Page 7 of When Dashing Met Danger

open, taking the baffled coachman’s hand. “I’ll do quite well without you.” She stepped down from the carriage, deposited his heavy greatcoat at his feet, turned, and glided regally up the short walk.

“You’re not behaving in a very sisterly fashion,” he called after her. She stiffened at the amusement in his voice and stopped for a fraction of an instant under the wrought-iron arc of the lamp shedding light on the landing. Then, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a backward glance, she straightened, jerked her head high, marched up the last of the steps, and stormed through the polished black door of the town house.

Chapter Three

From the coach, Alex watched Lucia flounce away, a bemused smile on his lips. “Oliver, to my club.” At least there he could avoid any further female entanglements.

He was wrong.

He sat alone in a dim corner of Brooks’s Great Subscription Room, away from the sparkling light of the chandelier dominating the domed ceiling. Nursing a stiff drink, his third in a row, Alex ignored the low rumble of gamblers’ voices at the green baize faro tables. Behind him the heavy drapes on the floor-length windows were shut against the crowds on St. James’s Street, but thoughts of Lucia refused to leave him in peace. Over and again, he saw her hair tumbling from its pins, felt its silkiness in his hands, felt her body shiver as he touched her, saw fire in her eyes when she challenged him.

He’d been a fool to touch her. It only served to arouse him further, and to keep his body in check, he’d had to cling to the refrain that she was family, and he was supposed to be her protector, not her ravisher. He’d not thought of her in either light before. At fourteen she’d been too pretty for her own good—a silly chit, giggling and flitting about him like a butterfly. Even then she’d been headstrong and impulsive, her intelligent eyes missing very little. It wasn’t exactly an accident that he hadn’t seen her in years.

He let the last remnants of the sour gin slide down his throat and was about to pour another, when Baron Alfred Dewhurst pulled up a chair.

Society called Dewhurst the pinkest of the pinks. He was a few years younger than Alex, and with his tousled blond hair, blue tailcoat, white breeches and waistcoat, he was more dandy than rake. Some women preferred the aura of danger Alex cultivated; others preferred Dewhurst’s genial smiles and conventional good looks. Some preferred them both. He and Dewhurst were friendly rivals, competing in their schooldays for more than one lady’s affections.

Alex knew most of the ton didn’t understand how they tolerated each other, outwardly they seemed so different. When he and Dewhurst had both fallen into working for the Foreign Office, this secret work solidified the friendship begun during their schooldays.

But after his ordeal that evening, Alex was in no mood even for Dewhurst. He looked up menacingly from his glass as the baron sat down with his usual fanfare.

“No need to give me the evil eye, old boy.” Dewhurst leaned comfortably back in the elegant mahogany armchair. “I can see you’re on the cut, and far be it from me to interfere with your plans to enter a state of drunken stupor. Just thought you might want some company before oblivion descends.”

“Suit yourself.” Alex poured Dewhurst then himself a drink.

Dewhurst regarded him speculatively. “It can’t be financial trouble. You’ve got more blunt than you know what to do with, and you’ve never been one for gambling.” He tapped a finger on his temple and made a show of studying the exquisite scrollwork decorating the ceiling above them. “It can’t be female trouble. In that arena as well I fear you leave little for the rest of us.” He grinned. “Though I am catching up. Enjoyed the company of a most talented little opera singer last night—”

“Freddie.” Alex gave him a weary look.

Dewhurst shrugged. “It must be family trouble. Although I saw Winterbourne the other night, and he and his wife seemed happy as ever. Really most unfashionable, these marriages of unmitigated bliss! Leaves far too few wives ripe for dalliance, eh?”

“You don’t seem to be suffering from the lack.” Alex took a sip of his gin. With something of a flourish, Dewhurst raised his own glass as well, ruining the effect by grimacing slightly when he tasted the strong liquor.

“Can’t say that I do,” he rasped. “But the question is, from what precisely do you suffer? Something’s behind this state of high dudgeon.”

Alex raked a hand through his hair. “How well do you know Lucia Dashing?”

Dewhurst’s eyebrows rose with interest, further irritating Alex.

“Viscount Brigham’s youngest filly? I know the chit. Corky girl. Beautiful enough to make any man’s head turn but—” He sighed dramatically. “Alas, she’s been on the marriage market. Her mama and that brother of hers were careful to keep any of our kind away. Not that the brother was very effective. He’s just a pup.”

Alex narrowed his eyes, and Dewhurst grinned. “Lower your hackles, Selbourne. Not my type anyway. Now, in a few years, when she tires of that fool Dandridge, she’ll be ripe for picking.”

Alex wasn’t certain he liked Lucia being referred to as “ripe for picking.” He could well imagine the conversation the young bucks had when she was the topic. He scowled, immediately regretting the show of emotion when Dewhurst’s grin broadened.

“Why the sudden interest, Selbourne?”

“I saw her home tonight. Dandridge was trying to have his wedding night early.”

“Dandridge dipping rather deep again, eh? Sad excuse for a man. From what I’ve seen of Miss Dashing’s spirit, she’ll have a rough time of it. He’s a sapskull and his mother is”—he shuddered— “frightening. Miss Dashing will have to toe the line.”

Alex nodded and poured them both another. If Alex wanted information, Dewhurst could supply it. Freddie knew everyone and went everywhere. The ladies of the ton practically fell over themselves to offer him invitations to their balls and soirees.

A small group of ardent gamblers behind them erupted into an argument, and Alex had to raise his voice, “Why is she with him?”

Dewhurst turned away from the excitement at the faro table. “Oh, the lovesick youth courted her as they always do, but you can’t expect her to marry some twenty-year-old fop. I believe she had another offer from a marquess—one of the swell of the first stare—but her father refused him.” He sat back, looking uncharacteristically contemplative.

“He wants her to marry into a family with ties to the Parliament. Looking to get ahead. Their fathers have been planning this wedding since the two were infants. Surprised you didn’t know.”

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