Page 44 of The Earl's Disguised Governess
“How is that?” He paused at the door, holding it open for her.
“Reckless,” Claire said, meeting his gaze. “Risky and not always proper.”
Their gazes filled with something unspoken, and Claire blushed at the seriousness on his face. He truly was charming and handsome, and she found her breath catching in her throat. She struggled to admit how attractive his anger had been, even if the harsh words had been aimed at her. He had been passionate in his determination to secure Lady Florence’s safety.
“We worked well together tonight, Miss Gundry,” he said quietly. “Perhaps next time we shall do it again in rather different circumstances.” He glanced behind her. “And warmer tea.”
“I would like that.” Her voice was whispery as they left the drawing room.
“Good night, Miss Gundry.”
“Good night, Lord Bannerdown.”
Chapter 15
Conversation wound through the gentlemen’s club, accompanied by smoke and good wine. Ernest had spent the entire week agitated and reeling. The last few days had been spent tensely. Lady Florence was refusing to speak to either Ernest or Miss Gundry, and although he had tried to reach out to her in a softer manner than their argument had been, she was giving nothing back.
So, he had taken to the gentlemen’s club in Bath, determined to find something.
He had not been there before, but as soon as he’d entered, he could not help picturing his cousin and uncle in there, spending their afternoons discussing prospects and the new Seasons, gossiping in that manner that Ernest found almost as bad as how the women did.
“A man named Victor, you are asking for?” one of the patrons asked him as he sat at a table by the window.
“Yes,” Ernest answered. “He has a scar across his mouth.”
“If I may ask, My Lord, why are you looking for him?”
“I do not wish to give details,” he answered sharply. “Only to seek his presence.”
“I do not know of any ‘Victor’. If you had a family name, he would be easier to track down.”
“Indeed,” Ernest muttered.
All his conversations had gone similarly. Nobody knew of anyone with only the name Victor, and as Ernest had no family name to identify him further, it was hard for anyone to give any leads. He grew more desperate as the afternoon wore on. He went from table-to-table, talking with patrons, asking questions, buying rounds in the hopes that other men might share stories and he’d catch something of use.
He sighed and sat alone once again, awaiting Graham’s return. He had informed his friend of what had happened that night, and he’d immediately offered to help him track down Victor. Ernest spotted him, laughing with a crowd of young men. He always fitted into these scenes so easily. Ernest had a harder time, feeling as though he constantly had one foot in Society and one foot out of it.
He supposed that was true.
How had Matthew, his cousin, and his Uncle George behaved here? Were they well-liked? Did they talk amongstothers or keep to themselves? What did they discuss? He suddenly felt as though he had missed out on a lot more than he realized. Clearly, they had been admirable men. Lady Florence made clear the other night that Ernest differed from them.
“Ernest,” Graham said, finally coming back to his side, breaking him out of his doubtful thoughts. “I come bearing good news. That fellow over there, a Mr Worthington, owns his own club in the next town, and he knows everyone and everything. He has heard of a Lord Victor who matches your description. He is a year older than Lady Florence and is the youngest son of the Marquess of Tuberville. His older son, Lord Simon, is the heir to the estate and ten years older than Lord Victor.”
“I do not care for the brother,” Ernest said impatiently. “What more of Lord Victor?”
“You should care for the brother,” Graham insisted. “For he is hosting a salon in a nearby art gallery this very afternoon.”
“Now?” Ernest sprung up. “Well, then, what are we waiting for?”
The two of them headed out of the gentlemen’s club, with Graham calling to a few friendly patrons before they attended the art gallery. They stayed at the back of the exhibition, watching their host, Lord Simon, who presented the salon with patience and confidence.
His hair was dark and curling around his face, his smile bright, and his eyes full of knowledge as he spoke about art. Ernest tried to tamper down his anger once again.
He is not the culprit, he told himself.
But as they approached Simon at the end of the salon, he struggled to keep himself composed.
“Good afternoon,” Lord Simon called out. “I noticed you in the back of the crowd. I hope my display was up to the tastes of the new Lord Bannerdown.”
