Few would refuse that invitation.
It had been a good few years since King George IV was called Prinny—and it had been even longer since he’d graced the stand with his exalted presence. Centered in the middle of the horseshoe-shaped course, the raised pavilion was the best vantage point from which to observe Epsom Downs, as it offered unimpeded views. Mostly, the stand went unused, save for when the king occasionally allowed a friend to use it.
Which wasn’t how Dev had secured it for his viewing party of the Oaks horse race today.
The short of it was he’d offered an exorbitant sum of money to the king—which had been ignored.
Three days later, he’d offered twice the sum of the initial offering—which had also been ignored.
A day later, he’d offered twice that sum—which had been accepted.
Now, here he stood, hosting a viewing party in Prinny’s Stand.
He’d left no luminary uninvited, from powerful duke to impoverished baron—and all the marquesses, earls, and viscounts in between. Many invitees had accepted, even a duke. A down-on-his-luck duke, it had to be admitted, who was singularly intent on stuffing as many canapes and pouring as much champagne down his gullet as one man could possibly stomach within the period of an hour, but a duke, nonetheless.
In truth, none of the highest tier of the highest tier of society had accepted.
Dev had to make do with the dimmer stars of the aristocratic firmament.
Not that he gave a toss, for the one person who did matterhadaccepted.
The Countess of Bridgewater.
Strictly speaking, it had been her husband, the earl, who had sent their acceptance.
But Imogen would be here.
That was all that mattered.
And she would ignore Dev.
He wasn’t sure she’d once glanced his way these last two years.
Which told him all he needed to know.
She couldn’t look at him directly—not if she was to continue with her farce of a marriage.
His mouth tipped into the half smile that had sent many a lady’s heart into a flutter, Dev circulated through the room, exchanging greetings with lords and ladies who were still trying to understand this newcomer—some saidinterloper—into their vaunted ranks.
Lord Devil.
The name thetonhad taken to calling him, both behind his back and to his face on the not-so-rare drunken occasion.
He didn’t mind.
“Landsdown,” said Dev on a greeting nod. “I hope you’re finding the day to your satisfaction.”
The Viscount Landsdown’s smile suggested he couldn’t believe his luck in having secured the attention of Lord Devil. “Oh, yes, yes, yes, indeed.”
Landsdown wasn’t an impoverished lord, precisely, but rather one living below the means he would prefer, most definitely. This might be a room filled to bursting with exalted lords and ladies, but its truer nature was a room full of sycophants. In their host—Lord Devil—they saw two entities. A man with the incorrect blood flowing through his veins…and a man who was a goldmine.
With this lot, for one to overlook the former, a man better be flush with the latter. Otherwise, he was of no use to them.
Dev was under no illusions about the realities.
“A quick little goer on the turf is your Little Wicked,” said Landsdown. “Reckon she’ll take it today?”
The charming smile Dev had inherited from his Irish mother went tight.Little Wicked. The Thoroughbred he’d won in a card game. The horse was supposed to have taken the Triple Crown. Yet here they were, three races into the season, with the fourth about to be run today, and she hadn’t a win to her name—only second-place finishes.
