“Of course,” Neil murmured.
He looked back once, long enough to see Maggie watching him, brow furrowed. Then she turned away, taking Emma’s hand.
“Your niece is a charming child,” Lady Constance said coldly, “but that governess—what an impertinent creature. So plain, so insolent. We would never have permitted her kind at Farendale.”
Neil clenched his jaw. “But you arenotat Farendale, are you, Lady Constance?”
She swung round, eyes wide. “I beg your pardon?”
“And I would be obliged if you loosened your grip,” he added evenly. “You have claws enough to shame a hawk.”
She snatched her arm free and went striding ahead, hurrying towards the house with her maid in tow.
Aunt Harriet will scold me for this,Neil thought grimly, but could not summon it in himself to care.
Chapter Thirteen
“I imagine you’re glad to get out of that house,” Simon remarked, stretching his legs out on the opposite carriage seat.
Neil’s carriage rocked and rumbled through the night, carrying them back to London for Lord Pemberton’s party. They had been travelling since noon; even so, this was quicker by far than crawling along in a lumbering stagecoach.
“More than you can imagine,” Neil replied. “And get your dirty boots off my carriage seat.”
“They’re clean. Freshly polished before we left,” Simon sniffed. “I hear your bride-to-be—Lady Constance—had a less than graceful encounter with poor Emma in the gardens.”
Neil let out a long, ragged sigh. “Who told you this? Why do you always know everything straightaway?”
He shrugged. “Jenny told me. I often slip into the kitchens for something to eat. She’s usually there.”
“Hm.” Neil’s voice was dry. “Well, Lady Constance isnotmy bride-to-be, whatever my aunt may think.”
Simon watched him thoughtfully for a moment. “Be careful, Neil.”
He lifted his eyebrows. “Of what?”
“If Lady Westbrook makes her approval plain, and the Farendales begin hinting that a match is likely, you might find yourself ensnared. It may not be easy to draw back.”
Neil was silent a moment. Then, quietly: “Thank you for the warning, Simon. But I’ve yet to find myself in a situation I could not disentangle—particularly where the heart is concerned.”
Simon leaned back, the lantern swaying overhead and throwing shadows across his face. “There’s always a first time.”
They reached Lord Pemberton’s London townhouse an hour later. It was past midnight; the windows blazed with light, spilling gold across the wet, glistening street.
Inside, the air was heavy with smoke and heat. There would be no dancing here—no hostess, no ladies. Lady Pemberton was away, and such gatherings were not considered suitable for women in any case. The men called them ‘card parties’, though the stakes ran far higher than cards alone.
The room smelled of cologne, sweat, and candlewax—sharp and close, almost metallic. Simon vanished at once into the crowd to mingle, drink, and listen. Neil lingered, assessing the tables. Faro was still fashionable, though hazard seemed to rule the night.
He drifted among the tables, conscious of glances that followed him—some wary, some openly challenging. He ignored them all.
Cards and dice came easily to Neil. He could remember every play, every card laid down, and the habits of each opponent. There was luck in it, yes, but pattern too. Every game had a rhythm; one only had to find it.
He had been accused of cheating before. He had dealt with all such accusations as sharply and harshly as they deserved, and nobody else had dared level such claims towards him again.
There was a hazard table at the corner with a few grim-faced familiars clustered around it. Neil recognised the men, not as friends, but as acquaintances, gentlemen who understood the game a little more than the fresh-faced earl’s sons who frequented these places, armed with an inheritance and a lot of unearned confidence.
I’ll play there.
Before he could move, however, a figure flitted out of the crowd, placing a hand on his shoulder. He flinched, momentarily full of anger, before he realised who it was.
