“How does one come into possession of such a firm?” asked yet another man from the group of interlocutors, this one not as young as the others—and, judging by his silhouette, sporting a corset beneath his waistcoat.
Camden glanced toward the grandfather clock that stood between two bookshelves against the far wall. Whatever the time was, he was going to say that he was expected elsewhere in half an hour. The time was quarter past three, and beside the clock stood Lord Wrenworth, observing the mob about Camden with amusement.
“How?” Camden looked back at the corseted man. “Good luck, good timing, and a wife who is worth her weight in gold, my dear fellow.”
His answer was received with a silence halfway between shock and awe. He took the opportunity to stand up. “Excuse me, gentlemen. I'd like to have a word with Lord Wrenworth.”
My daughter sends me postcards from the Lake District. I hear Lord Wrenworth is also there.
My daughter is going to Scotland with a large party of friends, Lord Wrenworth included, for a sennight.
My daughter, when I last saw her at a dinner, sported a fetching pair of diamond bracelets that I'd never seen before. She was unusually coy about their provenance.
Mrs. Rowland had been overly lavish in her praise of Lord Wrenworth—a man all men want to be and all women want to bewitch—but not by much. The man seemed effortlessly graceful, effortlessly fashionable, and effortlessly calm and collected.
“Quite a crowd you were drawing, my lord Tremaine,” Lord Wrenworth said with a smile, as he and Camden shook hands. “You are an object of great curiosity around these parts.”
“Ah, yes, the latest addition to the circus, et cetera,” said Camden. “You, sir, are fortunate to be so well situated that you need not soil your mind with thoughts of commerce.”
Lord Wrenworth laughed. “As to that, my lord, you are very much mistaken. Rich peers need money every bit as much as poor peers—we have far greater expenditures. But I daresay your material success fuels only part of the collective curiosity.”
“Let me guess, there's that little matter of the divorce.”
“Short of a good, old-fashioned murder, a divorce with charges of adultery leveled is the best anyone can hope for when the mood calls for some entertaining gossip.”
“Indeed. What have you heard?”
Lord Wrenworth raised an eyebrow but proceeded to answer Camden's question. “I'm blessed with a battalion of sisters-in-law. One, with impeccable sources, declares that you are willing to submit to an annulment should Lady Tremaine hand over half of her worth and promise to travel to her honeymoon destination on your flagship luxury liner.”
“Interesting. I do not deal in passenger transit.”
“You must be mistaken,” said Lord Wrenworth. “Though, to be sure, another one of Lady Wrenworth's sisters, with sources equally infallible, insists that you are a hairbreadth away from a grand reconciliation.”
Camden nodded. “And you are in favor of the old status quo. Lady Tremaine is quite peeved with you, I might as well let you know. She thought you'd be a better friend to Lord Frederick.”
“Then that would make me less of a friend to her,” said Lord Wrenworth, no longer glib. “Lord Frederick, though he is a man of unimpeachable goodness—Speak of the devil. The rumormongers will have new tales to tell tonight.”
He pointed his chin toward the door. Camden turned to see a young man coming toward them. Though he stooped slightly, he was still tall, a hair under six foot. He had a round face, a firm jaw, and clear, uncomplicated eyes. Elsewhere in the room, men stopped what they were doing and stared openly at his progress, glancing from Camden to him and back, but he remained oblivious to the attraction he had become.
The young man offered his hand to Lord Wrenworth. “Lord Wren, pleased to see you.” He had a melodious, surprisingly basso profundo voice. “Was just thinking of sending a note around. Lady Wren asked me a couple of months ago if I would paint a portrait of her. Well, I told her that I wasn't much good at portraits. But these days—well, you know what's going on—I seem to have lots of time on my hands. If she is still interested—”
“I'm sure she would be delighted, Freddie,” Lord Wrenworth said smoothly. He turned to Camden. “Lord Tremaine, may I present Lord Frederick Stuart? Freddie, Lord Tremaine.”
Camden extended his hand. “A pleasure, sir.”
Lord Frederick blinked. He stared at Camden for a second, as if expecting something dire. Then he swallowed and grasped Camden's hand with his own, which was large and slightly plump. “Right ho. Pleased, I'm sure, milord.”
For some reason, despite everything Mrs. Rowland had written, Camden had expected to see a prime specimen of a man. Lord Frederick was not that man. Next to Lord Wrenworth, he seemed all too ordinary, his looks pleasant but unremarkable, his attire a year or two behind the forefront of fashion, his demeanor unsophisticated.
“You are an artist, Lord Frederick?”
“No, no, I only dabble.”