Sapphire

Jessup grabbed his napkin and pushed away from the table to stand up. “My lord.”

The Earl of Wessex was dressed handsomely in a black overcoat and white silk neckerchief over a black evening coat and striped white waistcoat. He carried his top hat in his hand, and was brushing back a wisp of dark hair that had fallen across his forehead.

“How…how kind of you to join me,” Jessup said. “Please, let me introduce you to—”

“They’re there, did you know that?” Blake demanded. “The countess and her daughters three, but it seemed like three hundred when they all assaulted me at once with their chatter and batting of eyelashes. I thought I’d suffocate from the scent of their rose toilet water.”

“Would…would you care to join me and my friend Mr. Barker for dinner? We’ve not yet been served.”

“What I want is to know is why you sent me to that town house knowing those women were there?” Blake demanded.

“I was not aware of that, my lord. I apologize for not checking again. Last week when I received the message that you’d be arriving, I had the town house in Mayfair opened up and aired and servants hired in anticipation of your arrival. The countess must have come to London since.”

Blake tightened his grip on his thoroughly wet hat and looked away, giving himself a moment to let his anger subside. They were in a dining room of one of the many gentlemen’s clubs in the city. This one appeared old and well-established, and though it was not as well-furnished as some he had visited in Boston and abroad, it did have a certain air about it. The scent of tobacco and hickory wood seemed to permeate the air of the dark-paneled rooms.

“I truly apologize for the inconvenience,” Mr. Stowe repeated, pulling himself up to his full height, which was still nearly a head shorter than Lord Wessex’s.

Blake scowled, but he was not as angry as he had been when he stormed out of the town house into the rain and had been unable to hail a carriage for a full block. “I suppose it could not be helped.”

“No, my lord, it could not be,” Stowe answered firmly. “If you wish, I shall bring about proceedings first thing tomorrow morning to have the countess removed from your property.”

Blake caught sight of the butler hovering in the doorway. “Get me a scotch,” he grunted.

“Certainly, my lord.” The man rushed forward. “Could I take your wet things now, my lord, and then bring you a meal, as well?”

Blake handed him his hat and the scarf and coat. “Thank you, but nothing to eat. Just the scotch. I’ve another engagement, but I think I’d best fortify myself before I go.”

“Yes, my lord.” Calvin bowed. “Just let me get you a chair, my lord.”

“I can get my own,” Blake grumbled, grabbing an upholstered chair from the nearest empty table. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Barker.” He placed the chair at the linen-set table and thrust out his hand to shake Barker’s. “I suppose you’re a barrister, too. You’ve got the same barreled abdomen as Stowe and a dozen like you. Comes from sitting behind that desk all day.”

“Yes, my lord.” Mr. Barker pumped Blake’s hand enthusiastically, and all three men took their seats.

“Damn it, tell me what the hell I’m to do now, Stowe. And don’t tell me it’s my prerogative to throw these women out on the street.” Blake gave his head a shake. “I knew I should never have made this journey. I knew it would be nothing but trouble.” He accepted the glass the bartender brought him and impolitely lifted it to his lips, not waiting for the other two men before he drank. “Tell me what you advise concerning the countess and her frog spawn, else they’ll be sleeping in your bed tonight, sir.”

After two scotches, Blake was able to catch a hackney—even in the rain—thanks to the butler at the men’s club. He arrived at the address of one of his business associates more than two hours beyond the engraved invitation’s specified time, but was nonetheless greeted by a flurry of activity and fuss. He had gained overnight status as a celebrity of sorts and everyone addressed him as Lord Wessex. The party was in celebration of his associate Mr. Todd Warrington’s daughter’s eighteenth birthday, but Blake barely gave her a moment’s notice beyond propriety’s perfunctory waltz. He preferred his women a little older, and certainly more experienced.

A brandy in his hand, Blake wandered out onto the granite balcony that overlooked a lush garden. The rain had stopped and a crescent moon had risen high in the sky. As he gazed upward he realized that the night sky was different here in Europe, different in a way that made him yearn for Boston.

“Good evening.”

Blake turned at the soft voice to see a woman close to his own age dressed in a pale pink gown, her light blond hair upswept in an elaborate coiffure, a heavy string of pearls hanging above a well-rounded bosom. He immediately understood the tone of her voice due to his many late-night balcony experiences, with women who stood alone in the darkness while a lively party ensued inside. They were sad women, vulnerable.

“Good evening,” he replied with a smile.

Hesitantly, she moved toward him, offering her hand. “Elizabeth Barclay…Mrs. Williams,” she corrected herself, as if on second thought.

“Blake Thixton.” He took her hand, kissing it…lingering. She smelled of lilacs and utter femininity.

“I know who you are, Lord Wessex.”

When he lifted his head, he saw that she was smiling at him. Not exactly a coy smile, but an honest one, a sad one. He had read her tone correctly.

“And I believe I know you, Mrs. Williams. New York, right? Your husband is Jefferson Williams, in iron?” He recalled meeting Williams once in New York City, an ugly man twice his wife’s age with an even uglier disposition.

“That’s correct.” She withdrew her bare hand; she wasn’t wearing gloves like all the other women.

“Your husband is here in London on business?”