“Ha!” Mrs. Fitzherbert, an ancient aunt Percy invariably invited to act as his hostess and lend his house party a veneer of respectability, lowered her quizzing glass and narrowed her eyes at Alaric. “You always did have the most honeyed of tongues.” She wagged a gnarled finger at him. “‘Never trust a man who knows which compliments will most disarm one’ is a maxim no lady should forget.”
Alaric grinned. “In your case, ma’am, I speak only the truth.”
Mrs. Fitzherbert huffed, but then something caught her eye and her attention. She waved a vague dismissal and lumbered off.
Percy sighed. “She grows more eccentric every year.”
“If one lives to be her age, one is doubtless entitled to whatever eccentricity one chooses to claim.” When Percy said nothing more, Alaric glanced at the younger man. Percy’s gaze was fixed on someone in the crowd, but Alaric, following Percy’s gaze, couldn’t see who Percy was watching so intently and with an expression Alaric couldn’t interpret.
Although several years younger than Alaric’s thirty-seven, the Honorable Percy Mandeville had been a constant in Alaric’s life ever since Percy had been born. Alaric had only sisters, and with Percy’s brother considerably older, from an early age, Alaric and Percy had gravitated into each other’s company; they’d spent untold hours escaping from their nurses, tumbling through brambles, and falling into streams. Needless to say, Alaric—older, taller, stronger, and more confident—had always been the leader, while Percy, suffering from the tentativeness engendered by being a second and significantly younger son, had scampered in Alaric’s wake, much like a puppy eager to please.
Truth be told, Alaric suspected that the annual Mandeville Hall house parties Percy had hosted for the past six years—the present event being the latest—were simply another example of Percy attempting to emulate Alaric and, at least in Percy’s mind, copy Alaric’s lifestyle. Not that Alaric had ever bothered to host a house party; instead, he’d attended more of them than he cared to count.
Mandeville Hall had been made over to Percy a few years after Alaric had succeeded his father at Carradale Manor. In Percy’s case, it was his father who had inherited the title of Viscount Mandeville, after which Percy’s parents had decamped to the viscounty’s principal seat in Lincolnshire, and Percy’s older brother, next in line for the title, and his family had elected to remain at their home in Leicestershire.
Refocusing on the shifting crowd—more than twenty people in the Mandeville Hall drawing room definitely constituted a crowd—Alaric noted again the overtly assessing and, indeed, inviting glances thrown his and Percy’s way. They were both tall and built to make the most of the prevailing fashion; Alaric had broad shoulders and the lean, rangy build of a horseman, while Percy was two inches shorter and heavier through the chest. Percy possessed a mop of shining blond hair and a complexion that, as he aged, would doubtless turn ruddy, making him an excellent visual counterpoint to Alaric’s more dramatic appearance—his near-black hair, aquiline features, and pale, faintly olive-toned skin. Percy had once declared himself a true Saxon, or perhaps a Dane, against Alaric’s rather obvious Norman.
What am I doing here?
In truth, Alaric knew the answer. He was there in support of Percy, in acknowledgment of the long association between Carradale Manor and Mandeville Hall, between the Radleighs and the Mandevilles, and between him and Percy. He was there because Percy invariably invited him and he always came, and if he’d declined, Percy would have been hurt.
In Alaric’s mind, Percy still featured as the younger boy following at Alaric’s heels, eager for approval and encouragement.
Percy stirred. “I should circulate.”
“We both should.” Remaining stationary for too long would invite an approach and an invitation Alaric would have to skillfully decline without giving offence. “I’ll see you before I head off.”
With a nod, Percy made for a large knot of guests before the main doors. Alaric went the other way, toward the loose gathering of couples before the fireplace. He paused beside Guy Walker, a gentleman of similar reputation, who was chatting with Mrs. Tilly Gibson, who was attending sans husband, as were her contemporaries, Mrs. Prudence Collard and Mrs. Mina Symonds. All three ladies had been casting looks in Alaric’s direction; he kept Guy between himself and Tilly and, after exchanging various inconsequential comments, moved on.
