Ridiculous (28 page)

“Hardly. Even I must rest. But, remember, there is dancing tonight.”

Shoffer gave an indulgent laugh.

“Just a little longer, then. Just long enough to be certain that Miss Morris finds another poor soul to take her in to supper.”

“We should check on my cousins, your sister…”

“Do not worry, North. I examined their dance cards earlier. A quite unexceptional Major of the Guards is taking Beth in to supper. Your cousins both have respectable gentlemen to attend them and with Lady Edith watching over them, they should do very well.”

“Ah, well then…”

“Your Grace! Mr. North. How do you, sirs?”

 A tall gentleman whose appearance niggled at Millicent’s memory approached them and bowed first to the duke, then to Millicent. She frowned for a moment. Surely she had seen him before. Yet another of those dancing attendance upon her cousins or was he one of Beth’s followers?

“Mr. Wentworth,” said the duke. “We are well enough. And yourself?”

Millicent rose to shake the youth’s hand. This one, if she remembered correctly, was the Honorable Mr. Wentworth, second son of an earl , and the youth had danced with Maude once or twice. Added to that he had been there in the club when Shoffer gave Attelweir his congé.

“I am well enough,” said Wentworth, obeying the duke’s gesture and settling into another heavy leather chair. “I went to a lecture recently by an explorer returned from the wilds of South America. He said there were rivers filled with fish that could strip the flesh off a cow, down to the bones, in seconds. Damn, if I do not think of those fish every time I cross a ballroom.”

Shoffer and Wentworth laughed, but Millicent, more in sympathy with the young ladies desperately seeking their own security by attaching themselves to a man of fortune, only shook her head.

“Please do not be offended, Mr. North,” continued Wentworth, seeing her disapproval of the joke. “I do not include your cousins in that. They are modest and unassuming girls.”

“Yes, they are,” said Millicent dryly, thinking of how loud Mildred could be when she was in a snit. “One can hardly credit we are from the same stock.”

“No doubt,” said Wentworth, accepting an offered drink from a footman, “when you seek a wife you shall take one as jolly and chatty as yourself.”

“Oh, no,” said Millicent making herself comfortable, leaning back in the chair, and putting her feet up on a short table. If there were any advantage she enjoyed as a man it was not having to sit as upright as a stick. She ran a finger under her collar and loosened her cravat just a touch. “My wife would have to be the listening sort, or the two of us would forever be chattering and there would be no one to hear a word.”

“She will have to be tolerant of your nonsense, North,” murmured Shoffer. “Else she would kill you before the year is out.”

“True. True.” Millicent fiddled with a cigar. She detested smoke, but found no one objected or offered her anything else if she just held one. “Should you happen to see a jolly sort, who is also quiet and has no objection to sharing her living quarters with a chatty, unfashionable fribble, please do bring her to my attention.”

“Immediately,” said Wentworth. “And you, Your Grace? What do you seek?”

“Oh, him. He dare not express an opinion,” said Millicent. “If he states his favorite color is polka dot and his favorite music is bagpipes played by a drunk, then we should have a whole tribe of inebriated, polka dotted, bagpipe-playing débutantes staggering down Bond Street the next day.”

Shoffer’s lips quirked and he sank deeper into his chair. “It would almost be worth it to see such a sight.”

“For myself, my tastes are simple,” said Wentworth, glancing toward Millicent. “I am seeking a fair maiden, of grace and good sense … and curls. I have a preference for gold curls.”

“It would be better if you preferred silver curls,” said Millicent, after a moment’s thought. “The gold fades soon enough.”

“Gold coins do not,” observed Shoffer.

“That is true,” said Wentworth who shot another glance at Millicent and waited.

Not knowing what he was about, Millicent ignored him. After a few idle comments, Mr. Wentworth sighed and excused himself to return to the ballroom. Millicent watched him retreat in some confusion.

“What was that man about?”

“He was fishing for information,” said Shoffer.

“Information?”

“Your cousin, the little one who cut her hair, quite fashionably I note, and now has gold curls; he was trying to find out if she is well dowered.”

