Patrick smiled. “Of course I understand.” He waved over a servant carrying a silver tray of champagne. Taking two glasses, he held one up to his mouth and perched the other on the wooden banister.
As if on cue, Linley stepped down the stairs behind him. When she reached his side, he handed her the full glass, watching her bring it to her lips with shaking hands.
Hereford cocked an eyebrow but did not say a word. He had his fair share of dalliances before his marriage and knew all too well the importance of discretion—that of one’s lovers, but especially that of one’s friends.
Together, the three of them walked across the foyer and into the ballroom. A group of older gentlemen, seeing Linley positioned between both the Marquess of Kyre and the Duke of Hereford, pointed out, “With friends like that, you should have no trouble financing a lifetime of expeditions, Miss Talbot-Martin.”
“I have no doubt Hereford will do his part,” Patrick said, smiling, “But we all know I don’t have any money.”
The older men laughed, slapped him on the back, and admitted to feeling the strain on their bank accounts as well.
Linley looked up at him. “You don’t have any money?”
“I have some—certainly more than most—but not the kind you’re talking about,” he explained. “Supporting an outfit like your father’s would cost a fortune.”
She lowered her voice, “I had no idea you were skint.”
“I am not skint,” he said, still smiling. “All my money is in land. Land that, I am afraid, is attached to my title and, therefore, cannot be sold away.”
“Not to worry, though,” Hereford said. “I have enough ready money to float the both of us.” Turning to Linley, he added “And your father can expect a fifty pound donation from me by the end of the night.”
***
The party wound down as the night wore on, Sir Bedford Talbot-Martin growing more and more excited with every cheque he received. Patrick found that Linley distanced herself from him as much as possible, and with what happened upstairs, he couldn’t blame her. For his part, he stood in the foyer, thanking his guests for coming and wishing them all a safe trip home.
“You’re a dirty bastard, Kyre!” Allard Robeson said as he passed by him on his way out the door.
“Allard,” Patrick said, never missing a beat. “So good to see you!”
“Didn’t you hear me?” the young man repeated himself. “I said you’re a dirty, sodding bastard. And I will never forgive you for making a fool of me!”
“You should know better than to try to move in on my girl,” Patrick said, his voice low, but not quite menacing. “I don’t want to hear of you ever speaking to her again.”
Without another word, Allard stalked out the front door, but Gaynor was not far behind him. “If you think he’s hot, wait until you see Finchdale,” she said. “He went around all night telling everyone he danced with the Infanta de Nova.”
“Poor Finchdale—living proof that money cannot buy brains or class.”
She chuckled, pulling her satin skirts around her. “Oh but the things money can buy, eh, Kyre?” With that, Gaynor swished out of the foyer and into the foggy London night.
After the last guests departed, Patrick went in search of Linley and the rest of the Talbot-Martin team. He found them in the dining room, eating cold roast beef and counting donations.
“Three hundred and fifty pounds!” Archie cried.
They all clapped and cheered.
“That will be more than enough if we economize,” Schoville said.
“Congratulations,” Patrick said, slipping into the room.
Sir Bedford reached out to shake his hand. “We couldn’t have done it without you. Your efforts have truly saved our little team from ruin!”
“I didn’t do it for your team,” he explained. “I did it for Linley.”
Everyone turned toward Linley, who blushed. “I—I was wondering if we could speak privately.” She cleared her throat. “Is there somewhere we could go?”
“Certainly,” Patrick said, leading her out into the hall, and down a long corridor. He stopped at a door, drew a set of keys from his jacket pocket, and unlocked it. “I warn you, this room has not been renovated like the others.”
He pushed open the door and turned on the light switch. Heavy floral wallpaper pulled away from the walls, hanging in curled strips. The skeletons of a few dead pigeons lay heaped in the corner, and a layer of dust a quarter of an inch thick coated the scarred wooden floor.
Patrick walked over and nudged the dead birds with the toe of his glossy black shoe. “Must have come in through the chimney, poor devils.”
Linley covered her face and sneezed. “It’s awfully dusty in here.”
“I’m sorry, would you like to go somewhere else?”
“No,” she said. “This is fine.”