“Her aunt is too busy with her nose buried in her late husband’s scholarly writings to see beyond her spectacles,” answered Lord Hammerton, an elegantly attired gentleman, his hair artfully arranged in the latest a la Brutus style. “But it hardly matters whether or not the chit has ruined herself. It’s not as if she had any prospects for marriage. Not only is she well past the first bloom of youth, but by all accounts, she’s an outspoken, eccentric bluestocking who thinks nothing of breaking any of the rules of Polite Society.”
“What the devil did she do?” inquired one of the others.
A stout gentleman, whose florid face showed the obvious effects of dissolution, gave an exaggerated leer. “She went to view the marble statues which that damned fellow Elgin brought back from Greece.” A pause. “Alone—with nary a chaperone.”
The man who had asked the question furrowed his brow. “I thought young ladies were allowed to look at art.”
The ruddy-faced man’s leer stretched wider. “They are of horses and men.” He paused. “Nakedmen.”
A shocked gasp came from two of the group, but another of them, a baronet with the high shirtpoints and fussy waistcoat of a budding dandy, rocked his hips suggestively. “Likes horses, does she? Perhaps she’d like a good mount.”
There were guffaws all around as another bottle of brandy was ordered.
Hammerton took another long draught from his glass and then offered an additional observation. “As I said, she has a reputation of being a wild hellcat. You know—no manners and no morals. Indeed, I heard her arguing—ye gods,arguing—with a gentleman at Lord and Lady Haverly’s rout.”
A wolfish grin curled a up the corners of his mouth. “But then again, I like a filly with spirit for certain activities.” A nasty grin. “None of which include talking.”
Bawdy laughter rippled through the cigar-scented air.
“Enough.” A baronet from Yorkshire, an infrequent visitor to the club, cleared his throat and looked slightly discomfited. After glancing around the room as if to ascertain who was paying them any attention, he added, “We are discussing, er, ladies of the ton, not some lightskirts from Southwark.”
“Ah, but that is what makes it … interesting. We all like challenges, don’t we?” Hammerton leaned back against the mantel. As he began toying with one of the many fobs that dangled from his watchchain, he cast a surreptitious look at Branford, who still appeared to be dozing, oblivious to the conversation.
“I wonder whether someone with a reputation of cutting a swath through the ladies—say, for example, Branford—could get a forward girl like Miss Chilton to give him a tumble?” He looked around expectantly as some of the others traded nervous glances.
A young baron drained his glass, swaying slightly in the process. “If anyone can do so it’s Branford. Why, if all the rumors are correct,” he said, “he’s sampled the charms of half the wives of theton…”
“Including yours, Whitleigh?” jeered one of the others.
A flush rose to the viscount’s face.
“I say it can’t be done,” said another of the group. “The aunt’s not that much of a loose screw, even if the chit is.”
“A bet! A bet!” chorused two other voices, their tongues loosened by the copious amounts of brandy they had consumed.
A ghost of a smile crept over Hammerton’s lips. “What say you, Branford?” he called in a loud voice, his tone conveyed a note of challenge . “Care to partake in a little wager?”
The earl slowly roused himself from his reveries, the flickering light catching a spark of sapphire through the scrim of his dark lashes. “W-What?”
“A wager,” repeated Hammerton. “Our collective £500 against yours? With your vast fortune, it seems a fair.”
A hint of emotion seemed to flash in Branford’s eyes at Hammerton’s deliberate emphasis on the words ‘vast fortune’, but his face remained impassive. “It seems you do not tire of losing your money to me,” he said evenly. “Over the last month we have been matched at cupping the wafers at Manton’s, racing curricles to Bath and running our horses at Ascot…” He let his sentence trail off.
Hammerton’s jaw tightened.
“However,” continued Branford, “if it amuses you to keep emptying your pockets, why not?”
“Oh, I think I’ll win this one.”
The earl shrugged. “Then go ahead, put it in the betting book.” he mumbled before once again closing his eyes.
“D-Don’t you wish to hear the bet?” asked Whitleigh.
When Branford didn’t deign to respond, Hammerton raised his brows at the others. “He seems awfully confidant, but I must say, this time his hubris may come back to bite him on the arse.” A smile slowly came to life . “Here is the wager—I bet that Branford can’t seduce the chit within a fortnight. Who wishes to join me?”
A murmur of assent came from three of the others.
“Excellent. I shall go enter it in the betting book.”
