaperone should. She eavesdropped, listening as Adriana handled the gentlemen surrounding her with her customary confidence. Although neither she nor Adriana had had any previous experience of the ton, of the ways of society’s elite, since their appearance in town and their introduction to those exalted circles some weeks ago, they’d managed without the slightest hiccup.
Eighteen months of intensive research and their own sound common sense had stood them in good stead. Having three much younger brothers whom they’d largely reared had eradicated any tendency to panic; both jointly and individually, they’d risen to every challenge and triumphed.
Alicia was proud of them both, and increasingly hopeful of an excellent outcome to their scheme.
“Mrs. Carrington—your servant, ma’am.”
The drawled words jolted her from the rosy future. Concealing her dismay, calmly turning, lips curving, she gave her hand to the gentleman bowing before her. “Mr. Ruskin. How pleasant to meet you here.”
“The pleasure, I assure you, dear lady, is all mine.”
Straightening, Ruskin delivered the comment with an intent look and a smile that sent a warning slithering down her spine. He was a largish man, half a head taller than she and heavily built; he dressed well and had the manners of a gentleman, yet there was something about him that, even hampered by inexperience, she recognized as less than savory.
For some ungodly reason, Ruskin had from their first meeting fixed his eye on her. If she could understand why, she’d do something to deflect it; her ever-fertile imagination painted him a snake, with her as his mesmerized prey. She’d pretended ignorance of the tenor of his attentions, had tried to be discouraging. When he’d shocked her by obliquely suggesting a
Thus far she’d avoided any declaration, thereby avoiding having outright to refuse it. Given her masquerade, she didn’t want to risk an overt dismissal, didn’t want to draw any attention her way; the most she dared do was behave coolly.
Ruskin’s pale gaze had been traveling her face; it rose to trap hers. “If you would grant me the favor of a few minutes in private, my dear, I would be grateful.”
He still held her fingers; keeping her expression noncommittal, she eased her hand free and used it to gesture to Adriana. “I’m afraid, sir, that with my sister in my care, I really cannot—”
“Ah.” Ruskin sent a glance Adriana’s way, a comprehensive survey taking in the besotted lordlings and gentlemen gathered around her, and Miss Tiverton, whom Adriana had taken under her wing, thereby earning Lady Hertford’s undying gratitude. “What I have to say will, I daresay, have some impact on your sister.”
Looking back at Alicia, Ruskin met her eyes; his smile remained easy, a gentleman confident of his ground. “However, your concern is… understandable.”
His gaze lifted; he scanned the room, filled with the fashionable. Lady Amery’s soiree had attracted the cream of the ton; they were present in force, talking, exchanging the latest