There were two married couples present—Mr. William Coke and his wife, Margaret, and Colonel Humphries and his wife, Maude—invited to bolster the respectability of the event, given the nine unmarried gentlemen in the company.
“I say.” Monty Radleigh, Alaric’s cousin and heir, hailed Alaric as he was about to step past.
Styling himself as something of a sartorial maven, tonight Monty was resplendent in a fine gray suit worn over a satin waistcoat in alternating stripes of a palette of grays. Shorter than Alaric by a good half head, with pleasant but undramatic features and a figure tending toward the rotund, Monty relied on the perfection of his appearance and his unparalleled knowledge of who was doing what in society to claim his place in the ton. Surveying the company, he opined, “A very pleasant gathering, what? Nice mix of people, don’t you think?”
When Monty looked inquiringly at him, Alaric voiced a niggling observation for which he hadn’t yet learned the reason. “The only surprise is the two young ladies—Miss Weldon and Miss Johnson.” Finding Holly Weldon and her chaperon, Mrs. Fortuna Cripps, and Glynis Johnson and her chaperon, Mrs. Dillys Macomber, among the company had been distinctly unexpected. “I can’t recall Percy previously inviting unmarried young ladies, complete with duennas.”
Monty nodded. “I gather Miss Weldon is a connection of sorts, and her parents, perhaps not quite understanding the nature of Percy’s event, pressed for her to be invited.”
Alaric didn’t doubt Monty’s information; his cousin had an uncanny knack for unearthing such tidbits.
“Actually”—Monty shifted closer and lowered his voice—“I have to wonder if there isn’t some on-the-quiet romance behind it. Freddy Collins seems much taken with Miss Weldon, and there’s no doubt she’s a bright young thing.”
Alaric chuckled. “Beware, Monty—she might turn her sights on you.”
Monty blinked. “No, no.” Agitatedly, he waved aside the notion. “Not on the lookout for a wife. Everyone knows that.” Monty cast a faintly harried glance around; quite aside from being Alaric’s heir, courtesy of several inheritances from his mother’s side, he was also independently wealthy enough to feature on the matchmakers’ lists.
Alaric took pity on him. “As you say, it’s common knowledge that you’re a dyed-in-the-wool bachelor. But when a young lady attends an event such as this, one has to wonder why.”
A gentleman approached, and both Alaric and Monty turned to meet him. It was Percy’s older cousin, Edward Mandeville. After exchanging a nod with Edward, Monty promptly excused himself and went off to join some other guests, leaving Alaric with Edward, a situation with which Alaric wasn’t all that thrilled.
“I must say, Carradale,” Edward intoned, turning to stand beside Alaric and look over the guests, much as Percy had earlier, “I’m pleased you saw your way to attending. It eases my—and the family’s—mind to know you’re on hand to rein Percy back from any behavior that would constitute that one step too far.” Pompously arrogant, Edward continued, “The family and I are well aware you are one of the few to whom my cousin will pay heed.”
Meaning Percy wouldn’t listen to Edward’s frequent and insistent proselytizing on the paths of virtue, a reaction few would hold against Percy. Edward was the son of Percy’s father’s youngest brother, who had become a clergyman in the fire-and-brimstone vein. Following in his father’s—and indeed, his religiously devoted mother’s—footsteps, Edward had elected himself the moral guardian of the Mandeville clan.
Alaric had met Edward at various Mandeville events over the years but had endeavored to spend as little time in his orbit as po
ssible. And in light of Edward’s remark, it seemed that Alaric’s reputation wasn’t quite as widely known as he’d supposed; Percy’s wildest and most licentious forays were but a pale imitation of Alaric’s previous deeds. Or misdeeds, as the case frequently had been.
Of course, Alaric had long ago attained the age of wisdom; these days, any wild and licentious deeds on which he embarked were suitably cloaked in impenetrable discretion.
Now he thought of it, Alaric felt that Percy was also beyond the age of needing to be reined in by anyone, but convincing Edward of that—especially at Percy’s house party with the inevitable undercurrent of seduction and suggestive hints of illicit interludes—would be a lost cause.
Alaric lightly shrugged. “I confess I was surprised to see you among Percy’s guests.” Did he invite you?
