~ ~ ~
This is a farce, a ploy to outsmart your brother and his ridiculous demands. Morgan had been reminding himself of that for the last twelve hours, but neither endless repetition nor a cold gray morning could destroy the sense of anticipation, excitement, even happiness, damn it, that had him smiling as he dressed.
As Roberts lathered him for a shave Morgan tried to convince himself that his elation came from his success at the tables last night. The game he’d found when he left Almack’s had kept him up until dawn, but the money won would build the new stable and thatch his tenants’ cottages.
Roberts straightened from his task. “If you keep grinning like that, milord, you will be making your calls with several cuts on your chin.”
He managed to keep his face expressionless for the rest of his shave by recollecting the bottle of brandy he had drunk before play. The god of chance had smiled on him, for his fellow gamesters had been even more bosky than he was. The foolishness of imbibing when he had so much to win in so little time was enough to sober anyone, even a man anticipating a flirtation with the loveliest of women.
What should his next step be? He was certain of one thing. He was going to approach this false courtship with as much decorum as one Season would permit, his goal quite simply put: never to appear in the gossip columns again unless it suited his own ends.
By the time Roberts pronounced him fit for public appearance Morgan had considered being obvious and paying a morning call, going for a stroll, and relying on chance to bring him down the same street as the shop-loving Misses Lamberts or wager on the certainty that they would be in the park later in the afternoon. It was that rare night when no balls or rout invitations had been delivered, so that was not an option. A call, he decided, and for the sake of the gossipmongers, more than one.
He thanked the gods of good fortune for smiling on him and hurried downstairs for breakfast. The moment he walked into the breakfast room, he knew he had given thanks too soon.
James was at the table.
Sitting at his accustomed place, James was reading the morning paper as though he’d done it every day for the past week. He gave no word of greeting. He spared Morgan no more than a glance.
Damn, but he hated this kind of surprise. What was James doing in London? He had enough to keep him busy at Braemoor for the entire Season. He could ask, but it was unlikely that James would tell him. He did so favor intrigue.
Morgan sent the footman for fresh coffee and sat down. “Are your spies so unreliable that you felt the need to check on me yourself?”
James set the paper aside, favoring him with the smile he had learned from their father. The one that matched the cool distance in his eyes. “You flatter yourself.” He sipped his coffee. “There was some business in Town and I thought I would tend to it myself.”
James needed to get away from their father. From Braemoor. Morgan could understand that. He crushed the sympathetic thought. “How is Father?”
James shook his head. “In some ways the marquis is better, in others not improving at all.” He paused and, with uncharacteristic directness, answered the question Morgan was really asking. “I no longer think he is on his deathbed, but a full recovery is doubtful.”
That must make your life hell, Morgan thought. The footman returned with the coffee and the two settled into more polite conversation.
“Have you seen Rhys?” Morgan asked. It was obvious from the depleted state of the sideboard that Rhys had been in the room recently.
“Watched him eat breakfast.” The coolness disappeared and the brothers shared a smile. James continued. “I did manage to get a few words from him. He tells me that Almack’s was a great success for the both of you.”
“It was a pleasant enough evening and we both danced with a number of lovely ladies.”
“Including a Miss Lambert?”
“Both Miss Lamberts, Miss Perry, Miss Halersham, and a dozen others whose names I do not recall.” Morgan ignored James’s smile and tried to control his own rising irritation.
“Morgan, I saw the betting book at White’s.” Morgan looked at the footman, who nodded and left the room. The staff knew every detail of Braedon life whether they were in the room or not. But for the moment, Morgan wanted the illusion of privacy.
“I noticed there is no bet from you entered against it.” James pushed his coffee cup away and looked at his brother with suspicion. “If the wager were false I would assume a counterbet would be an easy way to make a few pounds. As far as I can see, gambling to win is your sole purpose when in Town.”
James leaned closer to him. “What are you doing with all that money, Morgan? I heard that you won over a thousand pounds last night. It’s not as though your lodgings cost you anything. So where does the money go?”
“I gamble, James.” There was no way in Hades he was going to tell his brother what his hard-won blunt was for. Morgan was certain that James would do his best to sabotage his plans for the property if it suited his needs. “I play faro, whist, hazard. I win and I lose and I do occasionally pay a bill and loan money to friends.”
James was unconvinced. “Is it blackmail, Morgan, some by-blow you refuse to acknowledge?”
“No it is not.” He had been very careful on that score.
