His Grace tossed back the remainder of his whiskey, set the glass down, and pivoted toward Jake. “Don’t believe everything you hear about Lady Olivia. They,” he said, gesturing toward the room at large, “have the upside-down of it.”
The man sauntered away, and Jake couldn’t help wondering who this Lady Olivia might be. Then a too-near voice called out, “St. Alban!” and his curiosity died an instant death.
He tried not to cringe. It was a name he had difficulty accepting as his own. The Viscounts St. Alban were distant relations on distant shores. And now he was one of them. Beyond belief.
“Have you considered taking a wife?” asked the Dowager without prelude.
Jake’s brow wrinkled, equal parts shock and bemusement. “Actually,” he began, “I’ve reconciled myself to the idea.”
“Oh, my dear, it isn’t so grim as all that.”
Perhaps it wasn’t. But he hadn’t expected ever to marry for reasons other than true affinity, even love. This move to London had changed that expectation, and his obligation to Mina demanded precedence. He would find her a stepmother of impeccable reputation and lineage, one who could guide her and cement her place in Society.
He wouldn’t fail Mina, not the way he’d failed her mother.
“St. Alban,” continued the Dowager, a matchmaking gleam in her eye, “your bride is in this room, I can feel it.”
Jake scanned the cavernous space, surely full to the brim with every member of theton, and feared she might be right.
Her eyes narrowed in on an indeterminate figure in the distance. “In fact, I may have the perfect candidate.”
Dread, pure and unfettered, shot through his veins, turning them to ice. His life just might be slipping out from under him.
“Now, the Duke of Arundel has agreed to my request,” she stated, again without preamble. Her hands and fingers flitted about in perpetual motion, sliding rings, shuffling bracelets, toying with necklaces, or whatever happened to be movable on her person.
Jake hesitated. “And what request might that be?”
“To mentor you in the duties of a viscount, of course. You appear a capable enough young man, but my dear papa was a Viscount St. Alban, and I won’t stand idly by and see the title run into the ground due to ignorance.”
Jake blinked once but held his peace and the smile that wanted release. He appreciated honesty in all its forms. Besides, he wasn’t obliged to accept or decline the Duke’s mentorship at this moment, although decline he would. If the Duke of Arundel’s financial acumen mirrored that of the late Viscounts St. Alban, he would be better served seeking the advice of strangers on the street.
“I see,AuntLucretia,” he replied at last. “If I’m to call you Aunt, then you must call me Radclyffe, or even Jake will do.”
Her active fingers froze mid-air, one finger looped through a long strand of pink pearls as if showcasing them to the room. Her sharp gaze held his for one . . . two . . . three seconds before she relented. “You are St. Alban. Better you accept that fact now and get on with it.” Her fingers resumed winding their way around the pearls as if they hadn’t missed a beat. “Now, you must meet the Duke of Arundel. Connections, my dear. One needs them in environs such as these.”
Jake resisted the urge to search the room for armed assassins, even as he suspected assassination came in subtler forms inenvirons such as these. “After you . . .Aunt.”
She threw him athat’s a good boysmile and set off, trusting him to follow in her wake. The density of the crowd pressed in on Jake as the Dowager—he couldn’t think of her asAunt—guided him, stopping every few feet to introduce him to whomever was unlucky enough to stray into her path, usually yet another lord and his coquettish lady.
He was well-acquainted with a certain flutter of lashes that intimated a specific sort of interest, which had naught to do with ballrooms and husbands. A young man navigating coastal colonies learned quickly about other men’s wives, and the trouble they could cause.
“St. Alban!” the Dowager called over her shoulder. “There he is.”
In the distance, the silver-haired duke from the whiskey cart stood engaged in a discussion with a lady half his age. She was the sort of lady typical of English gatherings: petite, blond, and invariably dull.
Then his brain caught up with his eyes. The fact of the matter was this: even though she wasn’t his type in the slightest, the lady was remarkably good-looking.
There were the obvious details, of course: delicate, round face; narrow, pert nose; Cupid’s bow mouth with a plump lower lip. But it was another detail that intrigued him more than her physical perfection.
When she smiled up at the duke, one top tooth peeked out and slightly overlapped its neighbor, the sole imperfection on her otherwise ideal English face. And, yet, somehow this flaw rendered her face all the more perfect.
The Dowager slowed her clip and squeezed his forearm, jolting him out of musings both uncharacteristic and discomfiting. The Duke lit up at their approach and stepped forward. While Jake could take the gesture as welcome, he sensed it was less a friendly step and more a defensive one. It was possible the man was protecting the lady with the intriguing, crooked tooth.
“My lord, Duke of Arundel,” the Dowager intoned formally, “may I introduce Lord St. Alban to you?”
“Ah,” began the Duke, pinning Jake with his piercing blue eyes, amusement crinkling their corners, “so you’re the latest Viscount St. Alban.”
“At your service, Your Grace.” He made his bow to the Duke, even as the lady at his side remained captivated by the string quartet some thirty feet away. Viscounts must come two a penny in her world.
