Indulgence 2: One Glimpse (11 page)

“And the favorites,” Flor muttered, but Sam heard it. Flor’s gaze drifted out to the dancers engaged in the first set of the evening, but Sam was sure her real attention was on the other debutantes. The taller, slimmer, prettier debutantes who had been asked to dance.

I’m sorry, Flor.

Sam would always believe that his little sister was beautiful, but he knew that society did not agree. If it was not enough that she was short and shapeless, their older sister Kat had insisted on dolling her up in a chaos of bows, ruffles, and lace, and all of it white. Sam had called it gilding the lily, while Flor had called it gilding the weed.

He knew he should do as other men in his situation did, which was to beg, bribe, and browbeat his friends into being dance partners. Sam had more than enough acquaintances to do it, but he could not bring himself to humiliate Flor like that. He knew she would see forced dance partners as even more embarrassing than no partners at all.

If only their sister agreed.

“Kat is going to make Sir Ewan dance with me again. I just know she is.” Flor clenched her shaky hand on the bottom of her fan.

“She doesn’t
make
him.”

“Oh, please, don’t do that brotherly nonsense. I can take it from Kat and Sissy and the rest, but not you. You know he wouldn’t choose to dance with me.”

He wanted to disagree, to tell her that she had admirers and that she thought too little of herself, but he could not bring himself to form the lie.

“Don’t look so worried, Brother,” she said, forcing a smile that held no humor. “Someone will choose me eventually. I may not be a diamond of the first water, but I am not such an antidote as to put every man off forty thousand pounds.”

Sam sputtered over his champagne glass. “Flor!” He glanced around them. “I told you to keep quiet about that. I will not have my little sister chased by fortune hunters. And I don’t like the rest of it either. It hurts me to hear you talk about yourself in such a low way. If you see yourself as less, others will treat you as less.”

Flor stared at him, and her smooth brow wrinkled with a kind of sadness.

“What?” he said after a few seconds.

“I do wish it were possible for you to hear yourself after you say things, Sam. It would do you good, I think.”

Huh?

“But anyway,” she said quickly, “you know my dowry is why I will marry. Please, let us both accept it and not fool ourselves.”

Sam would have cursed in any other setting. Damn his father. Flor had been barely thirteen years old when their father had announced, in such a flippant way at the bloody breakfast table, that he planned to increase Flor’s dowry to the astronomical sum of forty thousand pounds. It was more than twice what Sam’s other sisters had been given, but they had all taken after their mother. Tall and willowy with strawberry-blonde hair. Even at that young age, Flor had understood what it meant to sweeten a deal. Apparently, their father had seen her as someone in desperate need of sweetening.

Sam finished off his fourth glass of champagne and decided that the evening’s torture was a distraction from his other concerns at the very least. Like the possibility that Darnish would appear any second. He was not certain why he dreaded another encounter, since the issue had been resolved. Still, he could not imagine Darnish would be comfortable around him, which was a situation he preferred to avoid.

“If only ladies were permitted to escape in drink,” Flor grumbled.

Sam balked, ready to defend himself, then saw the glint in his sister’s eye. “Don’t tease me,” he said, pretending to pout. Flor was the only person in the world who could poke fun at him without getting his hackles up, and he had always encouraged her sense of humor, much to his mother’s irritation.

“But so much champagne, Brother!” She gasped, pretending to swoon. “Prisoners with metal files don’t make such an effort to escape. Has Kat been needling you about marriage again?”

More than you know.
“Don’t try to avert attention, Florence. It is you who are the current fly in Kat’s web.”

“Ugh. Don’t call me Florence.”

“Everyone calls you Florence.”

“Everyone else. I hate when you do it.”

Sam grinned. “I know.”

It was only a few minutes later Kat came gliding up to them with a pinch-faced Sir Ewan in tow. He was in his early thirties and a pleasant enough fellow, but he was also hideously wealthy and followed his mother’s dictates to the letter. Meaning he would never be a suitor for Flor.

“Sir Ewan, you are too kind,” Flor said with a plastered smile. She shot Sam a glance before heading out to where the other dancers were taking positions for a quadrille.

