The Courtship

wandered. “Lord Percy is partial to mistresses with flaming red hair and lush proportions; at last report he had at least two of that description meeting his needs in Town. Lord Tony probably went along for similar entertainments, or perhaps they share—though I ought not to offer such speculation in your company. Where do you suppose Lord Morrisette killed this thing?”

A man would do that—leap in conversation from mistresses to hunting trophies and be oblivious to the non sequitur, or maybe not even grasp that there might be one. “It’s a skunk. Perhaps he purchased it from somebody who’s hunted in the New World.”

The animal was probably very pretty when alive. Lush black and white fur ended in a graceful plume of a tail, and yet in death, the beast’s eyes bore the same blank stare as every other prize in the room.

“Well, I’m off to hunt a bride or perhaps some sport more entertaining than dodging Lady Morrisette’s overtures.” He paused by the door and regarded Esther for a moment. “You’re too decent for a gathering like this. I’m surprised Aunt and Uncle let you attend.”

“I’m nominally under Lady Pott’s wing, when she’s awake. You’d best be going lest somebody remark our tete-a-tete, but I truly wish you’d limit yourself to farthing points.” Esther wished as well she could tell her numbskull cousin she’d been “permitted” to attend mostly to keep an eye on him.

Michael pursed his lips in a sulky pout. “Schoolboys play for farthing points.”

When the door clicked softly closed behind him, Esther informed the hare, the skunk, the stag’s head, and a four-foot-long silver-and-black snake twined around a limb above the mantel, “Even schoolboys know their debts of honor must be paid.”

And Esther knew that Lady Morrisette had endless tasks waiting, and yet, this dusty, ghoulish closet-shrine to idle masculinity was probably the closest thing to a refuge Esther might find. She took a seat on a worn leather hassock and tried to absorb that Percy Windham had made passionate love with her, tucked her up in bed— left her there—and gone off a few hours later to disport with not one but two beautiful mistresses.

Her parents’ marriage had been a love match, but Esther knew such unions were unusual in the better families—the titled families.

The world certainly expected her to be celibate, but what right had she to expect Percival would be celibate?

“Every right,” she assured the skunk. For the duration of one brief house party, he might have at least limited his attentions to her. She remained on her hassock, mentally lecturing herself for treasuring memories that clearly were of no moment to her lover.

The feel of his hands in her hair.

The sound of his voice in the darkness.

The feel of his body joined carefully and intimately with hers…

“Miss Himmelfarb.” Sir Jasper had opened the door so quietly, he was inside the room and had the door closed again before Esther noticed him standing under the stag. “Of all the ladies to find being private with the impecunious Mr. Adelman.”

Esther remained seated. If the only rank she could assert was that of lady, then assert it, she would. “Is he impecunious, or unlucky in his choice of games?”

“Touche, my lady.” He slouched closer, the dusty light making his face powder appear another artifact of zoological preservation. “Though it appears I’m the one in luck at the moment. I don’t hear Lady Zephora whining for her tea, and the word at breakfast was that the Lords Windham had gone off to revive themselves with some sophisticated sport in Town. Quimbey is out shooting hares, and here you are”—he came to a halt beside Esther’s hassock, which had the disagreeable result of putting his falls at her nose level—“all by yourself, at your leisure at last.”

His fingers brushed her chin, a hint of threat in his touch. Esther tried hard not to move, not to flinch. He wasn’t hurting her; he wasn’t even groping her.

But he was insulting her. For all Percival Windham might at that very moment be bathing with both of his mistresses, Lord Percy had not offered Esther insult, nor had he taken liberties beyond what she’d willingly shared.

Esther batted Sir Jasper’s hand aside so stoutly, she had the gratification of seeing surprise on his face as she rose, brushed past him, and left him to the company of creatures already dead, stuffed, mounted, and gathering dust.

* * *

Five years of making war on colonials had impressed upon Sir Jasper several important lessons—lessons not taught on the hallowed playing fields of Eton.

First, what counted was neither who had better form, nor who charmed the spectators, nor who looked better on a horse. What counted in any contest was who won.

Second, marching about in straight lines, forming up into squares, and keeping a bright red uniform spotless was so much lunacy when the enemy soldiers respected no rules, could melt into the woods like wraiths, and used any weapon at hand to advance their cause.

Third, a baronet’s succession was as important to the baronet as a duke’s might be to the duke.

With those verities in mind, Sir Jasper waited in the conservatory at teatime, knowing it to be Mr. Michael Adelman’s favorite place to avoid company.

“Are you considering a career in botany, Mr. Adelman?”

The younger fellow startled as Sir Jasper emerged from behind a thriving stand of some enormous cane plant.

“Sir Jasper. I enjoy the quiet here. I assume you do as well, so I’ll leave you to it.”

Not so fast, pup. “Before you scamper off to the charms of our fair companions, might I enquire as to when you’ll be redeeming your vowels?”

Mr. Adelman was dark haired, handsome by any standard, and smooth cheeked. Not a scar to be seen on his physiognomy, which Sir Jasper told himself he did not hold against the fellow. That such a one should be welcome to share closets and whispered confidences with Esther Windham, however, was not to be borne.

Adelman drew himself up, though he was no taller than Sir Jasper. “One doesn’t typically carry large sums about to social gatherings, sir.”

“Precisely.” Sir Jasper withdrew a gold watch and flipped it open. “But when said entertainments are of several weeks duration, one can certainly send to his man of business for a bank draft.” He glanced up from the watch, flicking it shut and dropping it back into his pocket. “You do have a man of business?”

Adelman positively flushed with indignation. “Had I known you were so precipitous in collecting social debts, I would have already notified him.” Adelman brushed back the skirt of his coat and hooked a thumb in his waistcoat pocket, a lovely pose—casual, cocky, and designed to flaunt excellent tailoring. “Do you rule out the possibility that I will regain my losses?”

“Indeed, I do.” Sir Jasper offered his snuffbox, an elegant accessory of gold and onyx. “The play to be had in such genteel surrounds has palled. Name a date, Mr. Adelman, and I’ll have my man of business attend yours at the location of your choice.”

Adelman had no natural talent for dissembling. This was what made him a bad card player, but also what caused Sir Jasper an unwanted stirring of pity. Dueling was good sport when a man was a crack shot, but Adelman was only a couple of years down from university, a plain mister, and apparently of some value to Esther Himmelfarb.

While resistance from a worthy female was all part of the game, her outright antipathy would be a nuisance under intimate circumstances.

“I will offer you a compromise, Mr. Adelman. Either produce the coin you owe me by the first of the week, or I will appropriate from you something I consider to be of equal or greater value.”

Sir Jasper whiffed a pinch of snuff into his left nostril, while Adelman looked away.

“The first of the week is too soon.”

“The first of the week is three days from now. You have all the time in the world to procure the means. I would, however, advise you to avoid the gambling offered by our hostess.”

“I am not unlucky—” Adelman puffed up like a peacock.

“No, you are unaware, which can be remedied. The ladies cheat, you see, and the gentlemen—your charming