Mr. Scuddimore shook his head and shot a hopeful glance at Sir Harry.
Sir Harry shrugged. “Sorry, Scuddy, it was before my time. Remember I was over in Spain at the time.”
Lord Harry said quietly, “Did the lady’s name happen to be Springville?”
“Yes, that was it Springville. Elizabeth Springville. Lovely little filly she was. Dead now, really quite a pity. Life does sometimes serve up the most unexpected and revolting dishes.”
“Ho,” Sir Harry said. “We’re finally here.” He leaned his blond head out of the carriage window. “Damnable crush tonight, and being late doesn’t help.”
Lord Harry said nothing more. Since all of Mr. Scuddimore’s attention was focused upon extricating his ample body from the carriage, and Harry didn’t want to be bothered by ancient history, it would simply have to wait. It was enough for now that Lord Harry had discovered there had been a wager, and that Lord Oberlon and Damien had been a part of it.
As the three friends made their way into Drury Lane Theater, Lord Harry had but one goal, to find Jason Cavander, the Marquess of Oberlon.
Chapter Two
“You’re naughty, your grace,” she said in a voice so soft and tempting that it would make any man’s toes curl, even his grace’s. “You give me this lovely ruby necklace and then hold me prisoner. Would you not like someone other than yourself and my maid to see its beauty?”
Her eyes glittered at the thought of the many envious glances that would come her way. It would serve those twitty young misses and their prune-lipped hypocritical mamas right to see her, Melissande Challier, more richly jeweled than they. Let them put their noses in the air, let them thrust out their bosoms and sail past her, as if she were a bad smell to be ignored. Her escort would be one of the most eligible peers of the realm, and her gown and jewels unparalleled. It was a delicious thought.
Jason Cavander touched his fingers lightly to the ruby necklace, an expensive bauble he’d bought in Italy on a whim. Having no one else upon whom to bestow it, he’d willingly given it to Melissande. It was a welcoming present, he’d told her. Welcoming him home from Italy and welcoming her to his protection. Since the exquisite necklace was the only item of apparel she was wearing, his fingers soon strayed to her soft shoulders and white breasts. Actually, he admitted to himself, he was quite sated, Melissande having most superbly seen to his pleasure. But he was tired, tired of the seemingly endless stream of agents, advocates, solicitors, and tenants who had occupied his waking hours since his return from abroad. He would have preferred to spend the evening quietly with Melissande, perhaps allowing himself to emerge from her charmingly furnished apartment on the morrow, not a tired, but an exhausted man. But he saw the gleam of excitement in her eyes, really quite a dazzling sight, and knew without her telling him that she wished above things to tempt and bewitch the gentlemen and ladies at Vauxhall Gardens this evening.
He lazily propped himself up on one elbow, gazed appreciatively once more at her very nicely arranged body, then smiled. She was exquisitely beautiful and she didn’t yet bore him. He didn’t mind in the least giving her what she wished. He wondered though, in the dark hours of the morning when sleep didn’t come easily, what it was that he wished. And, he’d wondered, even if he ever did figure out what he wanted, who would be there to give it to him? He had no one, not a blessed soul. He’d been home from Italy for only a short time, a trip he’d not wanted to take, not really, but he’d had to leave England because of the speculation, the interminable sympathy shoveled at him by friends and enemies alike upon the death of his wife in childbed. Ah, she’d been so young, so beautiful to die so tragically, so needlessly. He’d not been able to bear it, all the mournful expressions, the endless silences around him because of his sorrow, a sorrow so deep that he simply wouldn’t speak of it or refer in any way to his dead wife. And there’d been Sir William Filey, of course, that damnable bastard, who’d delighted in questioning Elizabeth’s death, raising rumors that had no substance to them. Not that anyone had believed Filey or the rumors, but he’d had to leave else he’d have likely killed Filey. He shook his head, picked up his breeches, and left Melissande in the hands of her maid, Ginny.