Jason leaned back against the carriage seat, arms crossed, and glowered at the darkened city streets flashing past the window.
St. James’s Square wasn’t far, but it was far enough for him to stew.
And stew he did.
Lady Georgiana Chadwick.
Fire in her eyes, defiance in her voice, her chin tilted high as though she dared the world to strike her down.
Spoiled. Reckless. A nuisance.
That’s what her brother had always said.
“Georgie’s a bother,” Chadwick would grumble after three pints at White’s. “Too sharp by half, too spirited, too much.”
And yet—Jason’s jaw worked—he couldn’t quite square that image of her with the way she’d looked tonight, swathed in shadows and the scarf, clutching her skirts as she tried to escape.
Running from the Marquess of Henderville.
Henderville.
Jason muttered a low oath and rubbed a hand over his mouth.
He’d run from Henderville too, given the chance.
Which was why he was on his way to visit Chadwick and ask him outright if his sister was truly betrothed to that old goat.
By the time the coach clattered to a halt in front of Chadwick’s bachelor flat in St. James, Jason’s mood had soured even further.
The driver opened the door and Jason stepped down, straightening his coat before rapping on the door and letting himself in.
Inside, the faint strains of music and female laughter drifted down out onto the cobblestones.
Of course.
Chadwick’s idea of convalescence apparently involved brandy, women, and no doubt some enterprising footman who’d managed to produce a pianoforte on short notice.
Jason pushed the door open and was greeted by the sight of Henry Chadwick—future viscount, notorious rake, and present invalid—lounging on a sofa with his splinted leg propped up on a pillow.
A decanter sat at his elbow, two scantily clad women danced to the lilting music, and the room smelled faintly of smoke and cheap perfume.
“Pembroke!” Chadwick called out cheerfully, raising his glass. “Come to join the revels? Took you long enough.”
Jason didn’t answer at first. He shut the door behind him, removed his gloves, and surveyed the scene with a dispassionate eye.
One of the women giggled and offered him a come-hither smile.
He ignored her.
The music swelled, and Chadwick gestured at him with his glass. “Don’t just stand there looking like you’ve swallowed a lemon. Sit. Drink. There’s plenty to go around.”
Jason remained standing another beat before finally sinking into the chair opposite him, rubbing a hand through his hair.
“I need to ask you something,” he said flatly.
Chadwick took a long swallow of brandy and leaned back, smirking. “By all means. Ask away.”
Jason narrowed his eyes on his friend. “Is it true,” he said slowly, and perhaps too loudly, “that your sister is betrothed to the Marquess of Henderville?”
