Читать книгу Once A Rake - Rona Sharon - Страница 10

The moment she entered Almack’s, Isabel was ambushed by her brother. “You know my sister, don’t you, Hanson?” Viscount Stilgoe spoke to the man at his side.

She could neither see the gentleman nor hear his response because Iris and Sophie were chatting energetically and blocking her view. “We had an agreement, Charlie,” she hissed in her brother’s ear. “I attend the marriage mart once a week and in exchange you and Mama cease your matchmaking schemes.”

“What good is that when you waste the entire evening standing and gossiping with your friends?” he gritted out almost inaudibly. “Now hush and be charming.”

“Good evening, Lady Chilton, Mrs. Fairchild,” a cultured voice spoke. Her friends moved aside as a white-blond head approached, his black jacket enhancing his unearthly coloring. Isabel gaped. As much as she detested Stilgoe’s sly matchmaking maneuvers, Lord John Hanson VI, whom the ton called the Golden Angel, was simply too beautiful to remain indifferent to. “Miss Aubrey, you look exquisite this evening.” He bowed over her gloved hand.

“Lord John.” She curtsied, smiling despite herself. “It is a pleasure to see you again.”

His translucent azure eyes examined her features. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”

“Hanson heads several legislation committees and is crying for reform as keenly as you do, ladies,” Stilgoe contributed. To Isabel, he whispered, “See how supportive I am, of your cause?”

“You’re so supportive,” Isabel returned in the same low voice, “you refused to support us.”

“What do you suppose I’m doing right now?” her brother whispered while Iris and Sophie questioned John about his political activities. “John’s grandfather is the Duke of Haworth. Some say the duke intends to skip a generation and name John as his successor instead of the father. Imagine the good you could spread in the world with such a sponsor, Izzy.”

“It’s difficult to concentrate with wedding bells pealing in my ears,” she ribbed. Charles was neither ambitious nor greedy; he was simply an old woman, she thought, anxious for his recalcitrant sister to wed. “Now hush and go away. I want to join this conversation.”

“My main focus is reducing land taxes,” Lord John answered Sophie’s question.

“You support landowners, then,” Isabel interjected, hoping her tone didn’t come out as harsh as she imagined. She had no use for an aristocrat who acted for the benefit of his peers.

“Anything that would encourage the employment of demobilized. Ex-soldiers, that is.”

“Oh.” Isabel met Iris and Sophie’s gazes, reading their thoughts. Hanson might just be the representative they sought. “Lord John, it appears we may have a similar concern.” She stepped a little closer to the blond god, ignoring Stilgoe’s smug chuckle. “Do tell us more.”

“I would love to, if you granted me the pleasure of escorting you onto the dance floor for this next waltz, Miss Aubrey.”

“Why…I—” She looked over at Stilgoe, who merely shrugged. She beamed at John. “Yes, I thank you.” As she took his proffered arm and let him lead her to the floor, she couldn’t help noticing the number of heads turning in their direction. Never before had she been the subject of so many women’s envy. What was John doing with her, anyway? She was pretty, she supposed, but they hardly exchanged more than a polite greeting now and then, and Lord John had a flock of admirers eating from the palm of his hand. What the devil was Stilgoe up to, she wondered.

“Stilgoe tells me that you and your friends founded a charity in support of war widows,” John remarked as he whirled her across the floor, keeping the correct distance between them.

“We act for women and children who lost the breadwinner of their family in the war and are now facing beggary and workhouses as their sole means of survival.”

“What made you decide to help this particular group?” He stepped and turned, moving in tune with the music.

“My brother died at Waterloo. Iris’s father, an officer with the 95^th Rifles, died in Spain. Sophie’s husband, a navy lieutenant, died at sea. We felt it was our duty to help other women who shared our grief but didn’t have the benefit of our economic and social stability.”

“What are your goals? What efforts have you made so far?”

“We visit almshouses, workhouses. We donate food and clothing. We hold a meeting every Friday afternoon and invite bereaved women in order to build a list and to learn more regarding what needs to be done. We’re also working toward submitting a bill proposal to Parliament. We believe the government should financially compensate these women for their loss.”

“I’m impressed. A woman as young and as lovely as yourself taking on a task of this magnitude…I can’t imagine it’s easy, considering your personal loss. In which regiment did your brother serve?”