“Or perhaps you are actually trying to improve that property your mother left you in Wales?”
“Why would I do that, James?” Morgan allowed a small smile, just enough to reflect how unlikely James’s all-too accurate guess had been. “Do you think I would actually live there?” He waved away the idea. “I would rather take my chances with the French; besides I can make twice what that property will earn in one Season at the tables.”
“Hmmm. I never did think land management would have any appeal to you.” James relaxed back in his chair.
He was safe. James would never guess how much he had learned about agriculture in the past two years. Coke’s progressive farming methods had been like a foreign language. Now he could talk knowledgeably about that and a dozen other innovations he was counting on to turn his property to real profit.
If he could ignore the fact that James was his brother and had once been his closest friend, he could treat him like the antagonist he’d become.
What he wanted to keep secret, James would never guess. He’d mastered the player’s facade much earlier in life and with less effort than it took to understand fanning techniques.
“But I digress. How or where you spend your funds will soon be of no concern to me. Since there is no answering bet on the books, can I assume that you have found yourself a match?”
Morgan laughed, a genuine eye-watering burst of sound. “Why is my social life everyone’s favorite subject this Season? Oh, James, Braemoor must be sadly lacking if that is what has brought you to Town.”
“Have you?”
“Why the hurry, James?” Morgan loved the edge of irritation that James could not quite mask. “The Season is under way and I am following the prescribed course. And no matter how boring life is at Braemoor I have no intention of reporting every dance and picnic to you.”
James nodded. “Just so you are not trying to play some wily game, Morgan. I want you engaged by the end of the year, sooner, if you can manage it.”
“Finding a bride is not as easy as buying a bottle of wine.” This time Morgan controlled his mirth. “Surely you would give me some time to find a chit I can live with without contemplating murder.”
“Why should you be any different from the rest of the ton?”
James’s cynicism was damn irritating.
“I am paying a call this morning. That should make you happy.” Morgan rose from the table. He would get something to eat at his club later.
James tossed his napkin on the table and rose with him. “Excellent. I think I will go along with you.”
“James, I do not need or want a nursemaid. You are not invited.”
James shrugged away that detail. “Just one call or did you
have several in mind?”
“I think two calls only, since it is so late in the day.” For his own reasons he was anxious to get the scheme under way. Besides it would prove to James that he was making the effort. “Two calls, yes, the Lambert sisters and,” he improvised, “Miss Perry.”
By the time they were approaching the Lamberts’ Green Street town house, Morgan was feeling a jolt of unaccustomed nerves. He was used to playing alone, relying on his own wits and no one else’s. Now he must count on Christiana and even Joanna, to some extent, to play the game with him, without time to plan.
“Is he your competition?”
Morgan saw Lord Monksford approach from the opposite direction just as James spoke.
Not realizing he was being observed, Monksford stopped for a moment, straightening his jacket and checking his boots to be sure their shine bore up in the daylight.
As if a new coat and freshly polished boots would give him an advantage over much younger suitors. The little vanity made Morgan smile. Monksford saw the look as he caught sight of not one, but two Braedons. Morgan nodded from several feet away and Monksford returned the barest of acknowledgments.
“The Right Honorable Lord Monksford is not one of your closer friends?” James whispered.
“Is it me or all Braedons?” Morgan looked at James, who was trying not to smile. “I have no idea what I have ever done to earn his disapproval. The truth is I like the way his mind works. I’ve heard him at White’s carry on, oh about the Cintra Conventions for example, and the Peninsular campaign in general. Except for his obvious disdain, I think we would find that we share any number of the same opinions.”
“How odd that you care.” James touched Morgan’s arm in an unusual gesture of comfort that undid his cynical tone. “He detests me, not you, Morgan.” James stopped abruptly. “I will tell you the story some other time.”
While they were being announced, the three exchanged the most civil of pleasantries. As they remained waiting in a strained silence, Morgan realized that Monksford was not much older than James. It was his thinning hair and sober manner that added to his thirty-odd years.
When the butler returned and held the door for them, Monksford stepped in first. The room was not crowded precisely, but there were at least four other young men and several ladies. Mrs. Lambert was basking in her daughters’ success, while those two were receiving the attentions of their callers in ways he could have exactly predicted.
Miss Lambert was seated on a small sofa, talking earnestly with a young man who was flushed from his efforts to be charming. Miss Christiana Lambert was standing near the window, trying to entertain all of her guests at once, and succeeding, if the light laughter was any indication.
