Word in the Commons is that the reason Lord K’s recent speech was significantly less fiery than usual was because his most recentaffair de coeurwent up in flames—literally. At this rate, Lord K’s entire career will be in charred ruins by the time the next election rolls around—because the on-dit is that another young lady is already distracting him.
All in all, quite a noxious little paragraph from start to finish, and a little closer to the bone than such items usually were. Every bloody word of it incensed him. The bit about the speech bothered him because, well—he agreed with it. And the implication that he might be distracted by another woman set his teeth on edge. It might have just been pointless blathering, and he hadn’t gone near Keating in public since he’d danced with her, but he was prepared to draw blood if anyone dared insinuate anything about her directly. No one at all had mentioned her to his face since he’d danced with her. He knew better than to believe it was because everyone had forgotten.
And now it seemed clear that Marie-Claude had eithernotcrossed the Channel as previously reported—or had managed to foment mischief before she did. How else would a connection be made between her and the fire at his house? The only person he’d told was Keating.
It occurred to him with an unwelcome jolt that she might be the only person he currently trusted as much as he trusted his man of affairs.
“Anaffair de coeurand another one in the wings.” Farquar, who was standing in the opposite corner, drawled and shook his head to and fro wonderingly. “Howdoyou do it, Kirke?”
“How do I do it? If your father didn’t have the talk with you when you were a lad, Farkie, I fear I’m a bit too bashful to explain it to you. Does anyone here want to enlighten Farquar, and put his poor wife out of her misery?”
Much ribald laughter here and rude suggestions ensued. “Ask your wife, Farkie! She’ll show you wear to put it!”
Farquar reddened. But curiously, his gaze didn’t waver.
“I meant how do you have time to do your job, Kirke?” Farkie said evenly. “Seems like your constituents might start worrying about it.”
Kirke thoughtfully regarded Farquar through the smoke in the library.
He seemed to be... gloating.
Suspicion prickled the back of his neck.
He sighed. “Oh very well. I’ll tell you,” he said mildly. He casually maneuvered through the crowd to Farquar, who tracked him the whole of the way, wearing a smug little smile.
He stopped mere inches from the man. And for the benefit of anyone who might be watching, he lightly, conciliatorily tapped his brandy glass against Farquar’s and murmured, “How much did you pay Marie-Claude for information about me, Farkie?”
Farquar went rigid with shock.
His eyes darted back and forth like a trapped mouse between a cat’s paws.
Kirke didn’t so much as twitch a muscle. But he could feel a near transcendent fury spill into his veins.
Because this explained everything, including how Farkie had gotten any information about so-called by-blows. Marie-Claude must have somehow read his letter from Anna while he was sleeping.
Farquar turned away and swallowed.
“I guess an equally important question would be how your wife would feel about seeing your name in the gossip columns in connection with your new mistress,” Kirke mused between clenched teeth.
Farkie blanched and his head whipped toward him. “You wouldn’t—Marie-Claude is not—she won’t—”
“Oh,Isee how it is,” he said with a slow, sympathetic little smile. “Marie-Claude might be greedy and perfidious, but she always did have excellent taste in men. A word from the wiser: once you give her something, she’ll never stop asking for more.”He leaned in and murmured, “And Iknowyou’re fond of your wife, Farkie, so you’ll want to keep the gossip sheets out of her hands from now on. I sell more newspapers than you do by merely existing, and I will.Not.Let. This. Go.”
He backed away, and raised his voice a little. “And don’t attempt to say ‘perfidious’ when you’re drunk.” He winked, and Farquar flinched as though hot water had been flicked in his face.
“Have you ever shot a man?”
As fate would have it, both Catherine and Lord Vaughn had been invited to Lord and Lady Coopersmith’s private assembly. And if this question, asked as they were rotating in a waltz, surprised young Lord St. John Vaughn, it scarcely merited an eyebrow twitch. “I haven’t. It strikes me as the sort of thing one can avoid if one really tries.”
This was so dryly put that Catherine smiled. “I suppose if you were a soldier, you wouldn’t be given much of a choice,” she challenged.
“I suppose not. I’m aware that I’m exceedingly privileged.”
It was the matter-of-fact tone with which he’d said it: it wasn’t a brag—and she had indeed heard that sort of brag from more than one young man over the course of the past week, as several had taken pains to assure her that they were so wealthy and comfortable they would never be required to do anything so gauche as go to war.
She officially liked him. His wit was dry and he didn’t natter on about himself. He didn’t, in fact, natter at all. He had a tendency to attempt to smolder, which she was not immune to. She appreciated the effort. His features were sculpted and even, andhis bottom lip had just enough sensual droop to be interesting. His hair was dark, his eyes blue. And he seemed a bit bemused by her. “I’m not terribly intriguing,” she was wickedly tempted to tell him. “I just seem different because I’m from thecountry. That’s what you’re sensing.”
“What if someone challenged you to a duel?” she pressed.
