Page 23 of Society's Most Disreputable Gentleman

The maid took a shuddering breath. ‘Thank you for listening, ma’am. I’m feeling better now. Da’s a smart man; he’ll not be off doing something foolish. Let me get you into your dinner gown; the gong will be sounding any minute.’

Betsy might feel better, but Amanda did not. While she let the maid help her into her gown and arrange her coiffure, her mind raced furiously.

Some sort of altercation was obviously brewing between the rival smuggling groups, and she was almost certain George was involved with one or the other. How would Papa react if his son and heir were taken up by riding officers? If the confrontation turned violent, George could even be injured. Or shot dead, like Farmer Johnson.

Amanda could throttle him for worrying her so! She felt the strongest urge to proceed directly to George’s room and demand he tell her everything.

Gratifying as that might be, George was unlikely to admit he was involved, even if he was. Like Althea, he would probably resent what he would see as her unwarranted interference in his private affairs.

Perhaps she was doing him a great disservice. He might be entirely innocent, but his clandestine behaviour and her instincts said he was not.

The anxiety in her gut spiralled tighter. If only they were not hosting this blasted dinner tonight! She debated going immediately to consult Papa. Though she hated to alarm him, wouldn’t he feel he had a right to know if she suspected George was caught up in some dangerous enterprise?

No, she decided, best not to talk with him yet. Rather than alarm him making what might be baseless accusations against George, she must discover more about the struggle between the rival bands and her brother’s possible connection to it.

‘There, miss,’ Betsy said with satisfaction as she settled a shawl of spangled gauze about Amanda’s shoulders. ‘You look like a fairy princess. I hear there be a prince dining with you tonight, too,’ she added with a wink.

Amanda stifled a groan. Trust the unfailing accuracy of servants’ gossip to have ferreted out that an eligible young man had been invited to Ashton Grove.

Never had she felt less like entertaining. Girding herself for the task, she dismissed Betsy and walked towards the parlour.

In spite of the guests, some time tonight she’d find a way to exchange a few private words with Mr Anders, implore him to go into Salters Bay tomorrow and consult his Navy contacts.

The idea of confiding in Mr Anders brought a surprising measure of calm. He’d already shown himself to be intelligent, perceptive and discreet in his dealings with Althea. Her initial impression of him as a man of subtly leashed power, someone who could—indeed, had—held his own in a fight, had only strengthened as she’d come to know him better. She felt instinctively she could count on him to assist her.

Despite the worry gnawing at her, the idea of stealing a few moments alone with him sent the now-familiar flare of excitement through her. Though she told herself she intended only a brief chat, still her mind embraced the image of other things a man and a maid might do in a midnight-dark chamber. Kissing. Caressing.

Impatiently she shook her wayward thoughts free. She needed to concentrate on extricating George from potential disaster and finding a way to prevent what might be a dangerous, destructive confrontation.

As she paused on the threshold of the parlour and pasted a polite smile on her face, she couldn’t help a sigh. Just when she thought she might begin concentrating on her preparations for London, everything at Ashton had grown much more complicated.

After putting his bit about Althea into Miss Neville’s ear, Greville had tried to avoid them both these last two days: Althea, so he didn’t become a further bone of contention between the two cousins; Miss Neville because he was so powerfully drawn to seek her out. He wasn’t sure this hazy new concept of maintaining a friendship would triumph over the old, well-worn habits of seduction, and temptation was much easier to resist if he remained out of her enticing presence.

He lingered in his chamber, wishing he could avoid the dinner tonight as well. He had no desire to be present to observe Trowbridge practically salivating over Miss Neville while he paraded his perfectly bred, perfectly connected, perfectly handsome body before her.

He would have asked for a tray in his room, except that Althea had tracked him down in the library to tell him, in tones of dismay, that her uncle had said she would be included in the dinner tonight, as a special favour. Uncle James seemed to be so delighted at offering her the treat, she hadn’t had the heart to refuse him. She begged Greville to make sure he was seated near her so she’d have someone with whom to converse, since the Handsome Lord and her neighbour and his wife would surely concentrate all their attention on her uncle and her cousin.

