Gideon smiled. “Matter of fact,” he drawled, “I’ve just decided to take him on.”
Tummet blinked rather rapidly.
Gideon experienced the sinking feeling that once again he’d allowed temper to push him into a proper bog.
“Good… God!” gasped Mr. Newby Rossiter.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Musicale was a great success. When it ended and the guests adjourned to the refreshment room, little eddies of eager gentlemen formed around the reigning Toasts. In one corner, Katrina Falcon’s admirers jostled one another so as to see her sweet smile and hear the soft voice. Nearby, a vivacious and amply endowed young widow held court, while across the room Lady Naomi Lutonville was surrounded by as ardent beaux, who vied with one another to bring her refreshments, exclaim over the enchantments of her light blue gown, its creamy underdress patterned with dainty blue flowers, or to wax poetical over her glorious eyes, her petal soft skin, her vivid mouth, the allure of her dimples, the perfection of her shapeliness.
Mr. Gordon Chandler, quietly attractive in a dark red velvet coat, the cuffs and pocket flaps rich with silver thread, brought my lady a plate of delicacies and implored that she allow him to escort her to the Glendenning Ball, since Falcon was indisposed. Mr. Alfred Harrier, a plump and fashionably pale youth of great fortune and a slight lisp, held a cup of iced punch ready should the beauty desire it, and pronounced Chandler a pirate, villainously attempting to steal the lady away from him.
“Alas, I am unmasked!” Chandler’s rare smile lit his rather grave features. “Only see how you unnerve me, Lady Naomi! I am so distracted by your beauty as to commit social solecisms, and I dare not guess how my sire will react does he hear of it! Simple kindness demands that you restore my shattered nerves by accompanying me to Tio’s hop.”
“Hop!” Naomi chided him with the familiarity of lifelong friendship. “Fie, Gordie! I think Bowers-Malden would not smile to hear his ball referred to in such a way.”
“You do right to refuse Chandler,” exclaimed Mr. Harrier. “He was so dull as to not exert himself to discover which gown you meant to wear today! I, on the other hand, made discreet enquiries, and thus was able to match my colours to your own, fair goddess! Such devotion surely must be rewarded!”
He was indeed clad in shades of blue, and although jeering cries arose from the gentlemen, Naomi agreed that he must be rewarded, and carefully detaching a tiny white rose from her corsage, passed it to him.
Mr. Harrier received the dainty flower ecstatically, kissed it, and placed it amid the curls of the very high French wig, which did little to conceal his lack of stature.
At once, Naomi was beset by anxious enquiries as to whether this meant she was promised to attend the ball with Harrier.
“No, really, gentlemen,” she protested, laughing. “I am promised to Mr. Falcon, who vows he means to come.”
Lord Sommers, large, ruddy-complected, and unfailingly good-natured, grumbled, “Blister the fellow! I’d heard he would be laid down upon his bed for a month at least.”
“Did you, begad?” A very tall young man whose quizzing glass was a vital necessity, peered at Naomi through it, and asked, “Is’t that bad, ma’am? The highwayman—what?”
“Indirectly, Duke,” answered Naomi. “Falcon was mistaken for one when Captain Rossiter and his friend came to our aid.”
Sommers pursed his lips. “Rossiter has enough to answer for without he must frighten one of London’s fairest flowers and shoot down—”
“No, no, my lord!” interrupted Naomi. “In all fairness I must own that Rossiter was not the culprit.”
“Only see how generous is the dear soul,” lisped Mr. Harrier. “To defend him in spite of—” He received a strong nudge in the ribs, and floundering, turned a bright pink.
Naomi took refuge behind her fan, eyelashes demurely lowered.
Known for his stubborn nature, and loyal to an old friend, Chandler argued, “I fancy Rossiter needs no defence. He’d have no hand in such a fiasco.”
“Then ’tis one of few things that cannot be laid at the Rossiters’ door,” growled Sommers.
“Gideon Rossiter denies ’em,” argued Mr. Harrier. “Faith, but he denies ’em all over Town. Long and loud. Making a regular cake of himself with his questions and investigations. M’father says gentlemen are bolting their doors ’gainst him!”
“Good gracious,” said Naomi. “He has been in England barely a week. What is it he questions?”
The duke waved his quizzing glass. “Everything, dear lady. Seems to be trying to prove his ignoble papa was innocent of all wrongdoing.”
The scornful laughter that greeted this remark was interrupted by a new voice.
“And all England united in a gigantic plot ’gainst Sir Mark, eh?”
The younger gentlemen laughed, and fell back respectfully.
Surprised, Naomi turned to face the newcomer. The great panniers of her skirts were as cumbersome as they were fashionable, but she handled them expertly, and dropped a graceful curtsy. “Papa! I had thought you meant to remain in Kent.”