Edward humphed. “I heard from my aunt, the viscountess, that Percy was stubbornly persisting in hosting this yearly bacchanal.” Edward’s gaze fell on Freddy Collins, who had Caroline Hammond on his arm and was laughing uproariously at one of the lady’s quips; Edward’s lip all but curled with contempt. “I took it upon myself to journey down and represent the family’s interests. While my uncle, naturally, has said nothing on the subject, I cannot imagine he is at all pleased by Percy’s libertine tendencies. I thought it wise to have someone from the family on hand to ensure that nothing of an inexcusable nature occurred.”
What would qualify as something of an inexcusable nature? Alaric was tempted to ask, but held himself back. He didn’t need to encourage Edward—the man was stuffy and stiff enough, convinced of his own superiority, and haughty and condescending with it.
More, Alaric was well acquainted with Percy’s parents. Percy was his mother’s favorite, her youngest child, and consequently would have to blot his copybook in some fairly major way to earn even her displeasure, much less her censure. As for Viscount Mandeville, he’d always treated Percy’s occasional lapses from grace as nothing more than the usual peccadilloes to be expected of a younger son of Percy’s station. Alaric knew that was the viscount’s opinion because Percy’s father had told Alaric so.
Clearly, Edward’s presence at the house party was nothing more than Edward being Edward. Self-important and self-aggrandizing.
Alaric felt compelled to state, “I doubt anything of any real moment will occur. As Monty and I were just remarking, Percy appears to have outdone himself in assembling a felicitous combination of guests.”
Preparing to move on, Alaric glanced about—only to realize he’d remained stationary for too long. Miss Glynis Johnson and Prue Collard were advancing on him, with Robert Fletcher and Monty in tow. It was impossible to mistake the shy intent in Miss Johnson’s eyes. Alaric knew many young ladies viewed him as an unattainable icon, one they’d all like to try their hands at attaching. Clearly, Miss Johnson was set on having her tilt at his windmill.
Inwardly resigning himself to the inevitable, he heard a suppressed snort and turned in time to note that Edward had grown even more rigid, his expression setting in stonily severe lines. Alaric had to wonder what Edward had heard about Prue Collard; it had to be she who had incited his disapprobation given Miss Johnson was, as far as Alaric had gathered, of pristine repute. Prue’s reputation, on the other hand, was distinctly spotty.
“If you’ll excuse me.” Before the others reached them, Edward curtly bowed, turned on his heel, and stalked into the crowd.
Alaric watched Edward go—put to flight by Prue Collard—and decided he owed Prue his very best smile. He turned to greet her and bestowed his welcome with gracious languor, making Prue beam with genuine good humor.
“No need to dazzle me, Carradale.” A good-natured, kind-hearted brassy blonde whom censorious souls might describe as being no better than she should be, Prue halted beside him, drawing Miss Johnson to face him. “As I was saying to Glynis here, you’re not one to exert yourself over any lady.”
“Nonsense.” Alaric aimed an easy smile at Glynis Johnson; a slender, sweet-faced young lady with wheat-blond hair piled in a knot on the top of her head and pretty pale-cornflower-blue eyes, Glynis provided an unflattering contrast for Prue, confirming the older lady’s good nature. “I refute Mrs. Collard’s assertion utterly.” Even though it was true.
With two quick comments, Alaric drew Monty and Robert into a glib, light-hearted exchange centering on the classic romantic pursuits.
“I always thought Romeo’s address to the balcony was a trifle overdone,” Robert stated, eliciting indignant if laughing protests from both ladies.
The five of them continued to entertain each other with similar nonsensical banter.
After ten minutes of easy repartee, Glynis Johnson laid a tentative hand on Alaric’s sleeve. When he looked at her, she softly said, “I find I’m in need of some cooler air. I wonder, my lord, if you would stroll with me on the terrace—just for a few minutes.” She glanced toward a grouping of three chairs set against the wall; on them sat Mrs. Fitzherbert and the two chaperons, Mrs. Macomber and Mrs. Cripps. “I can’t imagine anyone will make anything of it.”
