Luck Is No Lady (3 page)

“No,” Emma replied, “not all young ladies.” At her great-aunt's look of confusion, she would have explained further, but Angelique's often flighty attention was claimed by the lady on her other side.

Lady Winterdale, a bullish matron with loose jowls and a sharp, disapproving stare, scoffed. “I cannot believe the daring of that man to present himself at this respectable gathering.” Her expression was antagonistic as she gazed out across the room.

“Of whom are you speaking?” queried Mrs. Landon. The pleasant middle-aged mother of four leaned forward in her chair, trying to catch a glimpse of the gentleman under reference. It was Mrs. Landon's first year as chaperone to her eldest daughter, and she was desperately soaking up every tidbit of gossip and scandal that came her way.

“Do not be so dramatic,” admonished Lady Greenly, another grande dame from Angelique's generation. “I am certain he was invited. The man has many friends in many circles, as you well know. Is not your dear Thomas counted as one of his acquaintances?”

“Thomas may have benefitted once or twice from the man's instinct for
investment
,” Lady Winterdale clarified, “but they are not social acquaintances and Thomas has certainly never frequented the man's
establishment
.”

“You sound rather confident of that,” Lady Greenly intoned slyly.

“Of course,” Lady Winterdale replied with a gruff harrumph as she crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “I keep a watchful eye on all my children, and I can assure you, none of them would ever invite such a scoundrel into their homes.”

“A scoundrel? Ooh, that sounds interesting,” Angelique cooed. She lifted the opera glasses she carried with her everywhere and scanned the ballroom as if she would identify the man by the wicked descriptor alone.

“What scoundrel?” Mrs. Landon asked, practically bouncing in her desire to be brought into
the know
.

“Mr. Bentley, dear,” Lady Greenly finally replied with a smile. She tipped her silver-haired head toward a group of gentlemen who stood about fifteen paces away. “The young man with dark hair and the rather annoyed expression, talking to Lord Tindall.”

Emma glanced in the direction Lady Greenly indicated. It was her duty to be able to identify any possible threat to her sisters and steer them clear, and she easily located the gentleman under discussion. In truth, his appearance drew her attention the moment she lifted her gaze. He was tall, though not inordinately so, and the stark lines of his black evening wear and charcoal-gray waistcoat suggested a trim, athletic build. His hair was dark brown and fell over his forehead and ears in a style far less refined than what was favored amongst society gentlemen. He had a strong, defined jawline, a straight nose, and harshly curved lips. Dark eyebrows drew low over his gaze.

He looked rakish and dangerous. The collection of his features was only enhanced by an air of careless disregard revealed in his casual posture and the sardonic curl of his mouth.

In the next moment, he happened to turn just a bit more toward Emma's position along the wall, and that was when she saw it.

The distinct fluffs and folds of his neckcloth in a style her father had worn innumerable times. A gasp caught in her throat, closing off her air. It was too much to hope there might be more than one man sporting the old-fashioned style tonight.

She wouldn't be so lucky.

The attractive scoundrel named Mr. Bentley was none other than her anonymous stranger.

“What a
bee-u-tiful
man,” Angelique exclaimed breathlessly. “If I were ten years younger…”

“You would still be more than twice his age, Angelique,” Lady Greenly admonished smartly.

“Ah, but he could make a woman feel young again, no?”

Emma blushed at her great-aunt's insinuation and tried to conceal her own reaction to the man who had dared to kiss her only moments ago.

“He may be a handsome man,” Lady Winterdale said with a hint of acid on her tongue, “but only in the way of the devil.”

Lady Greenly nodded. “It is unfortunate for such a good-looking fellow to be so unsuitable for any respectable girl.”

“Unsuitable how?” Emma asked, unable to remain at the edge of the discussion. She told herself it was in the best interests of her sisters to know of all potential dangers.

“He is a bastard son of the Earl of Wright. He never should have been included on tonight's guest list.”

Emma stiffened at the animosity in Lady Winterdale's reply. “Is he condemned based solely on the circumstance of his birth?”

“Of course not,” Lady Greenly answered with a fluttering wave of her hand. “Mr. Bentley's mother was highborn, after all. If he had dedicated himself to cultivating the qualities of a gentleman, he may have been able to compensate for some of the stigma of being conceived on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“On the contrary,” Lady Winterdale added, “Mr. Bentley seems to go out of his way to live up to his ignoble birthright.”

“What has he done?” Mrs. Landon queried, her eyes bright with curiosity.

Lady Greenly gave a tight smile, as if she was reluctant to share the gossip but felt it her duty to do so. “Over the years there have been so many rumors of his sordid activities it is rather difficult to know what is true and what is fabricated.”

“What sort of activities?” Mrs. Landon pressed.

“Smuggling, dockside brawls, and private parties that would make a stage dancer blush.”

