Michael, Viscount Laidley and Brent’s distant cousin, may be the best friend any man could wish for but, like Brent’s family, Michael fretted that Brent would never agree to reenter society. Hence Michael’s determination to push Brent into attending this ball, despite him having little interest in watching a parade of ladies of the night select and seduce their next patron. Keeping a mistress was the last thing Brent was considering. If his often-expressed wish to be left in peace was respected by his friends or family, Brent would happily remain in seclusion at his estate and thus avoid mixing socially with his peers, the vast majority of whom had enjoyed sullying his wife’s reputation and had ridiculed Brent’s defense of Marion.
Four years ago, he’d lost all respect for a large portion of the upper echelons of London’s society when spiteful gossip about his wife’s affairs had shattered their marriage and destroyed Brent’s taste for a hectic social life. Nothing had happened since to convince him that the morals of Britain’s rich and titled had improved and he’d enjoy spending more time with them. If anything, the newspaper reports confirmed, each and every day, that London was a cesspool of rumors and that not one of those gossipmongers cared a whit if their gossip was true or if their hatefulness drove people to drink and despair.
Michael’s face appeared around the statue’s well-endowed groin, and his cousin pointed at the marble man’s appendage and laughed. ‘Hoping the ladies will compare your equipment favorably to his if you stand beside him?’
Brent snorted. Although he’d dug in his heels and resisted Michael’s efforts to encourage him to attend this ball, his cousin knew him well and could always tease Brent into seeing the humorous side of situations. With a nod of thanks, Brent accepted a glass of tepid champagne from his friend, took a sip, and choked. ‘Damn it, Michael, I’ll need something stronger than this horse piss if I’m to last longer than an hour in this chaos.’
Michael laughed. ‘Drink up, my friend, because it’s either warm bubbles or the house punch, which Browning will have laced with anything and everything he could beg, borrow, or steal.’
Brent shuddered. ‘For God’s sake, Michael, why are we wasting our time here? I’ve no intention of engaging a mistress and, if you really have your eye on one of the duke’s daughters, you’ll want to keep your distance from any of these…ladies.’ He waved towards the hundred or more females who continuously giggled and squealed, while prancing around the dance floor in a startlingly colorful display, as if their next meal was entirely dependent upon outshining every other female and being the first to catch the eye of a wealthy man. ‘They’re on the prowl for a rich protector and you, Laidley, are known to be one of the richest viscounts in Britain. And as your father’s health deteriorates every week, you’ll soon inherit his titles and estates. Making you an even juicier target.’
They watched in crowd in companionable silence. Women, and girls, spent a fortune primping and preening for this ball, as their working life and future survival relied on catching the eye of a gentleman and encouraging him to spend his fat purse in support of a mistress.
‘Michael, please may we leave? I’ve a superb brandy at my townhouse, aged for twenty years, and smuggled into the country at high cost.’
‘Huh! You mean given to you, the local landowner, in exchange for turning a blind eye to the vast amount of smuggling that happens on your beaches.’
Brent shrugged. ‘Little point trying to stop smuggling in Cornwall. They’ve been making their living that way for centuries. Besides, the wars are finally over and embargoes are being lifted. I’ll soon be purchasing my brand legitimately.’
‘Your local smugglers won’t like losing one of their best customers.’
‘I'm trying to convince them that they could earn a living in legal ways, but it's an uphill battle. Smuggling is in their blood, so it’s hard to...’
He sniffed, and sniffed again. Shook his head. No, no. Ridiculous to imagine that the wearer of that country orchard scent was Lillian. Bloody hell, perhaps his family’s worst fears had become a reality and he’d morphed from a recluse into a madman. Brent’s passions, and his minor obsession with waterways and farming, distressed his mother and sisters because they believed, wrongly, that his idiosyncrasies indicated a slide into madness, especially after they’d discovered that he held lengthy discussions on sheep herding and field drainage with Lillian, his neighbor and lifelong friend.