Lord Monksford was greeted warmly by Mrs. Lambert, but nothing could match her effusive flattery when Morgan introduced his brother, Viscount Crandall.
Mrs. Lambert turned her back to Morgan and took James’s arm, calling Joanna to her side instantly, making a pointed introduction. James was coolly polite. As if that would put the oblivious Mrs. Lambert in her place, Morgan thought.
Joanna saw it, though, and Morgan was intrigued to see that her ice matched James. Joanna Lambert was loyal, of that there was no doubt. And as equipped to best James as a dove was against a hawk.
Most of her would-be beaux knew when the game had gone beyond their purse. None would approach her after James had been given such singular attention by Mrs. Lambert. But John Monksford was not young or easily intimidated.
If Joanna was a dove then Monksford was a bantam rooster, used to his own superiority and unaware that he was hardly in the same league as James.
As Monksford approached them, Miss Lambert turned and offered him her hand with a welcoming smile. In those two gestures Morgan read more pleasure in his visit than relief at her supposed rescue.
Now Christiana was free and he turned to her, trusting that James could handle this social challenge without his help.
Christiana welcomed him with two hands outstretched and a smile that made her eyes sparkle with excitement. She was dressed this morning in a charming muslin, white and cut rather low. The shawl she carried was for show rather than warmth, a silk in a daring blue that contrasted with the white and helped to explain the décolletage. Christiana Lambert’s sense of style mirrored her approach to life, testing the conventions, hoping to make the world dance to her tune. And a merry one it was.
He took her offered hands and bowed over them. “Oh, Lord Morgan, I am so pleased to see you.”
It was a conventional greeting, but spoken with unconventional warmth. He smiled in approval and she lowered her voice.
“My lord, I think I would have been quite a success on stage.” Then she blushed. “Though I am quite pleased to see you, truly.”
He pressed her hand gently and let it go. “Yes, I can see that. And your voice does have a quality of projection that would rival any of our current actors. But let us be quiet a moment.”
He turned slightly and she had to turn as well so that she could give him her full attention. It had the added advantage of blocking her face from James’s view. “I can see I timed my call quite perfectly. You have had a chance to charm any number of young men and they have seen that I am among the competition.”
She laughed, but it was a quiet, conspiratorial sound, no more than a breath against his cheek. “What is next?” she whispered.
“We will not stand here and plot. We will enjoy each other’s company and set the scene for our future meetings.”
“But what is next?” she insisted.
“A surprise,” he insisted with a smile and turned so they faced the room again.
It was then that Christiana saw Lord Monksford talking with Joanna and his brother.
“Who is that with Joanna and Lord Monksford?” She spoke with an element of awe in her voice. James did have that effect on people. There was an arrogance about him that made him hard to ignore.
She turned toward him and Morgan leaned closer, closer than he should, and breathed in the youth and vibrancy she wore like a scent. “That is my brother, James.”
She clapped her hands together and her grin grew twofold. “Oh, that is, perfect, absolutely perfect. He is the one we want to impress, is he not?”
When had the gods of mischief been let loose? With sudden vehemence doubts assailed him. It was too soon to put their charade to this test.
Eight
Christiana looked toward James without making the slightest effort to disguise her curiosity. Morgan took her hand and hoped that her mother was not watching. “We will not overplay this, Sprite. Your mother and my brother need only see our interest in each other. No dramatics.”
She nodded politely, but her beautiful eyes were sparking with the challenge. “Yes, I do understand, really I do. We must stand here a moment longer and chat.” She paused. “Then you will introduce me?”
“I suppose I must.” Morgan tried to imbue his voice with some enthusiasm.
“Thank you.” Christiana spoke with finality and then turned briefly to look at the group. When she turned back, she was composed and amiable. She was everything a young lady should be. Her eyes had quieted, even her gown appeared more demure. Had she left her excitement with the blue shawl now draped across the nearest chair?
“Have you ever noticed, my lord, how lovely my sister is when she speaks with real animation?”
She spoke with such primness that he was the one who grinned. “How do you do that?” he whispered, breaking his own rule.
“I think of what is at stake,” she hissed at him. He nodded, properly chastised, and subdued his smile. Glancing toward the group, he realized that she was right. At this moment Joanna Lambert was more than lovely. Her dress was as simple as Christiana’s, muslin also but washed through with blue and of far more conservative cut than her sister’s. It suited her slimmer figure and more serious mien and the color of her dress made her eyes more blue than gray. Was it the conversation that
added the color to her cheeks and eyes? She was talking seriously to Lord Monksford and James. And both men were listening.
