Fitzroy winked, a lurid grin on his face. “Not to worry. I wasn’t planning on marrying her. They’re welcome to her … after I’ve had a bit of fun.” He nudged Marcus in an old-boys gesture.
Evan stepped forward, anger surging through him at the slander against the woman he had been unable to put out of his mind for a week. If this was an example of the way so-called gentlemen spoke about ladies, he would rather stay a commoner. Either way, Percival and Fitzroy needed someone to teach them a lesson.
Marcus put a staying hand on Evan’s arm before he could plant the young jackanapes each a facer.
“This is the gratitude you have for the man who saved your life? Curious.” The even, condescending tone in Marcus’s voice made Percival flinch. “Not to mention speaking about one’s sister in such a fashion.”
“She’s just a woman. And I didn’t ask him to save my life. I would’ve gotten out of it myself if given the chance.” Percival swelled his chest.
Evan held his breath. Was he going to say what had happened at Salamanca? Shed some light on the missing memories? Before Percival could speak, Fitzroy punched him in the shoulder.
“You’re dotty. Let’s go. We’re wasting time here.” Fitzroy gave a nasty laugh and tugged Percival away. “We can talk to some women rather than just talking about them, which is much to be preferred. There’s a new girl, Pippa, that is said to be smashing, and I want to see for myself.” They sauntered through the crowd, looking back once and laughing.
Evan slowly unclenched his fists. “Too bad you stopped me. A good thrashing might improve both of them.”
“You’re going to have to give up your Philistine ways now that you’re a gentleman. You can’t resort to brawling in public, however much satisfaction it might give you. Next time, perhaps he’ll take us up on the invitation to Gentleman Jack’s Boxing Establishment, and you can fight with him in the accepted way. If you do accost him, however, and manage to draw claret, preferably from his aristocratic nose, I’ll buy you dinner.” Marcus pushed away from the fence. “In fact, I’ll buy you dinner anyway, at my club.”
“I’m never going to keep track of all the places you’re taking me. You have a club? And what’s in King’s Place anyway?”
A man they passed overheard, barked out a laugh, and nudged his companion, who laughed too. Marcus tugged Evan’s sleeve. “Come on. And keep your voice down. King’s Place is where the highest-priced doxies live, looking for gentlemen callers and hopefully a rich patron who wants a mistress. The most exclusive brothels in the city are on that street, just off Pall Mall.”
Evan said nothing, staring ahead, trying to quell the blush he knew crept up his cheeks.
“Yes. Well.” Marcus headed toward his carriage. “The one I feel sorry for is Diana Seaton. A brother like Percival, and a rake like Fitzroy after her? Not to mention her father. Someone should marry her and take her away from all of that.” He raised his eyebrow and looked at Evan from the corner of his eye.
“I’m no knight in shining armor. Maybe you should marry her yourself.” Though that notion didn’t sit well with him either. Rescuing damsels in need wasn’t in his purview. Look where rescuing a viscount had gotten him.
This gentleman’s lark was no picnic.
Diana followed her father and brother up the stairs, her muscles tense and her heart thudding. Neither had offered their arm as her escort, but she didn’t mind. Physical contact with either of them made her skin crawl, and she was nervous enough.
Almack’s.
The building certainly didn’t look the part of London’s most exclusive ballroom, being plain brick and otherwise unadorned. Light spilled from the tall arched windows on the upper floor, and she clutched her cloak at her throat, unsure if the chill was from anticipation or the cold evening.
At the door, she showed her voucher, obtained through one of her father’s many contacts and delivered that morning, and was admitted. She breathed a little sigh at having gotten that far.
“Meet us right here, and don’t take forever. There are a couple of gentlemen who want to look you over. My negotiations are at a delicate stage, so see that you do nothing to draw undue attention to yourself.” Her father pointed to the sign indicating the ladies’ cloak room. “We’ll be back.” He headed in the opposite direction, removing his hat and gloves as he went.
Diana nodded but said nothing. Look her over? Like a horse at auction? Indignation clawed up her backbone, but she knew better than to say anything, especially now. Her father had been in a towering rage most of the day. Cian had cried incessantly, as if his belly ached, and her father had thrown a vase across the drawing room, shouting that someone quiet the brat or he would. Diana and the nurse had taken turns walking and rocking and patting and praying in an effort to hush the baby, but nothing had worked until he’d finally worn himself out and fallen asleep. Diana had toyed with the notion of moving the baby’s nursery to the attic, farther from her father’s rooms, but it was so cold up there, she worried Cian would become ill. That, and she didn’t want to be so far from him. At the moment, he and Beth slept in Diana’s dressing room, across the hall from her father’s chambers. Please, Lord, let him be sleeping when we get home.
Percival had stumbled into the house after ten in the morning, much the worse for wear after yet another night out on the town. He reeked of drink and cheap perfume. Father had yelled, Percival had sniped back, and finally Father had slapped him in the face. As a result, Percival had been sullen and petty, dragging off to his rooms and not appearing until the carriage had pulled around to take them out for the evening. He was still sulking.
She handed her cloak to the attendant and received a ticket in exchange, which she tucked into her satin reticule. All around her, women chatted and laughed, admiring one another’s gowns, whispering, practically vibrating with excitement. How Diana wished Catherine were there to help her, shepherd her through this evening, introduce her to potential friends, and share all the experiences. A wave of grief—grief she’d been forbidden by her father to show—crashed over her, and her eyes misted with tears.
Blinking hard, she grappled for composure. It wouldn’t do at all to appear with red eyes. Checking her appearance in a wall mirror, she pinched her cheeks and touched the golden ribbon threaded through her brown curls. Her pale-yellow gown fit perfectly, and she smoothed its folds, her gloves catching a bit on the gold lace trim. The dress had been made for Catherine the previous year, and Diana had added the delicate lace at the sleeves and neckline, wanting to put her own touches on the garment to make it hers.
By the time she emerged into the foyer, her father was there tapping his foot, his mouth a hard slash in his granite face. “Come.” He headed for the grand staircase, and Diana followed.
Percival had disappeared, and she didn’t know whether to be grateful or suspicious. Her brother’s capacity to get into trouble—already considerable—had multiplied upon their arrival in London.
The ballroom opened before them at the head of the stairs and to their left. Pale-blue walls, gilt mirrors, plaster medallions, and enormous candlelit chandeliers. At the far end, an orchestra occupied a balcony, and upon a small platform, several ladies perched on sofas.