A Dash of Scandal (3 page)

“I've never seen you before,” he said, “yet, you don't look like—” He paused abruptly as if catching himself before saying something he shouldn't say.

“I don't look young enough for this to be my coming out year,” she finished for him. “And I am not, sir, but you are correct in that you haven't seen me before. This is my first visit to London.”

“Then I feel free to say that you are far more beautiful and discerning than any girl fresh out for her first year in Society.”

“I can see you are skilled at flattery, sir.”

“You wound me. I speak the truth. Flattery is what you bestowed on me.”

Oh no. I was being honest. He is by far the most handsome man I have ever met.

Quickly she said, “Tell me, will you be able to obtain another?”

His expression questioned her before he asked, “Another lady?”

Millicent was pleased to give him a knowing smile and held up his pencil in front of his eyes. “I would hate for you to miss the next promenade because you couldn't sign a dance card.”

He nodded and gave her a grudging smile. “I think I can find another.”

“In that case, perhaps now, if you will excuse me, I believe I promised a gentleman the next dance.”

His gaze swept over her face once again before he placed his open gloved hand to his lips. He kissed his palm then slowly blew toward her.

An unexpected thrill of desire rushed through her. She couldn't have been more surprised if his lips had actually brushed hers.

Millicent gasped.

Keeping an indulgent gaze on her face, he slowly, reluctantly removed his arm, freeing her.

Millicent hesitated for a moment longer than she should have, then she darted past him.

She didn't look back. Oh, but how she wanted to.

“To be, or not to be, that is the question” on everyone's mind as Miss Elizabeth Donaldson declines another marriage proposal, and Lord Dunraven loses patience with the uninspired efforts of the Bow Street Runners. The earl declares he will find the Mad Ton Thief himself and recover the missing Dunraven raven.

—Lord Truefitt,
Society's Daily Column

Chandler Prestwick, the earl of Dunraven, sat at a table in White's furious over what he'd just read. He wadded the evening paper with a jerk and a curse.

“Damned gossips,” he muttered aloud. Must they put his name in every column!

Tossing the newspaper aside, he picked up his drink and looked at the amber-colored brandy that covered the bottom of his glass, and as easily as night slipped into day, he thought of the woman he'd met last night.

The liquor was the color of
her
eyes. They were the first thing he'd noticed about her when she faced him. Stunning, intriguing, golden brown eyes that were full of dancing lights. He had startled her, but only for a moment. She'd recovered quickly and looked him over carefully, fully, before letting her gaze settle on his face.

Who was she? He was sure he had never seen her before and just as sure he wanted to see her again. She was lovely with trim, slightly arched brows the same flaxen color of her thick, neatly arranged hair. The style was too tight and severe for her, but it didn't take away from her classical beauty. Her lips were full, exquisitely and temptingly shaped, and the color of a dusky pink flower.

He remembered thinking she was trying to play down her loveliness, and he couldn't help but wonder why. Most young ladies in High Society went to great lengths to enhance their beauty.

The gentle allure in her face wasn't the only thing that drew him, or the inviting curves of her womanly body. He was charmed by how quickly she'd regained her confidence and her sharp wit. Hellfire, he was drawn to everything about her. He even approved of the way she'd handled herself in a most inappropriate situation. Proper but not stiff, excited but not emotional.

And she was daring, too. Yes, uncommonly bold to remain in his presence and talk to him so long when it was obvious she was a young lady of quality. Most of the gentlewomen of the ton would never have spoken to him without benefit of proper introduction for fear of their reputations being ruined beyond repair. She had no such compunction. That was a very good indication she had no idea who he was.

Some young ladies tried to gain his attention by fluttering their lashes or fans, dropping their handkerchiefs or talking in a voice so soft and low he could hardly hear them. But this enchanting lady was so confident in herself that she was willing not only to talk to him but to challenge him with her wit. He felt certain she wasn't in any way trying to gain his attention, but that is exactly what she had done.

Chandler knew she liked his looks by her bold appraisal of him before she'd been confident enough to tell him she thought he was handsome. She had sent heat flashing through him like no other woman had. He could tell by her approving expression when her gaze skimmed his face that she appreciated his features. Chandler smiled to himself, remembering how it had pleased him and astonished him at the same time. Who was she? And was she the kind of lady he had been looking for to share his life?

