Chapter Ten
Bane
Bane and Drakehad not been invited to dinner before the ball. They had not even known there was a dinner before the ball, until they had encountered Jasper Marple at a coffee shop that morning. They had been discussing a problem—the contract for the cutlery machine had been sent to Sheffield a fortnight ago, but they’d heard nothing back from Pentworth.
Bane was concerned. What if something had happened to their engineer or his wife? An accident, perhaps. What if he had sold the idea to someone else? Drake, as usual, was more relaxed about the possibilities.
“We can write again,” he said. “Otherwise, short of going back to Sheffield, we cannot know what is going on, and I see no point in worrying about it, when everything is probably as it should be, except that our prospective partner has a bad cold, or a busy schedule, or too much to drink.”
Drake might be right, but since Bane didn’t have his optimistic attitude, he was going to worry whether Drake thought he should or not. And too much drink would be a problem for the project, come to think of it.
Deep in conversation, they didn’t see Marple till he stood over them. “If it isn’t Sanderson and his half-brother.”
“Marple,” Drake acknowledged.
“Lord Marple to you, Sanderson,” Marple sneered.
Bane stood and bowed extravagantly. “Lord Marple,” he said.
Marple’s sneer deepened. He turned his shoulder toward Bane and addressed Drake. “I see your father’s bastard still hides his face around decent people,” he commented.
Drake’s face flushed and he half-stood, but Bane put a hand on his shoulder. “The yapping of an unweaned pup,” he commented.
Marple’s companion snickered, and the young viscount forgot he was ignoring Bane and attempted to loom over him. “What did you call me?”
No doubt the looming trick worked with some, but Bane was half a head taller and considerably more muscular than Marple. He raised an eyebrow. “Did you not hear it?” he lied smoothly. “From outside? It sounded like a pup.”
“It did,” Drake confirmed. “One that still has a great deal to learn.”
“You were talking about me,” Marple insisted.
“Why would you think that?” asked Bane, doing his best imitation of gently puzzled.
The friend snickered again. They had been introduced to him, Bane realized. His name was Curston and he was the son of a baron who was, unless Bane missed his guess, Lady Marple’s lover, or at least a very close friend who wanted to be a lover. The younger Curston, who was a year or two older than Marple, had been at the infamous party Colin had held in Frannie’s absence.
“He’s got you there, Marps,” Curston said. “You don’t want to agree you were yapping, do you? Best leave it at that.”
With a fulminating glare at his friend, Marple announced, “We had best be off. We need to dress for Mama’s dinner. All the best people are invited to dinner before the girls’ ball, and Mama has asked me most especially to be there, to greet the important guests.”
The way he watched Bane and Drake for a reaction hinted that the exposition was for them, not for the friend. He’d have been disappointed. Drake said, “Good afternoon, Lord Marple.” To the other gentleman, he inclined his head. “Mr. Curston.”
“We shall see you later then,” said Bane, purely to get a rise out of the arrogant young pup.
Marple grimaced, and said to his friend, “I do not know what Mama was thinking.”
Bane decided he’d teased the young lord enough, and didn’t need Drake’s warning look to keep his mouth shut. The two brothers watched the two aristocrats leave the cafe, and Bane half expected Drake to scold him for being provocative.
Instead, his brother grinned. “The yapping of an unweaned pup. Nicely put. Our poor ladies, withthatfor a cousin. Of course, it’s his own heritage that makes him so quick to put others down. He thinks if he attacks the class from which his mother came, others will forget that she was merchant-born.”
Yes, possibly. Probably, in fact. “You have a point. There are men in the investment club who are as high-born or higher. In Drew’s case, much higher. None of them ever seem to feel the need to make me—or you, either—feel lesser.”
“Yes, and there’s also Wart.” Lord and Lady Wharton had arrived in London last week, and Bane and Drake had called and left a card. In response, the couple had sent them an invitation to dine with them and a few other close friends. It had been a most convivial evening.
“Garry, too,” Drake added. “He’s never behaved as if there was any difference. Not even last time we saw him.”
“A duke’s grandson, and his heir, too, after his father. Blue blood on both sides, going back to the Conqueror, and further I don’t doubt.”
Gareth Versey, the Marquess of Thornstead, had been godson to Marple’s father, and had stayed with the Marplesfor a couple of weeks most summers. He was the same age as Bane and Drake, and they had racketed across the countryside together whenever they could escape from their tutors, picking up their friendship each summer as if the intervening months had been a mirage.
