There was a cough from one of the numerous uniformed servants who were crowded into the room until Lord Bidwell’s unnerving gaze fell upon the hapless man.
“Leave us,” he commanded. “I will speak with his lordship alone.”
As one the servants anxiously filed out of the room, all too pleased to be away from the dandy’s sharp tongue and habit of flaying those who dared to interfere in his torturous lessons. Only the well-trained valet was daring enough to linger a rebellious moment to pluck a tiny thread from the shoulder of Edward’s mulberry jacket before he too joined the mass retreat.
Once alone with his friend, Edward strolled to glance at his form in the floor-length mirror. He grimaced at the satin white pantaloons and silver waistcoat. Such elegance might be de rigueur for an evening in London, but he felt a dashed fool.
Gads, he had seen trained monkeys who looked more comfortable in satin and diamonds than he did.
What did he know of society? He had not been raised to take his place among the upper ten thousand. Indeed, during most of his eight-and-twenty years he had been only vaguely aware of any connection to the aristocracy. The knowledge that he had become heir upon the death of the old earl, followed swiftly by the deaths of his son and two nephews, came as much as a shock to him as to the horrified Harrington family that viewed him as little better than a puffed-up encroacher.
The sudden slap of the fan upon his shoulder had Edward reluctantly turning to meet the glittering gaze of the elegant gentleman.
“Edward, there are few who are as well versed in traversing society as I,” Biddles warned in stern tones. “Which, I flatter myself, is precisely the reason that you requested that I be the one to introduce you to society. I am quite as cognizant of the ridiculousness of the ton as you. Perhaps more so. But while I might secretly find the shallowness and too-common lack of intelligence a source of amusement, I have never made the mistake of underestimating the power that society wields. Never.”
Edward heaved an inward sigh. His friend was right, of course. Even if he did not care a fig for the opinion of society for himself, he could not forget that he now possessed a far-flung family that depended upon him to maintain a certain dignity. One of the many burdens that had come with the title.
More important, however, was the knowledge that if he hoped to use his newfound position to help those he had left behind, he would have to win the confidence of his fellow noblemen. His seat in the House of Lords would be meaningless if he was seen as a bumbling simpleton without the necessary skills to move through society.
Or to demand entrance to the various gentlemen’s clubs, which of course, was where the true power was hoarded.
“Forgive me, Biddles.” He offered a faint bow of his head. “I do not mean to make light of my entrance to society. It is only that I feel awkward and not at all confident that I shall not make an utter ass of myself.”
The thin features abruptly settled back into the familiar sardonic amusement.
“Do not fear, Edward. You may not be the most dashing or elegant of gentlemen, but you are intelligent and you do possess a measure of charm when you choose to exert yourself.”
“Thank you . . . I think.”
The pale blue eyes glittered. “And with a bit of luck you will not be a complete ass.”
He tilted back his head to laugh at the tart compliment. Biddles would never be considered a comfortable companion. He could play the buffoon to perfection or suddenly reveal the razor-edged brilliance that had once made him the most successful spy the crown had ever possessed. But Edward did not regret his choice in seeking his help.
Despite the fact that Biddles was currently the proprietor of Hellion’s Den, an elegant gambling establishment, he was undoubtedly a leader of society and the perfect companion to introduce Edward to the more fastidious ton.
“Well, I may wound several maidens unfortunate enough to be my partner upon the dance floor, and forget which fork to use, but at least my cravat is glorious perfection and my coat cut so tightly I can barely breathe. I trust no one shall mistake me for the gardener.”
Biddles offered a condemning sniff. “As if any gardener could afford a coat cut by Weston.”
“Or would be ridiculous enough to want one.” Edward sucked in a deep breath. As much as he might long to remain in the dubious comfort of the drafty house, he knew that it was impossible. It was time to take his place as Earl of Harrington. Whether he desired the position or not. “Shall we be on our way?”
Lady Bianca, daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Lockharte, was in a towering fury.
Not an uncommon event.
Despite the endless parade of governesses who had tried to coax, coerce, and downright bully her into becoming a properly modest lady, she possessed a fiery temper and habit of speaking first and thinking later. Often much later.
In her defense, however, she was always swift to admit when she was in the wrong, and never took her ill humor out upon servants or staff who were in no position to defend themselves.
Not that any servants willingly lingered when Lady Bianca pitted her will against her father. ’Twas said below stairs that it was preferable to stick a hand into a hornet’s nest as to stumble into a blue-blooded battle.
Even the butler, who was well known to consider himself just a step below royalty, was swift to scamper toward the servants’ quarters when he heard the first of the delicate Wedgwood plates launched against the door.
Unaware of the household exodus to safer grounds, Bianca stomped angrily from one end of the vast library to the other. She briefly considered hefting a few of the rare leather-bound books at the door. They would make a much nicer thud than the china she had tossed. But while she was furious enough to throttle something, or better yet someone, she had not plunged into utter stupidity.
The large, silver-haired duke with the powerful, handsome countenance could be astonishingly indulgent toward his only daughter. Most would say too indulgent. But he would have her head on a platter if she so much as touched one of his beloved books.
As if sensing her smoldering need for destruction, her father settled more comfortably upon the elegant damask sofa and waved his hand toward the shelves of painted china.
“I do believe that you missed one of your mother’s Wedgwood plates, Bianca, in case you are still in the mood to act like a petulant child,” he drawled.
Bianca came to an abrupt halt to glare at her father. She could actually feel the hair on the nape of her neck stand upright. Like a bristling cat.
“This is unacceptable. You had no right to refuse Lord Aldron’s offer of marriage,” she gritted between her clenched teeth.
A silver brow arched at her scathing words. “As a matter of fact, I had every right. Despite your ofttime belief that you are in charge of the world and everyone in it, I am still your father and I will not have you toss away your future upon a practiced rogue. Certainly not one who would make you miserable within a week.”
Bianca sucked in a sharp breath. She had known that the duke possessed no great fondness for Lord Aldron. How could she not? The two men had only to be in the same room for the ice to begin to form. But she had not thought he would sink to tossing about such slanderous insults.
“Lord Aldron is not a rogue.”
“Bah. Only an innocent such as you would not know of his infamous reputation.” Her father’s expression hardened with an unfamiliar disgust. “For God’s sake, he is a hardened rake, a gambler, and an adventurer who has been mired in scandal from the day he stepped foot into London.”