“The 18^th Hussars, my lord.”

His shoulder stiffened beneath her hand. “Call me John, I insist.”

“Very well, John.” She smiled. “You may call me Isabel.”

“Isabel. Your name has a distinct feminine ring to it. It suits you well.”

“Thank you, John.” She saw Sophie dancing with the elderly Admiral Duckworth. There seemed to be a physical tug-of-war going on between these two, which her friend did not enjoy.

“Will I have the pleasure of seeing you at the Barrington ball tomorrow?” John inquired.

Isabel dithered. The Barrington garden bordered on Lancaster House. She disliked the idea of Ashby sitting alone in the dark while she danced, sipped wine, and made polite conversation a mere garden away, but since John was attending, perhaps it was in her charity’s best interest to make an appearance after all. “Yes, of course.” She smiled.

“Splendid. Will you save the first waltz for me? And the last one? And a cotillion?”

Why this sudden interest in her? Mystified, she met his twinkling gaze and decided to play along until she figured this—him—out. “Three dances with the same gentleman at the course of one evening is an invitation to be ruined, John.”

“Or married by a special license.” He grinned wolfishly. “But you’re quite right, my lovely Isabel. One dance is socializing, two are a mark of genuine affection, and three are an outrage.”

Isabel decided that Lord John was far too accustomed to women fawning and cooing over him while he basked in his golden glory. No doubt he was curious to see how fast and hard she would fall on her face and join his club of worshipers. Unfortunately for John, she wasn’t likely to start tittering any time soon. She had a feeling that not succumbing to his charms would in fact make an even stronger impression on him—which might help in enlisting his political support. “I will grant you the first waltz of the evening and a cotillion, but you shall owe me a favor.”

“Interesting.” His angelic features creased in thought; he was also smiling. “I accept.”

“Until tomorrow evening.” She curtsied elegantly and walked off the dance floor.

By the time she reached Iris, the buzz around her was almost deafening. “What was that about?” Iris gripped her arm, her voice low. “You didn’t let him escort you off the floor.”

“It’s a new tactic I’m testing out.” Isabel smiled wickedly. Sophie materialized beside her, huffing and puffing. “What happened with Admiral Duckworth?” Isabel asked.

“Lecherous old blighter! He thought that because he was short-sighted and half deaf I’d let him maul me. He didn’t know I tramped over ancient toads like him at the opera in Paris.”

Iris and Isabel exchanged amused glances while endeavoring not to laugh out loud. “Does this mean we should scratch the admiral off our potential list of supporters?” Iris asked.

Sophie sniffed with disgust. “Impertinent libertine! I hope he drowns in his bathtub.” She looked at Isabel. “How was your waltz with Lord John?”

Iris debriefed her, finishing with, “Isabel was about to enlighten us about her new tactic.”

“I’m keeping the Golden Angel guessing.” Isabel grinned. “I don’t know why he let my brother foist this introduction on him or why he thereupon asked me to dance and showed an interest in our charity, but I have every intention of finding out tomorrow at the Barrington ball.”

“I thought you’d begged off,” Iris said.

“I changed my mind. Lord John asked for three dances in advance. I need to find out why.”

“Where’s the mystery?” Sophie pouted very French-like. “A friend introduced him to a beautiful young woman, who isn’t a featherbrain, and he wants to further the acquaintance.”

“Did you ask if he would consider sponsoring our cause in the House or if he knew anyone who could obtain the lists for us?” Iris queried.

“Not yet. I did tell him about our efforts and he seemed interested. We’ll see.”

“Izzy knows someone else who could help us obtain the lists,” Sophie mentioned.

“Indeed?” Iris looked delighted. “Who?”

“It’s no one.” Isabel squirmed. “An old acquaintance of my brother’s. Some recluse.”

Sophie twisted her lips. “According to the dashing major, you knew this recluse quite well, Izzy. I am certain a resourceful minx such as yourself could contrive a way to approach him.”

“What dashing major?” Iris inquired guardedly.

“Me,” a low voice spoke behind her.

Iris whipped around, her eyes wide with terror, her complexion ashen. She and Ryan stared at each other in deafening silence. Sophie and Isabel exchanged bemused glances.

Ryan was the first to recuperate. “Lady Chilton, I believe.” He took her hand. Iris snatched it back, her light blue eyes glinting murderously. Softly Ryan said, “Don’t cause a scene, Iris.”