“Oh? Oh, really?” Millicent sat up in her chair to take another look at her sister’s presumptive suitor, but the youth was gone. “Little Maude has an admirer? I must remember to tease her.”

“Have pity on the poor lass.”

Millicent shrugged and subsided. Shoffer tilted his glass this way and that watching the liquid slosh gently.

“I have often wondered what type of woman would please me,” he said softly. “I cannot bring her to mind. It is such a nebulous thing for me I cannot even state a preference for height or feature or form. Blond, red head, brown, I cannot say if there is an advantage to any.”

The words caused an acute pain in her breast. Shoffer, married. A woman with a claim on his time, his company. His body! She closed her eyes and swore she would say nothing. If she were blessed, then her silence would turn him from the subject.

And yet, as one does when a tooth hurts if pressed by the tongue just so, and it is irresistible to press it again to measure the depth, the intensity of the pain, she raised the subject herself. She tightened her grip until her prop cigar was crushed and the scent of tobacco filled her nostrils.

“Perhaps her nature?” said Millicent. “Do you prefer a certain sort of girl? Studious? Vivacious? Dazzling? A diamond? A blue-stocking?”

“How can I tell? And would I know it if I saw her?” Shoffer emptied his glass with one swallow and set it down on a table with a thud. “I swear to you, North, I wish to God that there were some sign, some flash of light, a heavenly choir so that one would know. Would that be too much to ask? I look about and see some marry for money, others for need, but I do not need to do that. I am wealthy and free to please myself. Free to be happy. And yet the woman who would make me happy stubbornly refuses to appear.”

Millicent could not speak through the tears that filled her throat and tangled her breath. It seemed that Shoffer was not through torturing her.

“I love women, in general. The softness. The heat. The joining, when done well, is an exquisite agony. My wife could be tall or short. Dark or fair. I even enjoy those with nice cushiony curves, all the better to hold in the dark, but I cannot find her. The special one. How would I even know her if I saw her?”

Millicent turned away and so did not see the tight expression that passed across Shoffer’s face. Shoffer slammed his glass on the table and tossed the stub end of his cigar into the fireplace.

“Come, North. The ladies will be looking for us. We have neglected them too long. Even if we cannot dance you might entertain them with your chatter.”

The abruptness of the command took Millicent by surprise, but she rose and followed on his heels.

Chapter Twelve

Shoffer first became aware something was wrong when he stopped into one of his clubs a few days later to check the betting book. Given the propensity for gambling about every subject under the sun he knew from experience that if a young buck had ambitions to marry his sister Beth, that information would be recorded in the betting book long before any other sign could be detected.

Beth’s name did not appear, although his own was linked to a number of ladies – both reputable and of the demimonde. To his complete shock he found Mr. Anthony North’s name. Smiling slightly, and wondering which young woman allegedly had caught his friend’s eye, Shoffer read on. The smile vanished when he saw that the bet was that Mr. North would be arrested before the end of the season for “gross indecency.”

The criminal euphemism almost took the breath from his body.

North? A bugger? No, never! Shoffer had spent days, weeks in the man’s company and could attest without reservation that he was an honorable gentleman.

Determined to call the person perpetrating this slander to account, Shoffer glanced down at the names of the gentlemen placing that bet and saw the Earl of Wallingford’s signature.

Swearing softly, he settled back on his heels.

Damn the man. Of all the people to be creating this gossip the earl, well known to be “light in his slippers,” was one who would be believed at every turn on this subject alone.

Like would well recognize like, people would whisper.

Slamming the book closed he turned on his heel and stormed out of the club, noticing as he passed that a couple of young bucks glanced at him before whispering together. Shoffer granted them the “ducal stare” as North called it before sweeping out of the building.

He was on his horse and halfway down the street before he realized what the whispers meant.

He, Shoffer, was constantly in North’s company. It was not beyond possibility that those who believed such a reprehensible thing about North might think
him
guilty of the same propensities.

Shoffer tightened his grip on his reins, causing his temperamental mount to bridle and shift sideways, before taking control of his temper.

