“I have other business tonight, but I’ll send Beaumont to Langley’s with my findings. I doubt he has anything better to do, and an assignment might keep him out of trouble.”
Ewan raised a brow. There was plenty of trouble to be had at Langley’s, and Rafe Beaumont was a lodestone for mischief. Still, Ewan appreciated his friend’s thoughtfulness. Most men would have sent a note, but Wraxall knew how arduous reading was for Ewan, though the two men had never discussed it. Besides, it would give Neil the chance to order Rafe about, and Neil did like giving orders.
Ewan spent the rest of the afternoon in the dining room, then followed Neil to the card room and watched a game of piquet between Neil and another member of Draven’s men. Neil lost, of course. The man was too predictable. It was an enjoyable day, and it took Ewan’s mind off Ridlington and the mad female he’d encountered earlier.
Finally, Ewan made his way back to Langley’s, the return trip uninterrupted by daft women or racing fur balls, and instructed the footmen to fetch him if Beaumont arrived. Of the eleven other surviving members of the troop, Neil Wraxall and Rafe Beaumont were the men Ewan felt closest to. He saw the other men at the club, and he drank or played the odd game of dice with them, but none knew him like Neil and Rafe. He considered them more than friends. They were brothers.
About half past eleven, a footman fetched him, and Ewan stepped outside the club where Beaumont had struck a pose. Ewan was not in the habit of thinking men pretty, but there was no other way to describe Rafe Beaumont, also known as the Seducer. He wasn’t feminine in appearance, but he had a perfect face and enough charm for two men. His dark hair and bronze complexion made him the opposite of Ewan, with his white-blond hair and fair skin.
As usual, Beaumont had a woman on his arm. Ewan’s only surprise was that there was but one. “Mr. Mostyn.” Rafe bowed with a flourish. Ewan was used to his friend’s courtly behavior and ignored it.
“My dear, this fearsome man before you is Mr. Mostyn. He is undoubtedly one of the best men I know. He saved me in the war more times than I can count. Don’t let his glare scare you off. He doesn’t bite.” Then to Ewan, he said, “You don’t bite, do you?”
Ewan tried to decide if he was required to answer. Rafe often spoke to hear his own voice.
The woman fluttered her lashes at Ewan. She had reddish hair, freckles, and pretty brown eyes. Her lips smiled broadly. “I could just eat you up, Mr. Mostyn.” She winked at him.
Ewan gave Beaumont a look of concern. Unlike Beaumont, Ewan never knew what to say to women. He knew what to do with them, but he preferred not to speak while doing it.
“Save your appetite for later, my dear. Would you give Mr. Mostyn and me a moment alone?”
“Of course. I’ll wait inside.” She looked up at Ewan as though for approval. He moved aside to allow her to enter through the door a footman held open. The gambling hell permitted women, but most were courtesans or women who thrived on scandal. Clearly, this woman did not concern herself with her reputation.
When she’d gone inside, Beaumont sighed. “Hell’s teeth! I thought I’d never be rid of her.”
Ewan gave his friend a look of incomprehension. If Rafe didn’t want her company, why not just tell her so? But then Beaumont seemed to attract women whether he wanted to or not. That was one skill they’d found invaluable in the war.
“Let me think now. If I mess this up, Wraxall will have my head. I’m to tell you Ridlington is an oak. Those are Neil’s words, not mine. I don’t describe men in terms of foliage, you know. In any case, Wraxall says, no one has a word to say against the duke. Apparently the man does not overindulge in drink, cards, or women. I can’t think why Neil should call this a recommendation. The duke sounds like a bore to me, but there you are. Why does he want to hire you?”
Ewan lifted a shoulder.
“Well, don’t agree unless he pays you at least double what you make at this club each week. You are worth it, Ewan.”
Ewan couldn’t have said why, but at the compliment, his throat constricted.
“Now I must be off. I haven’t slept in two days, and if I’m forced to drink even one more glass of champagne, I’ll cast up my accounts. Good night.” He slapped Ewan on the shoulder.
“What about…?” Ewan motioned to the hell behind him.
“Good God. Don’t tell her where I’ve gone. I doubt she’ll come looking for me. She’ll find other amusements.” He doffed his beaver hat and strolled off, turning heads as he walked.
Ewan pulled the card from his pocket and read it slowly. Berkley Street at ten in the morning. He’d go, but he wouldn’t wear a cravat.
Two
Lady Lorraine Caldwell, only daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Ridlington, crumpled another sheet of foolscap and tapped her brow with the feather of her quill. Francis had sent her a love letter two days ago, and she’d been endeavoring to reply since then. She simply couldn’t find the words. His letter had been full of flowery phrases and descriptions of his abject misery without her by his side.
Lorrie was not one for pretty words, but she could not possibly reply as she had on the crumpled letter: Dear Francis, Let’s elope. That one had been better than the previous one: Dearest Francis, I want you to kiss me.
Ladies simply did not propose elopements or ask for kisses. It was unseemly, even if that was what she wanted. Lorrie was tired of begging for her father’s blessing, tired of meeting Francis in secret, tired of chaste kisses that fired her blood but left her frustrated. She had persuaded Francis to elope once before. She’d convinced him that once they were wed, her father would relent, give his blessing, and bestow her dowry.
Lorrie had left a note and sneaked out of the house, but Francis had never arrived at the tavern from which they’d planned to depart. She’d been forced to return home to an irate father and an annoyed mother. Francis had sent a letter of apology. He had reconsidered, worried her father would do as he’d threatened and cut his daughter off. What would they live on?
Francis was such a thoughtful man. He did not want Lorrie to ever suffer from poverty. But what he did not understand was she did not care about money or dresses or jewels. She wanted to be with the man she loved.
She’d cried for a week, and to cheer her up, her eldest brother had given her Wellington as a gift. Lorrie suspected the puppy was meant to distract her from making more plans to elope. Welly was certainly a distraction, but the puppy napped at her feet now, which had given Lorrie plenty of time to reread all of Francis’s letters.
She pulled another sheet of foolscap from her drawer, dipped the pen in ink, and began again.
My Dearest Francis—
That was a good start.