His host and hostess would be distressed as well, should he fail to appear. Besides, he knew he couldn’t pass up a chance to admire Miss Neville in a dinner gown.

He could hardly blame Trowbridge for salivating. Her delectable form embraced by a thin veiling of silk, a tiny puff of sleeve displaying her slender arms and graceful shoulders, while a sliver of bodice offered the arousing sight of her breasts emerging from a deep décolletage…. Ah, he was ready to salivate himself.

Still, he considered it a torture not much easier to endure than five lashes from the ship’s cat to remain in her presence when he would be forced to watch the blandishments sure to be cast in her direction by Trowbridge.

Who was, Althea had said, ‘just the sort of man’ Amanda was looking for, he recalled with gritted teeth.

Well, tortured or not, he had to attend, so he might as well get himself to the parlour before he compounded his social failings by being late.

When he arrived in the salon a few minutes later, Lord Trowbridge and the Williamses had already come in. The young nobleman looked every bit as polished as Greville had expected: his masterfully cut black evening coat and cravat tied in a perfect Waterfall would have excited Greville’s admiration back in the days when such fripperies consumed his attention. Greville forced himself to keep straight fingers that wanted to curl themselves into fists.

Greville would bet the hands encased in his lordship’s gloves, unlike his own tanned, callused, hardened ones, were white and soft. The man might be the high-born son of an earl, but Greville knew if he were about to storm the deck of an enemy ship, he’d rather have the low-born Gunny Porter or Old Tom or seaman’s son Captain Harrington at his side.

The before-dinner chat was mercifully brief. Miss Neville led in their highest-ranking guest, while Lord Bronning escorted Mrs Williams, a garrulous woman who spared him scarcely a glance. Althea went in on his arm, murmuring a ‘thank you’.

Galling as it was to watch Trowbridge monopolise Miss Neville, during most of the meal he was left out of the conversation, which suited him quite well. Mr Williams engaged their host; Mrs Williams, after enquiring if Althea was yet out and being informed that she wasn’t, but had been included by her uncle, as he considered this nearly a family party, said ‘oh’ in a disapproving tone and then ignored her. Greville supposed she must have already learned through the infallible local grapevine that he was not a person of importance, for she had paid him no heed either.

The only break in the tedium was the mischievous Althea, who rolled her eyes and mimicked their neighbours when they were not watching. Greville almost spat out his soup when she put her napkin to her lips in an exaggerated fashion that parodied Lord Trowbridge.

He was chuckling at another of her antics when, to his surprise, Trowbridge addressed him. ‘Mr…Anders, is it not? I understand you are related to the Stanhopes.’

‘Yes, the current marquess is my cousin.’

‘And you’ve lately served in Navy?’

‘I had that honour,’ Greville replied warily. Trowbridge’s expression was guileless; perhaps he simply wished to include the Nevilles’ guest in the general conversation.

Still, something about him—the tone of his voice, the odd speculative light in his eye—warned Greville of an impending ambush as surely as if the foretop lookout had called out the sighting of an enemy sail.

If Trowbridge had an interest in Miss Neville, he might see Greville as a potential rival. And if he were seeking ways to diminish that rival, given the attitudes certain to be shared by most of the company, exposing Greville’s recent occupation would be a simple means to do so.

‘Should I address you as “Lieutenant”?’

‘No,’ Greville replied, his suspicions hardening. Though he was not ashamed of his service—rather the contrary—neither did he mean to let Trowbridge use that information as a weapon to try to embarrass him, distressing his kindly host in the bargain. ‘I’m currently on furlough.’

‘Mr Anders was injured in a skirmish with pirates,’ Lord Bronning inserted, already looking uneasy. ‘As I understand is customary, he’s been temporarily assigned to the Coastal Brigade while he recovers. When Lord Englemere learned that Ashton Grove is situated not far from the station at Salters Bay, the marquess asked if his cousin might reside with us during his time there. It’s been our pleasure to have him as our guest,’ he added, with a nod to Greville.

‘Ah, that’s why you are not wearing a uniform,’ Trowbridge said. ‘You look fit enough now.’

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