“Why not?” Iris hissed. “I’m amazed our patronesses allow the likes of you in here at all.”

He smiled icily. “I could say the same about you,” he murmured. “At least I didn’t…sell my assets to be here.”

Her flinty gaze flitted to his nether regions and returned to his face. “You just offer them to let. I wonder, however did you procure your voucher for this evening?”

Isabel choked. She never imagined that quiet, gentle Iris had such a ruthless streak in her.

Ryan didn’t blink. “You know me, I am my own master. As it happens, I’m shopping not selling tonight. I’m told this place offers the pick of the debutantes.”

“Oh. I see.” Iris’s sweet smile dripped poison. “You’re hunting for a fortune, then?”

Macalister’s jaw tightened. “Not so much a fortune as a woman of true nobility.”

“Interesting.” Iris tilted her head aside. “Why would a woman of true nobility want you?”

“For love?” He raised a cocky eyebrow.

Isabel decided to step in before they killed each other. “Good evening, major. How nice of you to join us. Would you be a dear and fetch me a glass of lemonade? I’m parched.”

A devilish smile lit his face. “Isabel, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Your glow brightens even the dowdiest of creatures.” Though he didn’t spare a glance in Iris’s direction, he hit the mark.

Perceiving the hurt in Iris’s eyes, Isabel wished he’d leave her poor friend alone. Nor did she appreciate being wielded as a weapon. She would get to the bottom of this later. She curled her hand around his arm. “I’ve a better idea. Let’s stroll together to the refreshments table.”

“Actually, I was hoping to lure you onto the dance floor.”

Isabel was about to refuse, but caught Sophie’s strict, prompting glare. Isabel reconsidered. Unless she cared to wipe the blood off the floor, whatever method drew Ryan away from Iris was good enough for now. She cast Ryan a charming smile. “How could I refuse?”

Yet before she managed to drag him off, he seized Iris’s dance card and signed his name next to the last waltz. “There is something to be said for vintage as well.”

“I am not dancing tonight,” Iris clipped sternly.

“Then you shouldn’t have tied your card on.” He took Sophie’s card and marked a country dance. “Tonight, no woman is safe from me. Until later, ladies.” He bowed and led Isabel away.

At the edge of the dance floor they were accosted by Lady Jersey, one of the seven high and mighty patronesses of Almack’s. “Ryan, darling, how lovely to see you!” Lady Jersey cooed, grasping his free sleeve and leaning into his side.

“Sally.” Ryan brought Lady Jersey’s hand to his lips. “What can I say—ravissante!”

Sally tittered with delight. “I do so adore compliments from men in uniform. They sound…much more sincere.” She let out a brandy-spiced breath—which was shocking in itself since only the mildest drinks were served at the assembly. No doubt Sally carried a little flask in her purse, Isabel thought as she observed the cozy interlude. It certainly solved the mystery regarding how Ryan had managed to come by a voucher in the space of two days. He had his own patroness.

When Isabel felt Sally’s assessing gaze on her, she bobbed. “Lady Jersey.”

“Miss Aubrey.” Sally returned the gesture, but not without palpable antagonism. To Ryan she murmured, “I shall see you later, darling.”

“Or sooner.” He winked, and swept Isabel into the country dance.

Any illusion Isabel might have entertained regarding his potential as a future spouse was dashed this evening, for more than one reason. Ashby had been right to warn her off Ryan. Only it depressed her to know he had done so out of concern rather than jealousy. Her big brother.

Thankfully the dance was too lively to engage in conversation, and Isabel was spared the unpleasantness of dealing with the fallout of Ryan and Iris’s confrontation. Tonight Ryan was the enemy, but she’d still agreed to walk with him Saturday afternoon, and while she was sorely tempted to cancel their engagement, he was the only person who knew some of Ashby’s secrets.

Ashby. How many nights had she lain awake, envisioning herself gliding across the dance floor in his arms? She could almost imagine that the broad chest sporting the 18^th silver and blue dolman jacket and the elegant pelisse swelling off the shoulder were his, not Ryan’s.

They weren’t waltzing, however, and as they stepped and turned, changing partners, Isabel came up against Lord John Hanson. They exchanged brief greetings and danced on to the next partner. She turned her head, curious to see with whom he was standing up.