Chandler shook his head, not ready for where his thoughts had taken him. It was way too soon to start asking himself questions like that about a lady he didn't even know by name. He would admit there had been too many things to like about her, but that was as far as he wanted to go with that idea.

After they had parted, he noticed her more than once during the remainder of the evening. She appeared poised and self-assured when she talked with people but not forward. He wasn't sure he wanted to admit even to himself that he'd actually been watching her.

Now here he was sitting at White's, waiting for his friend and thinking about her when he should have been concentrating on the damned thief who had stolen the raven. The solid gold bird had come from the tomb of an Egyptian pharaoh and had been a part of the house since the Dunraven estate was built, close to one hundred years ago. He refused to be known throughout all time as the earl who had lost the most precious family heirloom.

Chandler swirled the brandy in the glass and forced himself to shake thoughts of the young lady who had caught his attention so effortlessly during the evening—for now. He would see her again. If she didn't see to it they were introduced in the next night or two, he would. He would find out who she was. He'd make sure of that.

He leaned his head back and relaxed in his comfortable high-backed chair. The sounds of the club surrounded him—muted conversations, loud laughter, and the clank of heavy glass hitting wooden tabletops. He listened to the noise for a moment before he shut it out and let his mind drift back to the events in his life that had led to the theft of the raven.

Chandler had inherited the title earl of Dunraven at age fifteen. As head of his family, he took his position seriously and finished his education at the top of his class. He quickly became a good steward of the vast holdings his father had left him and had added to his wealth each year.

Over his mother's strident objections he decided to see his three younger sisters properly married before he considered marriage for himself. He contented himself with enjoying his ever-changing mistresses.

After his youngest sister had married, his mother told him he could wait no longer. He must marry and produce an heir to ensure the title. Since that time, Chandler had resisted all her attempts to marry him off to a suitable young lady.

Chandler found that his first complete year without a sister to escort to ton parties and to Almack's was like sprouting the wings of an eagle. With his two good friends from Oxford, John Wickenham-Thickenham-Fines and Andrew Terwillger, he drank too much, gambled too often on cards and horses, and dallied regularly with more than one mistress at a time.

That he was a constant feature in the gossip columns irritated him. Most of the information written about him and the other two members of the Terrible Threesome, as the tittle-tattle liked to refer to Chandler and his friends, was untrue. Chandler had never bothered to dispute any of the absurd claims until about a year ago when he was very nearly brought to dueling over a story published in one of the columns.

There was nothing he would like better than to know the identity of the person who spied on unsuspecting people and wrote those wretched things.

He couldn't deny the debauchery of his late youth and his enjoyment of it, free from responsibilities, but recently his carefree lifestyle had lost its appeal. He had slowly, confidently let go of his wild days.

Chandler had finally admitted to himself, but to no one else, that his mother was right. It was time for him to take a wife and beget a son to carry on the Dunraven title.

He didn't want his friends to know he was searching for a bride. They would badger him without mercy, and the matchmaking mamas would be lining up to parade their innocent daughters before him. No, he had long ago realized he had no desire for a giddy girl right out of the schoolroom.

Chandler's mother had not held a party in their town house since his youngest sister married. This year she had broken her vow of staying in Kent and had hosted one of the first parties of the Season, hoping to encourage her son to pursue thoughts of a wife.

The morning after the party Chandler was stunned and outraged when his housekeeper had informed him that the Mad Ton Thief, as the London papers had dubbed the robber, had stolen his family's priceless heirloom, the golden raven, from its place of privilege on the tall mantel in Chandler's library.

Thoughts of finding a wife had vanished. His mother had announced she was taking up residence at their home in Kent, and she intended to remain there until he became serious about choosing a wife.

He was serious about finding a wife. It just wouldn't consume him until he caught the Mad Ton Thief and reclaimed the golden raven for his family before it was sold or melted down.

The sound of billiard balls smacking together broke Chandler from his reverie. He sipped his drink. The only thing his mother's party had done was allow the Mad Ton Thief entrance into his home to rob him. He had not seen one woman, innocent or widow, who caught his eye. No lady had enchanted him like the young lady last night since his brief but fervid affair with the beautiful Lady Lambsbeth.

As the tittle-tattle had indicated, he was damned unhappy about his unsuccessful meeting with Mr. Percy Doulton of the Bow Street's elite Thief Takers, who were investigating the rash of thefts in London's finest homes. But how had the scandal writers known that?

