Page 104 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
“As a matter of fact, I wasn’t,” he said. “Though I might as well have been, seeing as the outcome was the same.”
“You mean—a man was killed?” Eleanor asked.
Sawbridge winced. “How did you know? Surely the gossip hasn’t reached here yet.”
“I see it in your eyes, sir.”
“See what?”
“The shame.”
Sawbridge closed his eyes and sighed. Then he opened them and nodded slowly. “A man was killed, yes—and a woman. It was Viscount Radham.”
“Radham!” Lady Arabella cried, rolling her eyes. “May God preserve his soul, but he was the most prolific toper to disgrace London’s drawing rooms. And the lady?”
“Mrs. Delacroix.”
Eleanor glanced at her husband, who shifted position like a child fidgeting when brought before his nanny for admonishment.
Mrs. Delacroix, the renowned courtesan who had warmed the beds of most gentlemen of theton—Whitcombe among them.
“I see,” Eleanor said, her tone sharp. “Mrs. Delacroix is well known to my husband, and yet he still believes that my poor sister is undeserving of our friendship.”
“I parted company with Mrs. Delacroix before I met you, Eleanor,” Whitcombe said.
“And I have long since forgiven you. All I ask is that you give my sister the same courtesy.”
Whitcombe nodded and sighed. “You are right, of course, my love.”
Eleanor turned her attention to Sawbridge, who’d taken a seat, beads of sweat glistening on his forehead. “Your Grace, may I fetch your something?” she asked.
“No brandy for him,” Whitcombe said. “Coffee. Strong.”
“See to it, would you, Gillingham?” Eleanor said to the footman circulating around the room. “I fear His Grace will faint if he’s required to stand again.”
The footman issued a quiet bow, then poured a cup and offered it to the duke.
Sawbridge took it with a nod, then lifted his gaze to Etty. “Come sit beside me, Miss Howard,” he said. “I’ve heard much of you.”
“Sawbridge,” Whitcombe growled. “This is hardly the time nor the place.”
“Miss Howard and I have a friend in common,” Sawbridge said. “We saw him in Town—didn’t we, Whitcombe?”
Etty’s stomach churned.
“He’s not the man he was,” Sawbridge said, “but then, losing one’s fortune can do that to a fellow. Radham will soon find that out.”
“I thought you said Radham had died,” Eleanor said.
“I meant thenewViscount Radham. He’s almost as badly off as—”
Eleanor raised her hand. “I’d stop if I were you, Your Grace,” she said. “You may be my husband’s friend, but that doesn’t give you the right to—”
“—Dunton,” Sawbridge finished.
Etty’s stomach tightened, and she drew in a sharp breath, willing her body to move. Her legs crumpled beneath her and she pitched forward, closing her eyes in anticipation of the fall.
But it never came. A pair of thick, strong arms caught her.
