Page 9

Indeed, it was.

There was neither approval nor disapproval in Miss Wellbrook’s voice at Fletcher’s unfashionable choice. He refused to grow side whiskers or wear his hair in the popular dandified styles: Brutus, Caesar, Titus, or the frightened owl.

Who in God’s name wanted to go about looking like a bloody terrified fowl had gone to battle with one’s hair? A fop or a dandy who gave more than two damns about his appearance, Fletcher would never be—to his mother’s utter and complete vexation.

All the more reason to refuse to abide by society’s strictures.

“And you escorted Lady Sheldon-Furnsby.” Miss Wellbrook’s tone took on a cooler and far less neutral edge.

That, too, was most telling.

Lady Cecelia Sheldon-Furnsby’s tenacious, hell-cat reputation preceded her, it would seem. And by God, not a word about her unpleasant character was a bloody exaggeration.

The woman had sought him out as aggressively and doggedly as a crazed hound on the fresh scent of a fox. Ever determined, she’d cornered Fletcher last evening and latched onto his arm, much like a tick on a dog or a barnacle on a ship’s hull. Each required considerable effort and resolve to dislodge.

As had Lady Sheldon-Furnsby last night.

He’d only managed to pry her talons off when he’d pled a fabricated need to use the necessary to relieve himself.

She’d offered to accompany him and help.

Brazen as a dockside strumpet.

Fletcher hadn’t a doubt last evening’s unpleasant encounter with her ladyship was more of his mother’s high-handed interference. Lady Cecelia Sheldon-Furnsby was a wealthy widow.

“She’s a blueblood, Kincade, descended from centuries of bluebloods. Her breeding is impeccable.” Mother’s strident invections yet rang in his ears. “She is everything one could want in a duchess.”

Everything his mother wanted in a duchess.

Cecelia’s flawless lineage was all that the current Duchess of Kincade cared about.

The fact that if Cecelia didn’t bear a title, she’d be labeled a mean-tempered whore didn’t faze Dear Mama. Cecelia made the Biblical Jezebel look like an innocent, fresh-faced milkmaid.

However, her mother just happened to be his mother’s closest confidant for most of their adult lives—just under two-and-thirty years. Those two conspirators had plotted a union between him and Cecelia since they’d both been in leading strings.

To the ladies’ meddling chagrin, Cecelia had married another, much older lord of the realm five years ago when Fletcher had made it quite clear he wasn’t taking a woman of the same ilk as his mother to wife. He’d seen firsthand what kind of misery a mismatch like that caused, and he wasn’t having any of it.

Now that she was out of mourning—damn my eyes—it would appear Lady Sheldon-Furnsby had set her sparkling cap for him.

She was going to be highly disappointed again.

As was Mother.

Eventually, Fletcher would marry, and when he did, it would be to a woman who hadn’t a qualm about rusticating and moldering away in Scotland, as his mother put it.

When his uninvited garden guest still did not offer to introduce herself but, instead, bit her lip and peered longingly over his shoulder at the moss-covered folly, he said, “And ye are Miss Rayne Wellbrook.”

Her light brown, bronze-tinged eyes wide, Rayne swung him a disconcerted glance.

“I am. How did you know?” Brushing that glorious hair off her shoulder, she gave him a self-conscious smile. “That was a silly question. I suppose Griffin told you.”

She dropped the knife into her basket with a little clink.

Evidently, she’d decided Fletcher posed no immediate threat to her wellbeing.

Nodding, he angled sideways, giving her an unobstructed view of the gardens behind him. “I’ve let this property for at least the duration of my time in London.” He swept his contented gaze over the area. “I may decide to purchase the place. My sister would like a London Season.”

“Oh.” There was no mistaking the disappointment shadowing Rayne’s pretty features.