Page 11 of Betting on a Baron
Ambrose stood, and with a nod Lord Sumnerson left him to ponder on the day’s events. Except he was alone for but a moment when Foxton entered and marched straight to the sideboard and poured drinks for them both.
“Your sister is a harridan. Did you hear me, Harlowe? An absolute harridan.”
He took the glass from his fellow Masters member and replied, “Alice is hardly what I would consider old at five-and-twenty; however, she can be rather obstinate at times.”
“Bossy, interfering, unyielding…”
Ambrose held up his glass and said, “Why exactly are you here?”
“To offer you my assistance, of course. How much do you need to set matters straight?”
Sputtering at the magnanimous offer, Ambrose leapt to his feet. “I’ve not seen you in nearly three years, you've only recently returned, and yet you are willing to help me. What’s the catch?”
“Keep your sister at bay.”
“Egad, man. A rake with your reputation shouldn’t be scared of my little sister.”
“I’m not scared… I’m petrified. My ears are still ringing from the tongue lashing she gave me earlier.”
Ambrose couldn’t help but smile. He was rather proud of his sister for managing to set the man drinking with him on edge. Foxton’s bravado was only skin deep. The man despised confrontation even to the smallest degree. “I heard you will be venturing off to the seaside come morning.”
“Yes, I’ll be accompanying Lady Whalen to her new abode, along with Dartman, Whistlestop, and Hurlington.”
Lord Dartman was also a fellow Masters member; however, the Duke of Whistlestop and the Earl of Hurlington were not. Masters membership was restricted to twenty men who came from all walks of life. Some titled, some illegitimate, some were younger sons of titled gentlemen, while some were men who had elevated their station through pure hard work and determination. The only requirement for continued membership was that the size of the member’s bank ledger must exceed two hundred thousand pounds and he must keep the names of fellow members a secret. He recalled Sumnerson’s words from earlier—a title does not define a man. Gerald Ellerman, the founder of Masters, started off as a shipowner who ended up investing in newspapers, coal mines, and London property. He was a self-made man and one of the most respected men in all of London, invited to attend court regularly and every other ton event, not because others knew of his wealth but because the man was well spoken and liked. Ellerman commanded a room with ease and poise.
“Harlowe!” Foxton was waving his empty glass in the air. “Have you heard a word I said?”
“Beg your pardon, Foxton, my mind was elsewhere.” Ambrose took Foxton’s tumbler and walked to the sideboard. “While I appreciate your offer of assistance, it is not at all necessary. I still qualify for membership; I had simply wished to ensure that the woman I proposed to wasn’t a treasure hunter.” He poured a generous finger of brandy into the glasses and returned to sit by the fire. He handed Foxton his glass. “Turns out my entire scheme was redundant.”
Foxton took the tumbler from Ambrose. “Ah, so you have already identified who shall be the next Baroness of Harlowe. Who is the lucky gel?”
“Lady Daphne Wilcock.”
Foxton’s eyes grew wide as he choked on the amber liquid. “Your sister's boon companion. The chit that is always within arm’s length of you…that Lady Daphne?”
“You exaggerate. Lady Daphne hasn’t always been close at hand. I would have noticed…wouldn’t I?” Ambrose couldn’t recall a single event over the past eight years where his sister hadn’t been within sight of him, a rule he’d firmly established in her debut season. Damnation, that meant Foxton was correct, but why had he not noted Daphne's beauty prior to today?
“I imagine you might have viewed Lady Daphne akin to a little sister all these years. Trust me, as a brother who is about to embark on launching his youngest and third sister into society this Season, it is not easy to acknowledge that they are no longer girls in the school room but fine young ladies ready to embark upon the next stage of life.” Foxton downed the rest of his drink. “I’m glad to hear the rumors of your hardship were false. I plan on returning to London at the onset of the Season. Since I too will be subjected to the tiresome social route, I shall be cheering you on from the sidelines and wishing you all the success in winning Lady Daphne’s hand.” Foxton placed his empty glass on the side table and rose to his feet. The man stood in front of Ambrose, ran his fingers along his jaw until they came together at his chin, opened his mouth as if to speak, and then pivoted to march out of the room muttering under his breath.
If Ambrose had to wager, he’d bet a thousand pounds that Foxton was still grumbling over his run in with Alice. The pair were like oil and water. Ambrose just wasn’t certain who was water and who was oil. Hmm…Alice had to be oil, for Foxton was definitely the denser of the two.
Ambrose leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Images of Daphne over the past eight Seasons flickered through his memory. He’d been an oblivious fool in the past, but that was the past. His new mission was to discover who Lady Daphne really was.
CHAPTERSIX
Daphne rubbed her hands together and then over her bare arms. Seated alone on a stone bench under large fronds of greenery, she swung her legs back and forth. The Duke of Fairmont’s estate was divine. Every season it became easier and easier for her to escape into the beautifully manicured garden. It was cooler outdoors than she expected. She let her head fall back as she gazed up at the dark sky glittering with stars. The constellations were aligned in just the right manner that it reminded her of Ambrose's handsome profile. Blast the man. For the last two weeks, the man who’d held her affections for so many years had suddenly appeared wherever she went. It was bloody infuriating, seeing as in the past she'd spend days devising plans to be in the same vicinity as Ambrose. Her eyes closed, and the memory of Ambrose attempting to trail nonchalantly behind her and Alice a week ago along the Serpentine had the corner of her lips curving into a smile. He even joined them for a spell before Alice sent him on his way, claiming he was injuring her chances of luring an eligible gentleman. Then yesterday Ambrose had skulked outside Gunter’s as Daphne treated Alice to an ice. With no pin money of her own, Alice had savored each bite as if she’d never have the chance to eat the frozen treat again.
Whether it was the cool evening breeze or the memory of enjoying an ice, Daphne shivered. It was time she returned to the Fairmont ball before she caused a scandal or witnessed one. The latter being the most likely. Even if she were to be embroiled in anything remotely close to a scandal, her papa would see to the matter just as he had at the Hadfield soiree. If her papa wasn’t a man of his word, she’d already be married to Ambrose. But her papa promised not interfere in her choice to marry or even opine on the prospective groom. He simply told her to choose wisely. Her heart swelled at the knowledge her papa trusted her judgement.
Her chin dipped to her chest. The Season had officially begun and according to Alice her days as a spinster were numbered, for Ambrose was set on marrying her off this Season. Since Daphne was fairly certain Ambrose never had and neverwouldfail to achieve anything he set his mind to, she listened to her best friend's complaints with a sympathetic ear and nodded her support to ensure this was the most memorable Season for them both.
A heavy coat fell upon her shoulders and she looked up as Ambrose stepped around to stand before her. The man was as stealthy as a cat sneaking about in the dark. “Hiding?”
“Not very well it seems.”
“I thought we had an agreement.”
“We do?” She’d hoped he’d forgotten the mortifying day in the park.
