Scandalously Yours (Hellions of High Street 1)

As he reached for his coffee, he caught sight of his sister’s distinctive script atop the unopened stack of letters.

Duty before pleasure, he reminded himself. This week’s feature by the Morning Gazette’s clever political columnist could wait for a few minutes while he attended to family matters.

John set the newspaper aside. Not that he didn’t enjoy Cecilia’s pithy commentaries or words of wisdom. However, he had an unsettling feeling that she had not given up the battle to maneuver him back into the ballrooms of Mayfair.

Not a snowball’s chance in hell, he vowed, ignoring the tickling little daggerpoints of heat dancing down his spine as he suddenly recalled Miss Olivia Sloane’s molten green eyes and her interesting opinions.

He couldn’t afford any distractions in his life at the moment.

Prescott’s entrance was a welcome enough diversion that John did not comment on his son’s tardiness or the smudge of dirt on his cheek.

“I’ve a letter here from your Aunt Cecilia. She sends her love, and says to tell you that she has found a lovely book on sailing ships that she thinks you

will enjoy,” he murmured, skimming over the first few paragraphs.

So far, so good. Perhaps he had been exaggerating the danger.

“And your cousin Schuyler suffered a broken finger while playing cricket at Eton.” He looked up with a smile, only to find his son fixing him with a rather fishy stare.

“Hmmm. Life in London appears be a trifle dull, despite the Season being in full swing.” Refolding the missive, John reached for his newspaper.

“Speaking of letters, Father…” A much-creased sheet of stationery slid across the polished mahogany. “Try this one. I think you will find it vastly more entertaining.”

The shirred eggs did a queasy little lurch in his stomach. “Where did that come from?” he asked.

“Just read it, Father,” insisted Prescott. “Please.”

John rang for a fresh pot of coffee before gingerly picking up the paper.

“Who the devil is Lady Loose Screw?” he finally demanded, once he had read over it twice.

“My new mother,” blurted out Prescott.

John nearly dropped a cup of the scalding brew in his lap.

“Of all the applicants, she is the only one who measured up.”

Undaunted by the earl’s oath, the boy went on in a rush, “As you see, she likes books and philosophy, she knows how to cast a fly and ride astride, she doesn’t mind frogs and mud. And she is really quite funny. In a word, she’s perfect, Father.”

Mother. Applicants. Replies. The words stirred a dire foreboding.

“Do you mean to tell me it was you who placed the advertisement in the Morning Gazette?” John spoke softly, trying to keep his outrage from boiling over.

“Yes.” The tilt of his son’s chin was no doubt a mirror image of his own tightly clenched jaw.

“Perhaps I was wrong in telling Withers to relax the rules governing your behavior.”

“Just listen to what she says regarding rules!” Prescott reached across the table to snatch back the paper. “Rules may be the screws that keep the gears of Society spinning,” he read. “But if on occasion a screw loosens, and a few squeaks ensue, my experience has indicated that the machine doesn’t fall apart.” He looked up expectantly. “She sounds like just the sort of lady we are looking for.”

“Lady Loose Screw indeed—she sounds like a complete rattlehead!”

“Well, at least she is not as rigid as the Steel Corset!” retorted Prescott. “I think she would make a perfect wife.”

Aghast at the suggestion, the earl drew in a deep breath. And let it out in a shout. “Well, then perhaps in another ten or fifteen years, you may consider making her an offer. In the meantime—”

“But Father—”

“In the meantime, you are going to march to the schoolroom this instant and write an apology to the editor of the paper, along with an immediate retraction of that ridiculous ad.” Embarrassment added an extra edge to his outrage. The idea of becoming the butt of ridicule, especially at such a sensitive political time, was unthinkable.