To the ton, anything less than generations of money and titles means you are automatically labeled as from Shop. Gentry is nothing less than dirt in their eyes.
“I am sorry to hear that,” Alice replied, refraining from mentioning that she, as the daughter of a merchant, knew all too well how ladies of the ton shied away from being in the company of those lesser than them.
Her aunt, a little taller than the average woman, patted her silvering hair. At fifty-six, and with a daughter conceived later in life than she would have wanted, her aunt was incessantly trying to ingratiate herself with those of the ton to make sure her daughter had better connections and marriage prospects.
“Well, she will see when my precious Eliza marries one of the most eligible bachelors this Season,” her aunt scoffed. “Matter of fact, the engagement at Lady Westley’s home will be the catalyst for Eliza to make her match.”
“I will alert the staff to send up tea at midday,” Alice replied as she stepped out of the room and returned to Penelope.
Her sister had finished bathing and was dressed in a periwinkle blue day frock and sat while Alice began to braid her hair.
“You did not tell me where you had to go last night to find him,” Penelope asked with a pitch in her tone.
“Oh, just one of his usual haunts,” Alice answered evasively. “Luckily, it was in a place where I could hide my identity and leave unscathed.”
She deliberately kept her words vague so her sister did not realize the danger she had placed herself in. Alice could not put into words the air of wickedness and debauchery at this club and despite her steeling herself, she had felt the decadent ambiance seep into her skin.
“He slipped away before I could get to him,” Alice added while sliding a pin into her sister’s hair. “But never fear, I will not stop until I corner that scoundrel.”
Twisting to look over her shoulder, Penelope smiled. “Thank you, sister.”
“No need to thank me,” Alice replied, knowing that there was no one else to help her sister, and that, in itself, made her understand, there was no margin to fail.
She had to come out the victor here, her sister depended on it.
The continued knocks on Edward’s door had begun as faint raps on wood, but they grew, and grew, until Edward could not take the strident noise anymore. He flung the sheets away and strode to the door, clad in only his underclothes—he had an idea who today’s offender was anyway.
“Benedict,” he grumbled to the early morning sight of his half-brother. “What do you want?”
At two-and-twenty years, his younger brother, now a newly minted Marquess, strode decisively into the room, not caring that Edward clearly intended to resume his sleep.
“How was last night?” Benedict chimed, practically tipping on his toes. “Did you meet any ladies?”
Edward refrained from rolling his eyes, “It was a gambling parlor, Benedict, not a soiree.”
“Surely you would have met someone though?” Benedict smoothed his copper hair away from his face.
Cocking a dark brow, Edward flatly muttered, “If I did, do you honestly think I would be here?”
“Touché,” Benedict grinned. “Are you attending tomorrow’s luncheon at Lady Westley’s home?”
“Isthatwhy you’re here?” Edwarddidroll his eyes this time as he slid between the sheets again. “I would rather have my back teeth kicked out by a horse’s hoof than willingly mingle with marriage-minded ladies and their mamas.”
“I still do not understand why you strike out against marriage so much. I’d imagine a wife certainly can provide balance to a man's life,” Benedict added.
Propping the pillows up behind him, Edward squinted in the dimness provided by the thick brocade curtains. “Are you off tothe marriage mart now? I thought you were set on sowing your royal oats first. After all, you are in your second year at Oxford, that is what your age does.”
His brother’s face grew sly. “I’d imagine you were the best of them all.”
“You ought to quantify whatbest of themmeans,” Edward’s chuckle preceded him closing his eyes. “Now, go away, I need to sleep. Oh, and Benedict, if you do find a woman there, be careful. When most women look at us, they see money, luxury, and a way to elevate their family. Not the men we are.
“Try to keep your ardor behind your trouser’s placket, will you, and if you do—” Edward leaned over to his bedside table and plucked a white box out from it, then tossed it to his brother. “—use these. They call them French Letters. Don’t ask me to show you how to use them.”
Examining the box, Benedict nodded sagely. “I think it will be easy to figure out.”
“And there’s that Oxford intellect on display,” Edward muttered wryly, turning away. “Close the door on your way out and tell the staff not to interrupt me.”
“Wait,” Benedict asked at the doorway. “Won’t you need some of these back for yourself?”