Alaric agreed, although he doubted his reasoning was the same as Miss Johnson’s; all those present knew his tastes did not run to seducing innocent young ladies.
He was more than experienced enough to have refused Glynis’s request without giving offence, but he was, frankly, curious over why she’d chosen him as her escort. With a half bow, he said, “Of course. A few minutes on the terrace will doubtless refresh us both.”
They excused themselves to the other three, none of whom evinced any notable reaction, but as he turned Glynis toward the long windows open to the moonlit terrace, Alaric caught a flash of satisfaction in Prue’s eyes. As he guided the younger lady over the low step into the cool of the night, he deduced that—for some reason—Glynis Johnson had enlisted Prue’s aid in approaching him, presumably so Glynis could have the next minutes alone with him.
Intrigued, he gave Glynis his arm, kept a gentle, unrevealing smile on his lips, steered her along the flagstones, and waited to see what she had in mind.
Artless chatter appeared to be the answer. Contrary to any expectations he might have entertained, Glynis seemed, if anything, relieved to be on his arm; she strolled, apparently carefree, beside him.
Amused, Alaric continued to wonder what she was about. He was too well versed in social exchanges to need to think to keep up his end of the undemanding conversation. For her part, Glynis prattled happily about events and people she’d met during her Season—the plays she’d seen, the exhibitions she’d attended.
She was animated and engaging, but naturally so, and while anyone glimpsing them through the drawing room windows might imagine she was flirting with him, Alaric sensed nothing of the sort. Even when her eyes met his, their expression was open, innocent of guile.
She wasn’t trying to attract him or even to elicit any response from him, yet…
The night air was pleasantly fresh, and strolling with a pretty lady on his arm was no hardship. Her gown, fashioned in that year’s style, was of pale-blue silk, a hue the moonlight rendered almost silver.
Alaric listened to Glynis Johnson’s chatter, nodded and smiled when required, and continued to observe and assess.
After ten minutes had passed and he steered her back into the drawing room, he’d seen her dart two swift, almost-too-quick-to-be-caught glances at someone among the company.
Some gentleman?
It wouldn’t be the first time Alaric had been used as a pawn to incite jealousy.
Not sure what his next move ought to be—he was far more experienced in house-party dynamics than she—he guided her to where Percy and Monty were standing in a group with Cyril, Viscount Hammond, his sister-in-law, Caroline, and Colonel Humphries.
Cyril and Caroline welcomed them eagerly. While the older Walter Humphries chewed Percy’s and Monty’s ears over some matter of military history, Alaric stood beside Glynis and chatted easily—waiting for his chance to depart.
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He needed time alone in his library to consider his next steps, matrimonially speaking.
At last, a break in the conversations allowed him to catch Percy’s eye. “I really must head back to the manor.”
“Oh! But you’ll be joining us tomorrow, won’t you?” Caroline asked.
“Assuredly,” Alaric returned with practiced charm. “I have no intention of missing the coming entertainments or the chance to spend time in such engaging company.”
Caroline laughed. “Flatterer.” Her smile said she was pleased.
Glynis appeared less certain, but when Alaric turned to her, she smiled sweetly and gave him her hand. “Thank you for a pleasant walk on the terrace, my lord.”
Alaric bowed with elegant grace. “The interlude was entirely my pleasure, Miss Johnson.” He smiled, taking in her expression—that of an ingénue. “I bid you a good night”—he lowered his voice to murmur, just for her—“and good luck.”
She blinked at the latter words, her expression turning faintly perplexed.
Alaric smiled more definitely; clearly, she didn’t realize how transparent she was—although, he had to admit, he as yet had no idea which gentleman she was truly interested in.
After exchanging nods with Percy, Monty, Cyril, and Walter, he made his way out of the room and into the front hall. There, he found Carnaby, Percy’s butler.
“Leaving us, my lord?” Carnaby moved to open the front door.
“Indeed. However, as I assured your master and several others, I’ll return tomorrow.”
Carnaby hauled the door wide. “For breakfast, my lord?”
Pausing on the threshold, Alaric shook his head. “No. I’ll come later.”
“Very good, my lord.”