“Louisa Talbot?” Both her friends looked horrified when Isabel reported the observation a while later. “Are you certain?” Sophie whispered in disbelief. “That dreadful creature everyone dislikes? Why in blazes would he want to dance with her?”

Isabel glanced at the far side of the ballroom, where a twittering circle converged around a white-blond head. Once upon a time, it was Ashby who held the title “Society’s most sought after bachelor.” Only in Ashby’s case, because he was sinfully irresistible, he was pursued not only by every ambitious mother’s debutante daughter, but by the mothers, the daughters, their sisters, and every other blasted female in sight. They all fancied him. Some of them had even gotten him—temporarily. “Perhaps he lost a wager,” Isabel said, shrugging. “Who knows?”

“I know,” Iris put in. “Louisa Talbot is as rich as Croesus. Her American father owned the largest tobacco plantation in the world. When he died last year, Louisa’s mother married her old sweetheart, Lord Larimore, who’d also been her longtime lover throughout her first marriage. Louisa got the entire inheritance. Her mother didn’t see a ha’pence.”

“Lord John stands to inherit his grandfather, the Duke of Haworth,” Isabel asserted. “Why would he chase an ugly, insipid, unpleasant woman for her money?”

“It’s difficult to ignore all that money,” Iris scoffed. “Prinny has been known to pay her a compliment or two, himself. Nevertheless, I hear that her American uncle is arriving next week and that he despises the English aristocracy. He’s coming to town to keep his niece from falling prey to an impoverished lord. Some say he’s already hired runners to dig up dirt on her beaux.”

“Louisa has beaux?” Isabel blinked. “She has trouble befriending her own persuasion, a fact which I find suspicious in itself.”

“There she goes again.” Sophie indicated the freckled insect loping cheerfully on the dance floor straight into the arms of…none other than Ryan Macalister.

Sophie and Iris were right, Isabel acknowledged. He was hunting for an heiress.

“Would you mind if we left early tonight?” Iris blurted. “Unless Izzy wants to have another tête-à-tête with Lord John, coax him into reading our bill proposal…?”

Isabel met Sophie’s knowing gaze. Their friend didn’t want to wait for the last waltz Ryan had imposed on her. The gentlemen of the ton knew that Iris’s dance card was an “ornament” and nothing more, thanks to Chilton. Ryan would cause a scene, and they’d had one too many scenes this evening. It didn’t take a genius to realize that Iris and Ryan knew each other well. How well and what the source of their mutual animosity was remained to be unraveled. The one good deed Ryan had unwittingly performed tonight was sidetracking Iris and Sophie from questioning her about Ashby. “We may leave whenever you wish,” Isabel replied. “I already made up my mind to speak to Lord John about our bill proposal at the Barrington ball tomorrow evening.”

“It is better this way,” Sophie concluded. “Let him fall in love with you first. Then, when he is too besotted to refuse, ask for his sponsorship.”

Isabel smiled. “Sophie, you are awful! How can you suggest I delude the poor man?”

“Perhaps while working your wiles on him, the Golden Angel will work his wiles on you, and instead of deluding, we’ll have a happy, socially conscientious couple.” Iris smiled.

Isabel narrowed her eyes. “Did Stilgoe put you two up to this?”

“No! Of course not.” Sophie shuddered.

“We would never collaborate with the enemy,” Iris reassured her as they headed for the doorway. “However, I fail to see why you are so averse to the concept of marriage. I know mine isn’t the best example, but Sophie was very happy with her George. Weren’t you, Sophie?”

“Very happy.” Sophie nodded glumly. “George was my strength. He took a poor Parisian opera singer and transformed her into a queen. He gave me Jerome. And I’ll tell you something else. If I’m ever so lucky as to find another man as wonderful as George, I won’t hesitate to say ‘yes’ again. I miss being married. There are several benefits to the situation.”

A dark bench and a certain heart-stealing hussar appeared before Isabel’s eyes. Letting out a sigh, she banished the image from her mind. “I’m not averse to the idea of marriage,” she said. “I’m simply saving myself for…the best candidate who comes along.”

“Look at the bright side, Izzy,” Iris said. “If the best candidate turns out to be Lord John Hanson, you will have the most adorable babies London has ever seen.”

A glorious idea exploded in Isabel’s mind. “Did you say ‘babies’?”