Her bloody secretiveness about her reasons for wanting to attend a nitrous oxide party worried him. She was risking her position to champion his cause. Would a woman really do that just for science?
He doubted it. And before he set up a party that could endanger his getting Tessa, he meant to find out what she was up to.
The woman had suggested rake lessons for girls, of all things. Was that just the act of a practical, forward-thinking naturalist? Or a schemer who had spotted him as a means to gain her freedom from drudgery the moment he'd walked in?
She certainly hadn't balked much at his kiss. Nor had she behaved like a virginal schoolteacher. Yes, her kissing had seemed untutored at first, but sometimes that was a jade's trick for enticing a man. And it had faded once their kiss turned more ardent.
Then there was her behavior afterward. She'd shown no maidenly outrage, treating it like a necessary part of their bargain. Except for her blush.
He sat back in his chair. So the kiss
had
unnerved her.
Fine, then he would continue to do so, until he learned her real reasons for the party. He would flirt just enough to put her off-balance. He needn't even fear she'd complain to Mrs. Harris of his advances. Miss Prescott was clever enough to realize that if he revealed how she was blackmailing him, it would end
her
plans as well as his. Whatever they really were.
"What's got you so quiet this evening, Norcourt?" asked David Masters, the Viscount Kirkwood.
That dragged Anthony from his obsessive thoughts, thank God. "Nothing." He wasn't about to tell his friends what a mess he'd landed himself in.
Especially given Kirkwood's determined drinking this evening. No doubt his wife, a rich banker's daughter whom Kirkwood had married for the sake of his impoverished family, was giving him trouble again. And marital strife always turned Kirkwood cynical.
"It must be a woman," Simon Tremaine, the Duke of Foxmoor, offered. "What else makes a man pensive?"
Stoneville chuckled. "You should know better than to think any woman can do that to Norcourt. He discards women as a dandy discards cravats."
The description inexplicably irritated Anthony, even though he often said the same thing about himself. "At least I leave them with their hearts intact." Unlike Stoneville, who regularly used his gypsy-dark looks to seduce opera dancers, then ended the affair when they fell madly in love with him.
"Actually," Anthony went on, "I was thinking of a new project of mine." Perhaps his friends could help him with the rakehell lessons. "A rich acquaintance is concerned about his daughter falling prey to a fortune hunter, so I agreed to dine with his family and explain to her how to avoid being taken in. Only I'm not sure what to say."
"Is she pretty?" drawled Stoneville.
"Who?"
"The daughter, of course." Stoneville grinned. "Because a kiss is worth a thousand words."
Anthony scowled. "You may be devil enough to seduce a friend's daughter, but I'm not." He turned to the duke, the only one of his friends with a happy marriage. "Tell them, Foxmoor."
"Tell them what?" Foxmoor shot Anthony a veiled glance. "I wouldn't let you near any daughter of mine. I'm not even sure I'd let you alone with my wife, and I trust her implicitly."
"Ah, but Norcourt is a new man, didn't you hear?" Kirkwood remarked, a bitter gleam in his green eyes. "Gaining his brother's title knocked the wickedness right out of him. Now he never looks at a woman except with respect."
Silence greeted that pronouncement, followed immediately by laughter.
Anthony glowered at the group of friends he'd had since his days at Eton. "I should have known better than to ask
you
lot for advice. Your idea of a serious conversation is to debate the quality of the brandy."
"Who's debating?" Kirkwood tapped the bottle. "This brandy is dandy."
As the others laughed, Kirkwood downed what was left in his glass, then called for another bottle, their second since dinner began.
"Besides," Foxmoor added with a worried glance in Kirkwood's direction, "I have enough serious conversation at Parliament. I'd rather do without when I'm with the three of you."
"Especially if Norcourt means to be boring and respectable." Stoneville gave an exaggerated shudder.
"Don't worry," Anthony retorted. "The last thing I'll ever be is respectable."
Responsible, yes, for he fully intended to clean up the mess his brother had left behind, both with Tessa and the estate. But respectable?
Never. He would curb his outrageous tongue in public for Tessa's sake. He would even be "discreet," a word he loathed. But he refused to become a hypocrite.
"Here, Norcourt," Kirkwood said, as the second bottle arrived. "Have another glass. The trouble with you is you're not yet drunk enough to appreciate our wit."
"What wit?" Anthony shot back.
Lady Kirkwood must really be in the boughs this time. Kirkwood only numbed himself with liquor when his wife's gambling debts grew too large. He'd surely suffer for his night's indulgence in the morning.
It isn't good for the constitution.
Damnation, Miss Prescott was invading his thoughts again with her odd, bluestocking opinions. And his constitution was just fine. He thrust his glass toward Kirkwood. "Give me another, then."
"That's the spirit," Kirkwood remarked, and poured him a glass.
The liquor went down easy and smooth, for it was indeed "dandy" brandy, but Anthony took less joy in it than usual. He flashed upon an image of his niece sitting wide-eyed and innocent at his table as she watched him stumble down to breakfast, and the liquor turned to ashes in his mouth.
Damn it, Tessa wasn't even in his care yet. Why the bloody devil shouldn't he enjoy himself? He trusted his friends— they would never reveal outside this room that he was the same as he'd always been.
Draining his glass, he thrust it out to Kirkwood. "Another."
"Now see here, you fool," Foxmoor said, as Kirkwood refilled it, "we weren't daring you to get cup-shot."
"Speak for yourself," Stoneville retorted, an unholy light in his black eyes. "Give me another, too, Kirkwood." He turned to the duke. "What about you, Foxmoor? Too henpecked to have a brandy?"
"I have a brandy already, thank you." Foxmoor tapped the glass he'd been nursing for the past hour.