“Kat,” Sam said, drawing her name out.

“What? He’s a fine gentleman, and his estate is only thirty miles from yours. She would be able to keep most of her acquaintances at home.”

“Sir Ewan is beyond wealthy, and that mother of his looked as if she’d eaten a lemon when I presented Flor to her at that ridiculous garden party. It’s a pointless idea.”

Kat huffed a sigh and opened her fan. “I’ll have you know that Sir Ewan’s mother always looks like that, no matter who she’s meeting. And as to the other thing, well…let us just say that Sir Ewan’s wealth is a bit exaggerated of late.”

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Or let us just say the facts straight out. He lost it all, didn’t he?”

“Really, Sam,” she chided. “He did not lose it at the gaming tables, or whatever else you may be thinking. There was a bad investment, as I understand it. Something to do with sugarcane and shipping? In any case, something went horribly wrong, and, let me tell you, Sir Ewan was not the only gentleman affected. Quite a few notable families, I hear.”

He had heard nothing about this. “What families? Who was the investment broker?”

“I’ve only just learned of it, but whomever they are, they won’t be able to keep it quiet for long,” she said. “The point is, there are several eligible,
titled
gentleman in the market for a wife.”

And just like that, they were back to the real issue. “Please do not tell me that you have been spreading tales about Flor’s dowry.”

“It isn’t a tale if it’s true. Oh, don’t look at me like that. Flor has told me herself that she knows her dowry will see her married. If she’s resigned to the fact, you should be too.”

“She will be chased by fortune hunters who will not give a twopenny damn about her,” Sam countered, then shrank as he realized he had spoken too loudly. Several guests shot him haughty looks.

Kat fixed her gaze on him, and he thought he saw something sad pass over her light blue eyes. “Gentlemen may ignore the realities of the ton because those realities tend to suit them. Believe me when I say beauty is no guarantee to a happy marriage any more than money is. Flor will be chosen for her wealth, and those pretty things out there will be chosen for their face and figure. At least Flor’s money will last longer than their looks.”

Sam stared at her, unsure what to say. She rarely spoke about her marriage or her late husband, perhaps with good cause.

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “I hope you were at least discreet with it.”

“Of course.” She rolled her eyes. “By tomorrow evening everyone will know the amount and no one will have any idea how they learned it. We can’t make it seem as if we’re announcing the fact, after all.”

“Heaven forbid,” he mocked and wished he had a fresh glass of champagne in his hand. The four he had swallowed already were doing a fine job of swaying the world, which was probably not the best thing. He rarely drank to the point of drunkenness. He had a tendency to become sensitive, talkative, and, if he were honest with himself, downright playful. In short, he became more like himself.

They watched the dancing and made idle conversation about the other invitations Kat had accepted for the week until the dance finished and Sir Ewan escorted Flor back to them. Sam noticed that the man bowed with particular grace when he left and made a point of asking her if she was already engaged for the dinner dance.

Greedy, insincere son of a b—

“Oh! You must excuse me,” Kat said as she stood on her tiptoes and peered over the crowd. “I think I saw Lord Darnish arriving, and I have a mind to speak to him.”

“Whatever for?” Sam blurted.

Kat nodded her head toward Flor and gave him an exasperated look.

God, no.
“Kat, I don’t think—”

“Now, don’t be huffy just because you have to play chaperone for a moment or two. I’ll be right back.” With that, she disappeared in a swirl of blue velvet.

“Lord Darnish?” Flor squeaked. “Please don’t let her be so foolish, Sam. Lord Darnish would never look at me, not even with my dowry. I’ll die if she makes him dance with me.”

She would not be the only one. Whatever Kat was thinking, he had to put a stop to it. He could just imagine what Darnish would think if he was suddenly pressured into dancing attendance on Sam’s sister. Considering how quick Darnish had been to assume Sam was blackmailing him, it was possible he might misconstrue Flor as part of some horrible
quid pro quo
.

“Fletcher!” Sam called just as a short man with wild brown curls passed before them. He gave Sam a startled look.

“Shaw, evening. I’m afraid I don’t have the pleasure, miss.”

