“What?” Angelica gasped as her veins seemed to fill with ice.
He nodded. “Yes, apparently Lord Makepeace, Sir George Wiltshire, and Baron Osgoode are quite taken with you.”
“An earl already!” her mother exclaimed.
“Wh-what did you say to them?” Angelica kept her shaking hands in her lap and out of sight.
“I told them I would consider their offers, but I would like for you to enjoy a full season as this is the only opportunity a girl has to be courted. I placated them by giving them full permission to call upon you in the meantime as I believe it’s only fair that you should have the opportunity to get to know them better.” He raised his glass in a toast to her. “I intend for you to have some opinion in the matter, my dear.”
Angelica almost opened her mouth to say she wanted none of them, but her mother silenced her with a glare and a shake of her head. Instead, she regarded her father’s loving smile and managed a wan one of her own.
“I appreciate your consideration, Papa.” She struggled to keep her dread from showing.
Margaret nodded in approval. “And just think, that gives us time to see if we can wring an offer from someone better, perhaps even a duke!”
***
Ian growled low in his throat as he viewed the most recent entries in the White’s betting book. Usually the bets were harmless, ranging from the commonplace, such as horse races and boxing matches, to the ludicrous, such as when one of the patrons would catch a cold. However, two wagers had him grinding his teeth. One was that he, the Duke of Burnrath, would bed the saucy Winthrop heiress.
The bet was only for one hundred pounds, but it still left a foul taste in his mouth. He had done little more than dance with the young lady. Ian was somewhat placated to see counter-bets that Ponsonby or Wheaton would do the deed, for at least he was not singled out. Even better, there were wagers to see who would marry her, those raised already as high as one thousand pounds.
What truly enraged him was the betting that he was, indeed, a vampire. Apparently, his appearance before mirrors and dining on garlic were not enough to still the wagging tongues.
Lord Makepeace nudged in to write his wager on that very line.
“And just how am I to prove this silly speculation one way or the other?” Ian asked.
Makepeace jumped, face white as his cravat. “I-I say, Burnrath, I did not recognize you at first!” He managed a nervous chuckle. “I implore you not to drink my blood.”
Ian laughed. “According to the stories, I think I am supposed to prefer the blood of innocent maidens.”
The earl looked at him in confusion before comprehension finally dawned and he let out a hearty guffaw, clapping Ian on the back. “Quite so.”
Makepeace returned to the betting book and wagered six hundred pounds that Ian Ashton, Duke of Burnrath, was not a bloodsucking fiend. He then wagered eleven hundred that he, Lord Makepeace, would wed Miss Winthrop.
The earl clapped Ian on the shoulder. “I’ve enjoyed chatting with you, Burnrath, but I must leave for Almack’s and pay court to a certain lovely young lady.”
As the earl left, Ian suppressed the urge to wrap his hands around the fop’s scrawny neck. Surely a lady as witty and beautiful as Angelica could do better than a mutton-headed cad like Makepeace. He shook his head, frowning. The decision would be in her parents’ hands as it always had been in the upper classes. The poor girl would be lucky to wed a man young enough to give her pleasure. A full-blown image of the little temptress struck him. Ian cursed himself for wanting something he could never have and vowed to keep Angelica Winthrop from his mind.
Ian sat down at one of the green felt tables to play a hand of cards. He may have dissuaded one man’s suspicions tonight, but apparently he would have to do more to stop the talk altogether. He hoped his informants would track down Polidori soon.
As the game progressed, Ian found it more and more difficult to focus on his cards and the conversation with his opponents. Something hadn’t been right when he met with his subordinates the night before. Nothing obvious had appeared to be amiss, but the more he pondered, the more he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. A detail of that conversation teased his memory with infuriating vagueness. Perhaps he should discuss the matter with his second in command. Rafe was ruthless in ferreting out mischief.
Ian gave up on the game with a sigh, turning in his markers. As he turned toward the door, lukewarm liquid splashed in his face. The slight odor of beeswax and incense revealed the liquid to be holy water. From the corner of his eye he spied the young Baron Osgoode stuffing a flask in his pocket, trying to look inconspicuous, and failing miserably. He seized the boy by the shoulder and spun him around.