Christiana shook her head, her eyes brimming with disappointment. “I do not understand why she is so taken with Lord Monksford.”
“You do not think my brother is the one responsible for that glow?” Morgan had been among the ton long enough to have witnessed more than one unusual alliance.
“Decidedly not. Your brother is too intimidating by far. It is Lord Monksford who has captured her fancy.”
Oh, how he would love to use that in the betting book at White’s, but if Monksford disliked him now, he would surely give him the cut direct if he became the butt of the kind of gossip that was routine for a Braedon.
“You think James is intimidating? Your sister does not look the least bit impressed.”
“It is precisely because Monksford is there as a buffer.” Christiana waved her hand. “Joanna says she likes Monksford best of all the men she has danced with, but I think he just makes her feel comfortable. He must be nearly as old as Papa. And I know Joanna misses Papa’s kindnesses right now.”
Morgan felt for the man. Monksford was not even five-and-thirty and at least one Lambert saw him as nothing more than a father figure. “He looks older because he favors all the wrong colors. That brown jacket ages his skin as surely as it would a woman with his coloring.”
“Yes.” She spoke in a considering tone. “That could be it, but we can hardly walk up to him and suggest a different tailor, can we?” She giggled, and then stifled it.
“I generally respect what he has to say,” he said, wondering why he was defending the man twice in one day. “Apparently your sister does too.”
Joanna was nodding at something James was saying and then turned to Monksford, following his words with an enthusiastic speech of her own.
Christiana’s face grew more serious. “But she could have so much more than a suitor who can talk knowledgeably about...”
Her voice trailed off and Morgan supplied the subject. “Farming. He can discuss the latest farming methods with knowledge and is not embarrassed to admit that he cares about his tenants almost as much as he cares about his land.”
Christiana looked at him with a teasing smile. “Just as Papa can.”
Despite the smile, Morgan could tell that this was a debate he would not win. If he was going to defend Monksford, it would profit him more to do it within the hearing of Miss Joanna Lambert.
“Before they solve all the problems for this growing season, come and meet James.” Morgan took her arm and nodded at the trio. Morgan congratulated himself on his timing. The twenty-minute call was at an end. There would be only a minute or two for conversation.
As they moved toward the group, Christiana paused and clapped her free hand to her mouth. “Oh, how selfish of me! Does your brother’s visit to Town mean that your father is better?”
“James says he improves, but he is still abed.”
“That must be good news for all of you.” The statement sounded like a question. “It must be so difficult.”
“It is, Sprite. It truly is.” Difficult was only one of the words he would use and certainly the most polite.
As the introductions were made, Joanna and Monksford took advantage of the interruption to step aside for a few moments of more private conversation.
James bowed to Christiana with appealing deference. She summoned a smile that managed to be both serious and sympathetic. “Your brother tells me that your father is improving daily. I am so happy to hear that and hope he will be truly recovered before long.”
James responded with the expected and Morgan watched as Christiana’s grave smile turned impish. “Does that mean you will be in Town long enough for me to learn whether you dance with as much skill as your brother?”
Minx, Morgan thought. Flirting is as natural to her as seduction is to James. That could be an incendiary combination.
“Not on this occasion, Miss Lambert. But I will be happy to prove my dancing ability when next I come to Town.” James’s smile actually reached his eyes. “Surely I will be back to London before the Season ends.”
“I will consider it a promise, my lord. You now owe me a dance. Though you do face formidable competition in your brother.”
Morgan wondered if she might be overdoing it. It was singularly difficult to view this exchange with any objectivity. But it did seem that her flirtation was conveying just the right element of interest in him.
Then Morgan realized that she was genuinely enjoying his brother. That was much of her charm. Her flirting was only a thin cover for the sincere pleasure she found in almost everyone and everything.
James gave her a slight bow. “I look forward to it, Miss Lambert. Have you ever known brothers who did not enjoy the chance to best each other?”
Christiana laughed, not some ingénue’s giggle, but one of true amusement. She reached out and touched James’s arm as if she wanted to be sure she had his attention.
She did. James was smiling at her with open admiration.
Jealousy welled up in Morgan and froze his smile into something less than benevolent. He did his best to tamp it down. His heart was not involved here, he reminded himself. Only a little pride.