Doulton was Bow Street's number-one member of Thief Takers and so far he and his Runners had made no headway in finding the Mad Ton Thief. All they had succeeded in doing was making most of the members of the ton feel as if they were under suspicion by inappropriate and inane questions about the stolen artwork and jewels.

Chandler agreed that it was most peculiar there had been a theft at three different homes and that not one person had admitted seeing anyone who remotely looked suspicious. But as he reminded Doulton, one seldom saw a pickpocket nab a man's coin purse.

Criminals were skilled at such behavior. The strange and difficult thing was that almost all the guests who attended the parties were known to someone in Society. Few, if any, strangers attended the private parties of the Season. That meant there was a robber among them passing himself off as a gentleman.

“Good. You've ordered a bottle. But what's this? Only one glass? Did you forget I was joining you? How quickly we neglect our friends.”

Chandler looked up into the dark brown eyes of his longtime friend John Wickenham-Thickenham-Fines, better known in Town as Lord Chatwin. Fines was a tall, handsome fellow with thick hair as dark as his eyes. Like Chandler, his friend was broad in the chest and shoulders. He carried himself with just the right amount of self-importance, and he had a smile that made all the ladies swoon.

“Actually, you are so late I thought you had decided not to show. I was just thinking about calling it a night.”

“Sorry to be delayed.”

“No harm done,” Chandler said. “I thought you must still be dallying—I mean dancing with the young ladies. There seem to be more of them this year.”

Like Chandler and Andrew, Fines worked at seeing how many of the coming-out ladies he could convince to take a forbidden walk in the garden with him. No matter how bad the Threesome's reputation got, there were always one or two new ladies each Season who couldn't resist them.

“You must be deep into your cups, man. It's near dawn. All the parties were over hours ago. I truly thought you'd be long gone but had to check just in case you were here, and it's a good thing I did.”

Fines looked around the room, spotted a waiter, and motioned for a glass before he plopped down in the seat opposite Chandler and made an attempt to loosen his neckcloth.

Chandler shifted in his chair and looked around the dimly lit room. Most of the tables in the taproom were empty. No doubt the gaming rooms would have thinned as well by this hour, with only the stout gamblers and drinkers around to see the morning break.

“Well, I didn't realize I'd been here that long, but perhaps I have.”

“Sounds to me like you have been woolgathering.”

Fines knew him too well, and Chandler wasn't sure he was as pleased about that as he once was. “Don't make me sound as if I'm in my dotage.”

“A year ago, I would have found you gambling at a table, not sitting drinking here by yourself.”

“I was merely relaxing with my brandy. So tell me, where have you been while I've been patiently waiting?”

“Impatiently is more like it, ol' chap. Don't try to fool me. I know you too well.” He cleared his throat and sniffed. “I just came from Anne's. Sorry to keep you, but I was in the mood and didn't want to lose it, you know.”

Chandler felt a twinge of envy. He hadn't felt in the
mood
to see his mistress lately, which was why he had dismissed her with a considerable sum not more than a month ago. In years past he would have been into another relationship before the day ended, but he was restless and felt he was looking for something more or different.

“So tell me, was there a jewel you danced with this evening who put you in a strain to see Anne?”

“All of them.” He laughed. “You know how I love beautiful ladies, and I would take every one of them to my bed if I could.”

“You love all women, Fines, not just the beautiful ones.”

“True. I rather like changing my affections from one lady to another: It would be positively tiresome to settle on one, don't you think?”

Tiresome to settle on one lady?
Chandler used to think so, too, but now he planned to do just that after he apprehended the thief.

“Hmm. It's not something you are trying to accomplish, is it?”

“Damn, no, Dunraven. Don't startle me this early in the morning. I'm not up to it. Me make a match?” He shook his head. “The devil take me if I do.” Fines picked up the bottle of brandy and poured a generous amount into the glass that had been set before him.

Chandler laughed. “Nothing would please me more than seeing a young lady sweep your legs right out from under you and land you prone at her feet.”

Fines grimaced. “What a horrible thought. I'd just as soon grovel at the king's feet. No doubt Andrew put such a foolish notion in your head. Just yesterday he said to me that one of us should start acting respectable before Society gives up on us and no longer seeks us out for their daughters. Can you believe such poppycock?”

“He mentioned something similar to me, but I doubt that will happen.”