The duke's tone of quiet reproach didn't escape Anthony, who'd admired him ever since Foxmoor had befriended him at Eton. The older man had been the one to suggest that Anthony enroll Tessa in Mrs. Harris's school since Foxmoor's wife was connected to the place in some way.
A pity that Anthony couldn't get the duchess to put in a good word for him with the prickly Mrs. Harris. But Foxmoor's wife had taken a dislike to him ever since she'd overheard him flirting with a widow in her Ladies Association. Like most charity-minded females, she had firm ideas about proper behavior.
What would the duchess make of Miss Prescott, who claimed to have more concern for practicality than virtue? The image of the teacher debating the physical effects of strong drink with Foxmoor's wife had him chuckling to himself until he realized the others were staring.
God save him, couldn't he get that chit out of his mind?
He shot to his feet and held up his glass. "A toast, gentlemen!" He would banish the vexing female from his thoughts, even if he had to drink himself into a stupor. "To wine, wenches, and wickedness!"
All except Foxmoor echoed the toast, with the duke only sipping some liquor. Now that the man had married, he was turning into a prig.
As Anthony dropped back into the chair, Stoneville lifted his glass. "To brandy, brothels, and bad behavior!"
Kirkwood arched an eyebrow. "That's only a variation on Norcourt's toast."
"Good enough for me," Anthony mumbled, already slurring his words.
Not that he cared, by God. He repeated the toast, then drained his glass.
Raising his own glass, Kirkwood cried, "To spirits, soiled doves, and sin!"
"And you called mine unoriginal?" Stoneville complained. "At least it flowed off the tongue."
"The only thing flowing off your tongue is bad breath," Kirkwood shot back.
Foxmoor rose abruptly. "I'm off, gentlemen. Thank you for dinner and the part of the conversation that was coherent."
"You're leaving?" Anthony said.
"Once Stoneville and Kirkwood turn to insulting each other, the evening generally heads downhill. And I have an early morning tomorrow."
So did Anthony.
While Foxmoor settled his part of the bill, Anthony's mind wandered to Mrs. Harris's school. To be there at eight, he'd have to leave London no later than seven, which meant rising before six to dress.
Of course, Miss Prescott had said he could arrive when he wished, but only because she thought him incapable of anything else. And because she would do whatever she must to get her favor, even hide his mishaps from her employer.
He scowled. She probably expected him to stumble in around noon, green to the gills, reeking of liquor and stale perfume and forcing her to lie for him.
If he stayed here longer, that's exactly what would happen. Stoneville would drag him to a private brothel beyond the knowledge of the courts, where the two of them could carouse to their heart's content. He would drink until he fell asleep in some whore's arms, until dawn came and he could face his room alone.
Unless…
Unless he showed up bright and cheerful at eight in the morning and proved to the cool Miss Prescott that he could do whatever he set his mind to. Wouldn't it be a pleasure to watch her jaw drop?
Besides, once Tessa lived with him, he'd have to survive the nights alone in the dark somehow. Why not start learning to do it now? Miss Prescott had called wickedness a habit. Well, he'd show
her
he could break the habit whenever he wished. She'd have her rake lessons at eight in the morning, by God, even if he had to toss and turn half the night. The little naturalist would
not
get away with acting as if he was incapable of being responsible.
He rose, annoyed to find himself already unsteady on his feet. Fortunately, he still had a good part of the night left to sober up.
The duke was heading to the door when Anthony called out, "Foxmoor, wait! Would you drop me at my town house?"
Foxmoor halted in surprise. "You don't have your own carriage?"
"I came with Stoneville." Anthony skirted the table. "He'll want to stay."
"Damned right." Stoneville lurched to his feet. "Come now, you and Foxmoor can't both take off early. Where does that leave me after Kirkwood heads home to the little woman?"
"Alone, old chap." Foxmoor's eyes gleamed. "As Shakespeare says, 'Get thee a wife.'"
Stoneville indicated Kirkwood with a jerk of his head. "And spend my evenings in misery like our friend there? No thank you."
"We'll go carousing another night," Anthony told him. "But I have to be somewhere early tomorrow."
With a snort of disgust, Stoneville dropped back into his chair. "Fine. Run off if you must. Kirkwood and I will drink for the two of you."
As Anthony left with Foxmoor, the viscount was already pouring himself another drink.
The minute they were out of earshot, Foxmoor murmured, "I'm worried about Kirkwood. It's not like him to drink so heavily."
"Has something new happened, other than the usual troubles with his wife?"
Foxmoor glanced back up the stairs. "I don't know. He won't discuss it."
"I'll ask Stoneville if he's heard anything."
"I'll ask my wife, too, since Lady Kirkwood went to that school I recommended to you for your niece, the one run by my wife's friend."
They'd reached the lobby, so Anthony waited until Foxmoor had called for his carriage. "Speaking of that school, I took your advice about enrolling Tessa."
"And Mrs. Harris agreed? Excellent. I wish I could have put in a good word for you, old chap, but— "
"I know, your wife would have been consulted and would have hurried to give her friend a long litany of my sins. I do wish Kirkwood hadn't been quite so forthcoming about our past exploits at your wedding."
"I'll put in a good word for you when your case comes to court."
"So my uncle can tar you with the same brush as he's tarring me?" Anthony stared out at Leicester Square, as busy at 10:00 P.M. as Rotten Row was at five. "No, I won't have my friends soiled by him, too. You're in politics now— you must be careful of your reputation."
"My reputation is secure, I promise you."
Foxmoor meant well, but his enemies would leap on any excuse to hurt him politically, and Anthony wouldn't provide them the means for it. "If I get desperate, I'll take you up on your offer, but I am more optimistic about my chances now."
