Sir Harry grunted, then eyed Mr. Scuddimore with as much distaste as he had Lord Harry a few minutes before. “Lord, I hope my reputation doesn’t suffer being seen with the likes of both of you. Here is Lord Harry with baggy breeches and coat, and thinking himself so amusing in them, and you, Scuddy, you are simply too heavy to be sporting yellow knitted pantaloons. You’ve got to stop stuffing all those sweetmeats down your gullet.”
Lord Harry patted Sir Harry’s arm. “We will walk ten paces behind you, Harry, if you wish it. The way the women do in those Muslim countries, to show you our respect.”
Mr. Scuddimore said, “I don’t like the sound of that at all, Lord Harry. Imagine us behaving like women. The mere thought of being a female shrivels all my favorite manly parts. No, I don’t like the sound of it at all.”
Lord Harry turned away, grinning into the darkened carriage. “I’ll tell you what Scuddy and I will do, Harry. If we happen to see the Honorable Miss Isabella Bentworth at the play tonight, then we will pace back ten steps. You know, give you an opportunity to play the gallant, to gain the young lady’s attention.”
Sir Harry Brandon shifted uncomfortably against the carriage swabs. Although he was the first to proclaim the lovely Miss Isabella to be a diamond of the first water, he didn’t think that as a sophisticated man of the world his deeper feelings concerning the lady should be so obvious. He blanched at the thought of his friends even thinking of him proposing marriage to the young lady. “Oh, very well,” Sir Harry said. “The two of you loudmouths win. I won’t say another word about your wretchedly fitting clothes if you and Scuddy will keep mum about Miss Bentworth.”
“But why should we, Harry? You’re not planning to make the young lady an offer?”
“By God, I’m only twenty-four years old, far too young by half to be leg-shackled, even to Miss Bentworth.” He said a silent plea of forgiveness to Miss Isabella. If only she were still in the schoolroom, say fourteen or fifteen years old, instead of a marriageable age, ripe to be plucked from the marriage mart. Even his very self-assured brother-in-law, the Earl of March, had not met and married Harry’s sister, Kate, until he was twenty-eight, and Kate, very rightly, was but eighteen. That was the right way of it. Curse Isabella for being born too early. It wasn’t fair. What was he, too young a man, to do about it? He said, “Listen to me, both of you. You’ve got to keep quiet about it. You know word like that gets around and before you know it, a fellow is the butt of wagers at all the clubs. The next step is an announcement in the Gazette.”
Mr. Scuddimore said, “Same thing happened some time back, I remember. There were several gentlemen in the running. Lord Oberlon, you know, the Marquess of Oberlon,” he added at the sudden peculiar look in Lord Harry’s eyes, “won a vast sum from Sir William Filey. A vast sum. I remember he ended up marrying the lady.”
Lord Harry sat suddenly forward in the carriage. “Were there other gentlemen involved in the wager, Scuddy?”
Mr. Scuddimore narrowed his eyes, a sign of profound concentration. “Yes, I think so. There was another gentleman. A military man as I recall. Always in his damned uniform quite turned all the ladies’ heads, the bounder.”
“Do you remember his name, Scuddy?” Lord Harry asked.
Mr. Scuddimore cudgeled his brains, then suddenly brightened. “The fellow’s name was Rolland yes, that’s it Captain Damien Rolland. Lord Oberlon never collected the wager from him Rolland up and left England, later got himself killed at Waterloo, if I remember correctly. In fact, some wagging tongues put it about that Rolland sheared away, put himself out of the running before the lady made up her mind. One day he was pursuing her, then the next gone off without a word to anyone.”
Lord Harry went suddenly pale, but since the interior of the carriage was in dark shadows, Sir Harry and Mr. Scuddimore didn’t notice. Lord Harry asked in a voice of casual interest, “Do you recall the lady’s name, Scuddy?”