Angelique shook her head and chuckled. “These things are not so bad. Many men do the same when they are young and wild.”

“And then there is his rather questionable business…” Lady Greenly added.

“Business?” Lady Winterdale snorted. “That place is nothing more than an excuse for more debauchery. An elegant veneer does not negate the moral corruption taking place inside.”

Unease rolled down Emma's spine. Just what manner of man had she encountered?

“Then how
did
he come to be invited to this party?”

Lady Greenly's smile was almost mischievous. “Because he is a wizard with investments. Mr. Bentley has made or remade the fortunes of practically half the men here. They cannot afford to slight him.”

“He may be one of the richest men in town,” Lady Winterdale said with righteous indignation, “but that does not make him a proper match for any of the gently bred young ladies in attendance tonight. Not if the lady wishes to remain securely within society's good graces. Any lady who might dare to be associated with such a man will feel the sting of many a hostess's rejection about town.”

“True,” Lady Greenly said speculatively, “but you know as well as I his fortune goes a long way to make up for his other indiscretions. A match with a lady of true quality could succeed in lifting him a few rungs higher on the social ladder.”

“While simultaneously dragging the poor girl down a few,” Lady Winterdale clarified. “Certainly not worth the risk.”

“I would say not,” Mrs. Landon agreed, though she continued to stare at the man in question with a speculative gleam in her eyes.

Emma knew she should agree as well, but the harsh manner in which they discussed the gentleman made her wish she had some means by which to defend him. She didn't, of course—he was a stranger to her, after all, despite the unusual moments of intimacy they had shared. As the ladies beside her shifted their attention to another topic, Emma couldn't help stealing one last glance in his direction.

His companion, Lord Tindall, looked infinitely uncomfortable as he spoke with jutting hand gestures and a heavy scowl darkening his aristocratic features. Mr. Bentley appeared just as exasperated by the nature of the conversation. He shifted his stance and scanned the room before turning back to Tindall to give a short reply to something the other man said. As soon as Tindall retrieved the thread of conversation, Bentley's attention spread outward again—as though he were searching for something.

Or someone.

Panic spiked through her.

Would he look her way? Did she want him to?

Irrationally, stupidly…she did.

Thank goodness his attention seemed only drawn to the crowd in the middle of the ballroom. He never even spared a glance toward the gaggle of matrons along the wall where Emma stood.

Looking away, she vowed to contain her curiosity and stay as far from Mr. Bentley as she could manage. Thank God there could be no way for him to associate the eldest Chadwick sister, spinster and guardian, with the girl he had so thoroughly kissed.

Roderick Benjamin Bentley stood stiffly beneath the bright and glittering lights of the ballroom. He could feel the tension tightening through his shoulders every minute he remained within the boundaries of the
haut ton
.

He did not belong here.

It was evident in every glance of condescension and sneer of derision thrown his way. It did not matter that his father had been an earl and his mother the daughter of a marquess. If his parents had been married, he would have outranked most of those in attendance tonight. But a bastard had no rights to his father's pedigree, and his mother's family had disowned her before he had been born. He had never even met any of them.

He was here tonight for one express purpose, and he wanted to see it done so he could get the hell out of there.

It had been his awful luck to encounter Lady Calder when he first arrived. The voluptuous blond had made it clear on previous occasions she desired an affair. She had shamelessly drawn him into the study with a request for private conversation on a matter of importance. He stupidly assumed she wanted to talk of an investment possibility. His financial expertise was usually what the peerage wanted from him.

But as soon as they stepped into the darkened study, she pressed her perfumed body against him and whispered lewd suggestions into his ear.

It always amazed him when the same ladies who refused to meet his gaze on the street turned to harlots if they managed to catch him alone.

He had no desire for a dalliance with Lady Calder. Despite the many offers he received from ladies of her ilk, something clenched in his stomach at the thought of engaging in any sort of relationship with one of them. Their interest was based solely on the fact that he was so unacceptable for any legitimate association. They were attracted to him only because they shouldn't be. He was a novelty. Any affair would be a shallow experience, and he had no wish to be anyone's momentary distraction.

Nor did he wish to become involved in an angry husband's attempt to restore his faithless wife's honor. When Lady Calder had glimpsed her husband out in the hall, Roderick had readily turned to hide behind the curtain. Roderick knew of Lord Calder. The man had the temper of a berserker and fists like anvils.

As he had said to the young woman who joined him shortly after, hiding had been less an act of cowardice than of simple self-preservation.

He swept his gaze out over the crowd swirling about the dance floor in their finery. He wondered where she had gone, the woman who had pressed against him so sweetly in the darkness.

He hadn't lied when he'd promised not to follow her back out into the light.

He didn't need to.

The poor young woman had been so preoccupied with Lord Marwood, she hadn't even thought to take care when hiding herself.

