The biggest of the two began to circle, a knife in his hand. Brandon took purchase on the road, pivoted, and delivered a well-placed kick to the man’s knee before the fellow could conceive such a thing might happen. He fell to the ground screaming in agony, the knife flying out of reach. With a sideways twist, Brandon raised his fists as the other thief charged him. A blow glanced off Brandon’s ear. His left jab landed on the thief’s jaw with a satisfying crunch, then he followed up with a right to the man’s stomach. The thief swayed, his eyes rolling back. Transferring his weight, Brandon stepped in and hooked a leg at the back of the man’s knee and pushed hard. With a scream, he went down. Brandon stepped in and stomped on his knee to make a thorough job of it.
Both men lay groaning, as Brandon, taking no chances, took off at a fast run to where he’d arranged to meet the jarvey. If he came.
And there he was. Brandon heaved a relieved sigh, his ear throbbing.
“In a hurry, guv?” the man inquired, checking out the street behind him.
“You might say that.” Brandon ripped open the carriage door. “Back to where you picked me up, there’s a good fellow. And hurry.”
“Right you are. Move on, Sally!” The jarvey cracked his whip, and the horse, for all its worn-out appearance, went forward at a clip. “Knows her feedbag and dry stall awaits,” the jarvey called out, chuckling.
Brandon was deposited on the road near his house. He paid the jarvey and entered through the back gate. No sense in scaring Cook half to death, he checked through the window. The kitchen was empty, the staff having retired, so he quietly climbed the servants’ stairs.
When he slipped unnoticed into his bedchamber, Hove was waiting. “I expect you’ll be wanting a bath and a shave, sir,” the valet said with a grin.
Brandon ran a hand over his prickly jaw. His grazed knuckles stung. “You have the right of it, Hove.”
With nothing to impart to Willard, Brandon would need to pursue Lady Fraughton, which could prove difficult with the rake, Robert Marston, hanging around her.
Some twenty minutes later, Brandon stepped from the hip bath and toweled himself. He was yet to discover just what Marston was after, apart from seducing Lady Fraughton. Once a rake had succeeded in their aims, and Brandon suspected Marston had, they usually moved on to another conquest. Brandon understood the rake’s mentality only too well. While he didn’t place himself in that category, because he had too much respect for women to treat them in that fashion, he didn’t place much faith in love, either.
Chapter Six
Letty sighed with pure joy. She turned full circle before the Cheval mirror in the elegant bedchamber assigned to her. The scoop-necked, sleek white satin underdress glowed beneath net as delicate as a spider’s web. The pale pink satin sash under the bust that she considered a clever touch, was echoed in the pink and silver, silk embroidery on the capped sleeves and around the hem. Her hair had been dressed by Arietta’s skillful French lady’s maid, Adele, who coaxed curls to frame Letty’s face, then tucked tiny fresh white flowers into the coiffure. Pearls, a parting gift from her aunt, dressed her ears and circled her throat. She wore embroidered white satin shoes and long white gloves, and tucked her handkerchief, a small bottle of perfume, comb, and needle and thread into her reticule with the silver tassels.
“How pretty you look! As I knew you would!” Arietta exclaimed coming into the bedchamber. “The right gown and accessories do much for a woman’s charms, my dear.”
Letty knew she wasn’t a diamond of the first water who would set London on fire, but she was delighted with the result. She complimented Arietta, who certainly had been all that when she was younger, and was still lovely, in a low-cut lavender silk gown, diamonds at her throat and ears. As Arietta’s mourning period had passed, Letty wondered why she did not appear interested in remarrying, when so many widows did.
Arietta tucked her hand through Letty’s arm. “Shall we go and set the gentlemen on their ears?”
Letty grinned and tried not to feel guilty about poor Aunt Edith ensconced in Cumbria. Her aunt disliked the country, and Uncle Alford might not be so pleased with her. She would write tomorrow and tell them all her news. It was sure to cheer her aunt up.
The chaise took them to the Duke and Duchess of Dunstan’s home in Grosvenor Square. Entering the grand mansion, they climbed the staircase to the reception areas which had been thrown open to create a splendid ballroom where a line of footmen in puce and gold livery waited to serve them. The elegantly dressed guests gathered beneath three splendid Italian crystal chandeliers. Around the walls, seating was placed amid ferns and pots of oranges. The lofty ballroom resonated with chatter and laughter while a discordant sound came from the orchestra on the dais as they tuned their instruments for the next dance.
As they were announced, their entrance caused quite a stir. Letty was glad of Arietta’s company when women halted in conversation to appraise her. The frank stares of some gentlemen made her shy, one reaching for his pince-nez to better view her.
Arietta’s many acquaintances came to greet them. Letty was introduced to so many she doubted she would remember their names.
A gentleman claimed Letty’s hand for the next dance, a quadrille, and they joined the dancers on the floor. When she returned, pleased that she’d performed reasonably well, she learned that most of her nine dances remaining had been claimed.
The two debutantes Letty had spied at her first ball, sat together. Letty smiled at them. When they both returned the smile, she went to introduce herself. Miss Arabella Blake explained that she had come from Devon to stay with her grandmother who was bringing her out. Miss Jennifer Wallace, who lived in Ham, was under her married sister’s chaperonage. Now more at ease, they chatted for several minutes, until the quadrille was called, and Arietta beckoned. They parted, promising to meet again.
While the ball was not quite as wildly exciting as she’d hoped, the evening passed pleasantly. Some men she danced with said nothing beyond the merest pleasantries, others expressed an interest in her life in Cumbria, when the movements of the dance permitted. All failed to cause any quickening of her pulse. Letty was engaged for the supper dance with a Mr. Boyce, a tall, studious gentleman just down from Oxford.
Mr. Boyce led her into supper. He earnestly filled her plate and brought her a glass of ratafia. Letty soon discovered the best way to deal with him was to ask him a lot of questions about literature. While he answered, she sat and listened politely to him speak solemnly about Horace and Cicero. She nibbled the tasty food and allowed her gaze to roam the surrounding guests. Miss Somersby, having ignored her before, and whom Letty envied for appearing so at ease in Society, passed by on a gentleman’s arm. She deigned to acknowledge Letty with a regal nod. Letty, glad to be no longer invisible at least, inclined her head. Perhaps they might become better acquainted, although she rather doubted it.
At a lady’s peal of laughter, Letty turned and found none other than Mr. Cartwright, talking to a pretty blonde woman. The lady coyly tapped him on the arm with her fan. She fluttered it open and leaned forward to whisper to him from behind the painted ivory sticks.
Her comment must have been droll, for Cartwright chuckled.
“I believe I might have met that lady in blue,” Letty said to Mr. Boyce with a nod in their direction.
“Eh? Lady Fraughton?” Mr. Boyce paused in his glowing description of a work by Virgil. “She has captured the interest of that rakehell, Cartwright, I see.”
“Oh. No. I must be mistaken,” Letty murmured. Was Cartwright a rake? Otherwise, why was he flirting with the wife of that gentleman they had overheard in the library?
Boyce took her empty plate and handed it to a waiter. “Might I interest you in a dish of nuts or some trifle, Miss Bromley?”