Justin had known Lord Blakely since Eton. Considerable time had passed since he’d last seen him and they’d gone their separate ways; Blakely into industry and Justin, the church.
“Prescott, White.” Marcus Roberts, the Earl of Blakely, claimed the seat on the other side of Justin. “The duel? I presume that is to what you are referring? Oh, yes. I was present that day. What in the hell is he doing in Town again?”
“Stirring up trouble, from the sounds of it. And now this disgusting wager.”
Justin had wondered what all the activity at the betting book was about. “A gentleman’s favorite entertainment,” he commented non-committally. Justin had done some gambling before entering the church but seen enough damage since to keep his distance.
Families ruined. Estates fallen into disrepair. Ladies left to live in squalor.
In general, he didn’t approve.
Dev swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “The damned thing puts me in something of a quandary.” Justin waited for Dev to continue speaking. A duke now, his cousin must feel greater responsibility than ever before. Devlin’s title was new to him. He’d been fourth in line to inherit and nobody, least of all the man himself, had ever considered inheriting a likely possibility.
“What sort of quandary, Prescott?” Blakely leaned forward.
Dev set his jaw. “Before his untimely death last year, our cousin did irreparable damage to an innocent young woman’s reputation. St. John couldn’t keep his mouth closed regarding his conquests and has besmirched this particular young lady’s, ah, virtue. And now,” Dev lifted his glass to indicate the activity around the betting book, “Kensington and other so-called gentlemen have initiated a wager on who might next impose upon her favors.”
Justin did not need to inquire as to the identity of the young lady.
No wonder Kensington had been so confident, so bold last night with Miss Mossant. Dash it all, once these louts got a hold of such information, whether there was any truth to it or not, they weren’t likely to leave it be.
And once everyone else got a hold of it… Miss Mossant’s entire family could be ruined.
Blakely broke the silence that had ensued upon Dev’s statement. “But why is this your problem?”
But Justin understood.
Sophia was Dev’s wife, his duchess, and she was one of Miss Mossant’s closest friends.
“The young woman is very dear to my duchess. Her friends are everything to her. If she learns of this, she’ll be deeply distressed, and anything that distresses my wife, distresses me.” And then he added, “Deeply.”
“Ah.” Blakely raised his brows but nodded. “Is she in Town with you, then?”
“At Prescott House.” The ducal townhouse was one of the grandest estates in all of Mayfair. “Along with our one-month-old daughter and a few other relatives. What with the speed this sort of nonsense travels, it’s only a matter of time before she gets wind of it.” Prescott gestured with his drink toward the betting book.
The duke and duchess were a thought-provoking couple. Devlin, former military, had always been considered something of a rogue. He was tall, with black hair and eyes—brawny enough to make most think twice before giving him cause for displeasure. The duchess, petite and blonde, was quite the opposite—in nature as well as looks. Justin remembered hearing something about difficulties throughout her confinement.
“What can we do to assist you?” Justin asked. The lady in question was obviously Miss Rhododendron Mossant. The thought of her disquieted him. She appealed to him much the same as she did most other men, he supposed, but mystery lurked in the depths of her dark gaze. Was that mystery nothing more than sorrow over St. John’s death?
Justin chastised himself for feeling jealous of a dead man. And him a vicar.
Such a shame, really. She’d deserved better. She still did.
From his own discussions with St. John, shortly before the man’s death, he’d understood his cousin had had no intention of offering for the girl. In fact, he’d told Justin he had no imminent plans to marry. He’d enjoyed sowing his oats.
“Anything to stifle the gossip,” Devlin suggested, but they all knew just as well how futile that would be.
“Get the chit out of Town,” Justin offered. “Perhaps your wife could plan a house party down at Priory Point.”
“Not Priory Point,” Dev said. But he seemed inclined to like the idea. “At Eden’s Court, perhaps.”
Last night’s ball at the Crabtrees’ had been the first of the Season. “Will the ladies be amenable to leaving so soon? The festivities here in Town have just begun.”
Examining the contents of his glass in the light, Devlin contemplated Justin’s question. “I will speak with Sophia. She will want whatever is best for her friend, and her friends will wish to accommodate Sophia as a new mother.”
Recalling the voracity with which Kensington had pursued Miss Mossant, Justin could not help but believe it would be best for her to get out of Town. There might yet be hope for her reputation as long as the wager never played out.
And if she ceased inviting trouble for herself.