He continued his self-appointed rounds, visiting every club to which he was a member now looking for two pieces of gossip. In every book he found the same damned lie, written by one of three hands. The Earl of Wallingford, the Earl of Trentonlie, or the Comte of Le Forhend had made the bets; to Shoffer’s mind there was one man behind the creation of this rumor. This lie.

Attelweir.

It had to be his revenge for the cut Shoffer had dealt him.

Poor North, with no good and noble name behind him, with few friends and his cousins to fire off, was vulnerable where Shoffer was safe.

No matron of the
ton
would dare cut the Duke of Trolenfield from her guest list, nor would she offer any impertinence to his sister. But North? He would find his new acquaintances avoiding him, his cousins’ matrimonial options limited or nil, and not have any way to defend himself against the purulent gossip.

Damn Attelweir.

By the time Shoffer exited the last of his clubs, it was evening and the day was turned cold, wet, and miserable. He could, if he wished, go back into the club, wait in comfort and warmth while he sent for his carriage. Except that when he glanced back toward the door two gentlemen of mature years were entering and they smirked at him as they passed.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Shoffer set his heels into his horse’s flanks and directed the startled beast along the slick street.

Damn.

Of all the accusations to have made against a man, this was the worst, since it was so difficult to disprove.

One could say North was a lecher and a rake and the
ton
would shrug. Call him a despoiler of young maidens and they would keep their young charges closer, but not cut him. After all, the man had money. One could accuse him of being up the River Tick and he need only open his purse to prove them wrong, but buggery? It was an accusation against which even marriage was no defense.

Shoffer scowled as he rode. He was now in the unenviable position of having to explain to his young friend that his time in London was about to come to a sad end. He could advise North to retreat and let his cousin, Mrs. Boarder, take her girls about. That separation might preserve the girls’ chances of a good match. That and a good dowry might save the Boarder girls’ hopes.

Possibly.

More likely if North retreated it would be considered confirmation of the rumors and his reputation and that of his family would be permanently tainted.

Shoffer’s primary responsibility was Beth. Beth who had flowered under North’s gentle teasing. Beth who would tear London down with her own fingers if she knew her dear Mr. North was under suspicion of a crime that would, if ever proven, get him hung by the neck until dead.

Perhaps he should let it happen.

A cold and remarkably uncomfortable chill passed down his spine at the thought and he suppressed it immediately. It was entirely due to jealousy. Even after all his efforts to gain her trust, little Beth seemed to prefer the silly fellow to her own brother.

For a moment Shoffer faced his own demon. Yes, he could permit the
ton
to unjustly reject the little man and when he was gone Beth would have no friend or confidant beyond her brother … and he would hate himself.

He could not let her know the trouble Mr. North faced. Beth gave her friendship with her whole heart and would not pull back. She would risk her own reputation to defend his. Shoffer frowned as he examined the depths of Beth’s affection for the man. No, North made no attempt to engage Beth’s affection. He never went beyond the realms of proper behavior. Beth’s affection was based on Mr. North being the first person to tease her out of her shyness. Shoffer could clearly remember North declaring that he would never marry her.

His scowl deepened. He believed it. At no time did he ever consider Beth in danger from Mr. North. Could it be that he had always known, that he had realized without examining his belief that North would not compromise his sister? That North truly was … guilty?

Damn. Damn. Damn.

No. He could not doubt his friend. Not until he had proof of his own certain knowledge.

But proof one way or another changed nothing. Accusation was enough to ruin Mr. North’s reputation.

Damn.

* * *

Shoffer’s bad mood communicated itself immediately to his household staff. Forsythe senior took one look at his thunderous brow and brought the brandy decanter. Shoffer accepted the glass and stared at it a long time before taking a drink. But once he had begun continuing was easier. The bottle was half empty and the evening well advanced by the time a familiar irregular knock came at the door.

Groaning, Shoffer sank back in his chair even as he listened to his butler’s soft footsteps as he went to answer the door. Shoffer prepared himself to utter the refusal only to hear Forsythe welcome North in without first confirming if His Grace was home to visitors.