For a long moment, when she'd swept back the curtain with her gaze trained on the doorway, the candlelight had fallen gently on her features. It had been enough for Roderick to get a solid impression of the young woman.

Petite and slim of form, with burnished gold hair gracefully swept into an artful mass at her crown, a straight and narrow nose, elegant cheekbones, and a graceful jawline. He didn't think it would be too difficult to pick her out of the crowd if he tried.

It would be better for both of them if Roderick allowed for some anonymity. No respectable young lady would care to garner the interest of an earl's bastard, even if he didn't have the reputation he had cultivated in the years of his youth.

Roderick wouldn't be doing her any favors by seeking her out.

Still, from the moment he had entered the ballroom, he couldn't stop looking out over the hundreds of debutantes floating about. He wondered if he'd catch another glimpse of her.

“What the hell drove you to approach me in the middle of Hawksworth's ballroom?” Tindall snapped. “I am courting his daughter, for God's sake. I cannot have him doubting my integrity.”

Roderick couldn't help mocking the man a bit. “One conversation with me will not tarnish your filigree, Tindall.”

In truth, Roderick would have preferred to meet Tindall anywhere but here, but the man had ignored his notes requesting a private meeting. Loyalty to their past friendship demanded he at least make an attempt at helping Tindall's reckless younger brother.

Tindall had once been a second son with nothing to lose—and Roderick's closest friend. They had been inseparable as they strolled the seediest alleys of London to prove their courage and daring. They had never turned down a fight, a drink, or a willing woman.

That was until five years ago, when Tindall's father and older brother died in a freak accident and he inherited the title. Suddenly a viscount, Tindall turned his back on Roderick without hesitation.

Responding to Roderick's quip with a look of scorn, Tindall replied caustically, “Say what you came to say, Bentley.”

“Did you know Marcus has been coming by the club?”

“No, I did not know that. Nor do I see how such news warrants an audience.”

Roderick took a deep breath to calm the ire rising in his chest at Tindall's rude manner. The longer he stood speaking with his old friend, the more his loyalty to their past association seemed entirely unjustified.

“More than his frequent visits, it is his deep play I wanted to make you aware of,” he explained. “Marcus is making some dangerous choices and is heading down a slippery slope. You may want to intervene before he gets himself into serious trouble.”

“Good God, Bentley,” Tindall scoffed, “let the boy have his fun. A little risk never hurt anyone.”

“It has gone far beyond a little risk. Marcus is digging deeper than he can afford, and at some point he will be required to pay up.”

Tindall eyed him sharply. “Is that a threat, Bentley?”

Roderick nearly punched the man. He clenched his teeth in an attempt to control his flare of temper.

“I do not issue threats, Tindall,” he responded in a low voice. “You should know that. Your brother is borrowing from people who do not have our shared history. They will not be lenient when their loans come due.”

Tindall shifted his gaze outward in a gesture of dismissal. “I do not see how that is any of your concern. Now, if you are finished, do move on.”

Roderick felt a familiar rage settling into his being. It was something he hadn't felt in a long time—not since his mother had been alive and he had witnessed the depth of injustice present in society's opinion. Though he would have loved to let loose with the feelings crowding his chest, fury never solved anything.

As Roderick turned to walk away, Tindall cleared his throat.

“One moment. Since you are here,” he said, “do you have any investment opportunities I might be interested in?”

The fire in his gut burned so hot, Roderick feared he might erupt.

“Loring told me of a tip you gave him last year, which brought in significant profits,” Tindall continued, oblivious to the double standard in his request. “I heard the same from others about town. I would like to see what you have to offer me.”

Roderick curled his hands into fists, but resisted the violence that surged beneath his carefully maintained veneer. He valued his reputation as an investor and would not risk it even for a chance to shove Tindall's request down his old friend's throat.

“I will keep you in mind, my lord.”

“Excellent,” Tindall said with a bobbing nod as he redirected his attention outward now that he had gotten what he wanted.

Roderick turned away without a word and headed purposefully toward the exit. The hypocrisy of this glittering world felt like a tightening noose around his throat. He could not wait another minute to free himself from the falseness and conceit of high society.

Crossing the front hall in long strides, Roderick almost made his escape through the front door when his path was blocked by an elegant, fair-haired gentleman just making his arrival. When the gentleman looked up, his bright blue eyes locked with Roderick's.

Biting off a curse, Roderick forged ahead. Of course, his sojourn into hell would not be complete without an encounter with his half brother, the current Earl of Wright. There was an unspoken agreement between them to behave as the strangers they were whenever they happened to cross paths. But as Roderick shifted his gaze to the door, intending to sweep past his father's legitimate offspring, Wright turned toward him.

“Bentley, a word…”

Roderick ignored him and continued out into the night.