“Florence. My youngest sister, of course,” Sam said quickly. He had to get to Darnish before Kat made a nightmare of everything. “Flor, this is Bertram Fletcher, an old university chum of mine. You should have seen him at the public assemblies in Oxford. He’s quite a fine dancer.”

Flor shot Sam a caustic look while poor Fletcher turned green. The man had always been a nervous sort, awkward in society. Probably because he spent most of his time in hothouses, tending plants.

But, thank Sam’s lucky stars, Fletcher seemed to get the message.

“Um, yes, I-I don’t mind a bit of dancing on occasion. Good for one’s health and all.” Fletcher cleared his throat. “Miss Florence, if you’re not engaged for this set, would you honor me?”

Flor glared at Sam before she took Fletcher’s hand and headed off.

No one would ever accuse Sam of being a graceful matchmaker, but he could deal with Flor and Fletcher later. He left the ballroom through one of the salons and passed through the card room to the great hall. Kat had set off in that direction, and if he was lucky, he would catch them before she got too far in casting her net.

* * * *

John felt like he was floating. He could swear when he walked down his steps that evening his feet barely touched the stones. It was absurd, really. What did he have to be so damn happy about? He had plenty cause to be less terrified, but happy? That was a stretch and possible only if he absolutely believed Shaw’s words. The strange thing was that he did.

“I don’t want anything from you.”

Good Lord, how those words had felt like a bullet to the chest, only to be soothed after he had humiliated himself. Crying and carrying on. And he had certainly gone a little mad with relief, for in that moment of explanation John had wanted to grab Shaw’s face with both hands and kiss him senseless. It was a good stroke of luck John had been too shocked to move.

But what must Shaw think of him? Probably nothing. If the man’s words were much to go by—the same words that John inexplicably trusted—Shaw just wanted him out of sight and out of mind. John had a sudden image of the three wise monkeys, see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Maybe that was Shaw.

And by God, John would take it and be happy.

But now he had much to do and even more to
undo
. He had spent most of the day sending off letters to his men canceling all his ruinous instructions of the last few days. They doubtlessly thought he had lost his mind, but that was better than losing his shirt. His men were typically quick and may have taken his urgency to heart, in which case he was likely to see a significant financial loss in the coming weeks. Liquidating good investments was not exactly the smartest thing a man did.

And had another problem to deal with as soon as possible, and he did not relish it. As he reached the top of the stairs and entered the grand ballroom, he made a conscious effort to slow his gait. Looking too healthy wasn’t likely to strengthen the yarn he was about to spin.

“I say! Darnish is alive, then,” someone quipped.

John slowed and gave a tentative nod across the way.

“Darny,” came a familiar voice, “I think some people were ready to mass a search for you. How have you been?”

It was Richard, accompanied by Brenleigh in all his evening splendor. John swallowed hard, hoping it didn’t show through the tight folds of his cravat.

“Evening, Rich. Brenleigh,” he said, his voice weak.

“Are you under the weather, Darn?” Richard said, raising his brow. “You don’t look quite the thing.”

If John looked poorly, it was due mostly to the acid tossing around his belly. He believed Shaw’s word from last night, but the fear was still there. Now that Shaw knew, now that
someone
knew, John felt naked, as if the whole world need only look to see what he was. He hadn’t felt that way in years, not since making his arrangement with Lily. Then he thought of his encounter with Shaw, remembering the concern in his eyes and his soothing words, and his stomach settled. No one knew. No one could see anything they had not seen before.

“Afraid I’ve been off the battlefield for a bit,” he said, forcing a smile. “I can tell you, I’ll never touch another oyster so long as I live.”

Both men cringed, and even a few others who had been shamelessly eavesdropping made sympathetic faces. Every season one heard half a dozen stories about some person or another getting on the wrong side of a plate of oysters. It was believable, and John had long ago given up feeling bad about the need to lie. Over the years he had become quite good at it.

“I’m sorry. Are you well enough to be here? It’s quite a crush tonight,” Brenleigh said, his soft blue eyes wrinkled in more concern than was fashionable. John had noticed that about Brenleigh. The man was a kind soul.

But Shaw doesn’t like him for some reason.