Before Christiana could speak again, her mother noticed the cozy tableau. Mrs. Lambert moved across the room with all the purpose of a soldier who did not want to miss any of the action. Stepping between them, she smiled at James. “What a pleasure to have you visit, my lord. Will you be at the Ponsonbys’? Joanna and I will be there as will Lord Morgan I understand.”
It was a heavy-handed attempt to divert his attention from the younger daughter to the older. And James could interpret that any number of ways, Morgan decided.
They were away within moments. Morgan gave the coachman the direction to Miss Perry’s while noting James’s silence. His brother sat very still, flicking open his snuffbox and then closing it again with a snap. He repeated the motion a few more times without taking any snuff. “It would be just like you to pretend attention to the younger sister when it is really Miss Lambert who has caught your fancy.”
True, Morgan thought.
“But then again,” James continued with the air of one thinking aloud, “the older sister has a brain so she could not be the one you are interested in.”
Morgan ignored the insult. It was hardly worthy of James. Besides, he had seen James in conversation with both sisters. He would be willing to wager the enamel box in his pocket against the one James was worrying, that it was Miss Christiana whom he would seek out again.
Still opening and closing his snuffbox, James turned to Morgan. “It is the younger one, is it not? The cut of her dress alone would have insured my attention. And what is her shortcoming? You gave me a rather daunting list at breakfast. I saw none in her, beyond a charming inclination to flirt outrageously.”
Morgan relaxed his expression, struggling for an answer. Then it occurred to him that he did not have to disavow her appeal. He merely had to buy himself time. He shrugged. “She is young.”
James closed the lid with a final decisive snap and slipped it into his pocket. “Hardly a failing when you are not yet thirty.”
“No, but her parents are anxious for her to have an enjoyable Season and make the most of her opportunities.” There were at least three or four ways James could interpret that.
“Meaning that her avaricious mother hopes she will find someone with a more promising income than that of a gamester.”
And trust him to choose the most cynical. That might work, Morgan thought. But if James believed her parents looked on him with disfavor, he would question Morgan’s continued courtship. “The Braedon name will excuse any number of indiscretions. You know that as well as I do.”
“Yes, I do,” James drawled. He looked out the window of the coach as it moved slowly past Hyde Park toward the Perrys’. “The Lamberts could not do better than the match. And do not doubt Mama know
s it.”
What would it take to ease James’s bitterness, Morgan wondered. “Why not stay on for the Ponsonbys’?” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Morgan cursed his fraternal concern. The last thing he wanted was James’s continued presence. Besides, he suspected it would take more than a few days in Town to cure what ailed his brother.
James dismissed his brother’s suggestion. “I return to Braemoor as soon as possible. Even these few days away allows for too much mischief.”
“Then perhaps you could return for the Hawthorne Masquerade at the end of the Season.” He felt safe mentioning it for he could see James was taking his new responsibilities very seriously. Once he was back at Braemoor he would not come back to London without an urgent need. A masquerade was about as urgent as James’s need for a new snuffbox. “James, exactly why are you come to Town?”
James looked for a moment as though he might actually tell him when the carriage lurched to a stop. “Here we are at Miss Perry’s. Tell me, Morgan, does she flirt with as much grace as Miss Lambert?”
James came no closer to answering Morgan’s question until they returned from the last of their calls.
“Do you have plans for the evening, Morgan?”
“I am going to find a game of faro and win myself enough for a new pair from Tattersall’s. White’s for dinner first, I think.” Morgan realized as soon as the words were spoken that his plans should have sounded more definite. “I want the evening to myself. My plans do not include dinner with you.”
“I want you and Rhys to have dinner with me and then I want to visit several of the haunts you so favor.” James named four, completely ignoring Morgan’s objection.
“Not one of those hells is in my usual style. If you want to gamble let me take you to—”
James cut him off with, “I have a specific purpose for visiting those four and a reason for wanting both of you with me.”
Anger flashed through him. James was treating him like a flunky who he could order at will. He was not a puppet, damn it. “It would be easier to garner my cooperation, and Rhys’s, too, I imagine, if you shared the supposed reason.”
“You only need to be there and you will understand.”
He almost refused, damn the consequences, but the gods knew there were a bare handful of times when James had sought his company, much less implied he needed help. He was not flattered, Morgan decided, but he was curious. He resigned himself to a tedious evening, trying to determine the answer to one of James’s infernal intrigues.