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SIX

Stockworth Manor

After supperthat evening

“Let’sgo through to the ladies, gentlemen.” George Templeton rose, his rotund belly bumping the table and rattling a few crystal tumblers. “My missus has delightful entertainment planned for the evening.”

Finally.

Jack had promised not to leave Aubriella’s side, but he couldn’t conceive of an excuse for not partaking in spirits and cigars with the men and joining the women instead.

Wouldn’t that cause the rumor mills to spin?

Normally, the hour after supper passed quickly with discussions about politics, horses, trade, and ribald jokes. However, aware Aubriella fended for herself, he’d checked his timepiece with increasing impatience every few minutes.

Twice, he’d glanced up to see Baron Spencer Willoughby observing him with a strange expression on his dissipated countenance. Though kin to George Templeton—second or third cousins?—Jack had never cared for the Willoughbys. Not only did they put on haughty airs and treat those without a title like underlings, but they were also a slimy lot.

Jack couldn’t count the times Francine, as wanton as a dockside harlot, had invited him to bed her these past three years. Last December, she’d followed him to the conservatory, and it had been all he could do to pry her off him. This year, he’d ensure he was occupied and was never alone with her, and Aubriella provided that insurance.

Ugly rumors also circulated that old man Willoughby possessed an unnatural appetite for young boys. It was a wonder anyone included them in their social circles, but then all manner of excuses were made for wealthy aristocrats’ deplorable behavior.

Jack wasted no time departing the dining room. Eager to keep his promise to Aubriella that he’d stay by her side, he’d made it halfway down the corridor when Lord Willoughby waylaid him.

“I would have a word with you, Matherfield.”

“Now?” Jack stepped aside to permit the other gentlemen to pass. “Can it not wait?”

“No. It cannot.” Willoughby shook his head, his fleshy jowls jiggling back and forth like a hound on the hunt. Once the last man had turned the corner and was out of earshot, Willoughby puffed out his substantial chest. “Francine is pregnant. You shall marry her within a fortnight.”

Jack barely refrained from putting a finger in his ears to make sure he’d heard Lord Willoughby correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

Surely he had misheard.

“You and Francine shall be wed,” Willoughby announced as if discussing what jam to smear on his scone.

“Whether your daughter is with child is not my concern. I have never been intimate with her.” Or any other female, for that matter. “She’s shared her favors far and wide. I sincerely doubt she knows who the father is.”

Willoughby’s face turned an astonishing shade of purplish-red.

“Be that as it may,” he sputtered in outraged offense, “she has chosen you.”

Jack leaned against the wall, arms folded, a ruse against the feral urge to seize Willoughby by his fat throat and shake him to within an inch of his miserable life.

“And Francine always gets what she wants?” Jack’s silky timbre would’ve alerted a man smarter than Lord Willoughby. Shaking his head, Jack bared his teeth, no longer caring to act the part of a gentleman. “She won’t have her way this time. I shall not marry the chit. Ever.”

His face contorting in fury, Willoughby stomped forward. Shaking with ire, he lifted a fisted hand. “I can ruin you, Matherfield.”

“You can try.” Jack straightened, looking down at the older man and letting the rage tunneling through his veins manifest in his gravelly voice. “But I can produce at least a half dozen men—some in this very house, in truth—who haven’t a qualm about revealing they’ve bedded your daughter.”

“You… you wouldn’t dare.” Willoughby had worked himself into such a state that spittle formed on the side of his mouth. “No gentleman would denounce a lady so cravenly.”

“Despite your title, Willoughby, your daughter is no lady.”

Willoughby opened and shut his mouth several times, only managing to emit strangled, gurgling noises.

Jack hadn’t finished taking the pompous man down several pegs. “All of London is aware of her loose morals.” He leaned forward. “Do you know she’s called Fickle Francine?”

And a few other crude terms Jack refused to let pass his lips.