“He’s not from around here,” Derrick replied, frowning. “I thought Mrs. Asgil only invited her neighbors?”
“Hadley is the nephew of old Mrs. Becknell. He dotes on her and comes to visit her and see that all is well at her little cottage. Decent enough man, if you ask me.”
Derrick made a soft grunt. “Weak chin. Next?”
“Well, that chap who doesn’t seem to know which end of the billiard cue to use, that’s Edward Fuzzwick.”
“Fuzzwick?” Derrick nearly choked on the name.
“I say, did you know? These poles are quite clever,” Fuzzwick announced to the room at large. He peered down the length of his billiard cue the way a very stupid man would stare down the barrel of a pistol.
Several of the men shot him pitying looks.
“The man’s a few cards short of a winning hand,” Freddie muttered. “Be glad you didn’t have to sit next to him at dinner. I mean, look at his neckcloth. Far too many folds, and it’s wilting already. His valet will be in tears tonight, mark my words.”
“I believe we can safely rule him out,” Derrick said with confidence.
“Right, then, we have Byron Boswell next to him. His uncle is the Earl of Tewkesbury. He’s the heir, at least for now. Rumor is the uncle is chasing young debs in London this year, determined to catch some pretty young creature who wants a title bad enough to deal with a grump of a man with gout for a husband.”
“You think Boswell is looking for an heiress in case his uncle marries?”
“Possibly, but he’s young yet, and he’s been seen with Madame Orange.”
“Ah...” Derrick relaxed. Madame Orange was one of London’s premier opera singers. She was a true beauty, but notorious for demanding her lovers be true to her alone while they shared a bed. If Boswell was seen in her company, he would not likely be looking at other women, at least not until he and Madame Orange parted ways.
“Wait, what of Hadley?” Weak chin or not, he was still a possibility.
“Oh, right.” Freddie smiled. “Well, rumor is he’s in a secret engagement with the daughter of a man his father doesn’t like, old business rivals or some such thing. I’m sure Hadley will sort it out or end up carrying the girl off to Gretna Green. Either way, I doubt he’s your man.”
“And him?” Derrick nodded slightly toward a dark, handsome man who rivaled Derrick and Freddie in height and was broader in the shoulders than either of them. He’d be a hard man to beat in a boxing ring.
“Nicholas Falconridge is an earl. I’m not exactly sure why he’s here. He’s not local to the area...” Freddie’s voice trailed off as the man in question poured himself a stout glass of brandy and returned to his position of frowning as he gazed out the window at the moonlit snow.
“But you know him?”
“I know moreofhim, if you understand. The man is a mystery. He comes to London only once a year, attends the presentation of debutantes, then leaves the next day for his estate in the far north of England.”
“Why? What is he looking for?”
“I’m not quite sure. There are rumors he lost his wife years ago—tragic thing. My guess is he’s looking for a girl who reminds him of her. Someone who is brave enough to face the haunted Falconridge estate.”
“That sounds rather grim.” Derrick continued to eye the man. There was no menace in his eyes, only a hollow look that Derrick recognized with a pang in his chest. It was the look of a man who had lost something dear to him. A look of regret for choices made.
Was Falconridge the one who had won Arianna’s heart? It was possible. Arianna was the sort of woman who would want to heal a brokenhearted man.
“Poncenby, have they met?”
“Who?”
“Arianna and Falconridge.”
“Not that I know of, but despite the impression I give, I am not all knowing.”
“And the rest of them?” Derrick studied the remaining men in the billiard room. “Anyone else I should know of?”
“The rest are married, except that rather squat one. He’s a vicar, but has no interest in romance. He’s rather too in love with his pulpit.”
“So no one else, then.”
