Wicked Earl Seeks Proper Heiress (The Husband Hunters Club 5)

“Lord Southbrook! Averil, that man is not someone you should be associating with! Really, if anyone finds out he was here, in your bedchamber, then you will be ruined. Utterly and completely ruined! What if he tells people?”

“I don’t think he will,” Averil replied. “I think he has secrets of his own, Beth. And besides,” she added wryly, “I am the Heiress, remember? There will always be someone willing to marry me, no matter how badly I behave.”

“You do yourself a disservice, Averil. You are beautiful and kind, and . . . well the money is a secondary incentive. As for Lord Southbrook . . . he might have been a gentleman once, and I admit his breeding is of the best, but all that means nothing when he is no longer received by society.”

“I suppose not,” Averil said, and tried not to sound disappointed. For all his dangerous reputation and appearance, she had found something refreshingly honest about the wicked Earl of Southbrook.

Anxiously Beth inspected the young woman’s knee, clicking her tongue. “I will send at once for the doctor. What if you are lame for the rest of your life, Averil? What if you never dance again? I know how much you enjoy dancing.”

Averil’s eyes stung with tears. “What if my sister . . . what if Rose is worse than lame, Beth? What if she is dead? I don’t think I could bear it.”

Beth gave her a hug. “My dear child, you don’t know she is dead. This place, St. Thomas’s? We will go there and ask some questions, and this time we will go in the daytime.”

“Yes, Beth.”

“Good.”

“What about Jackson? I must speak to him.” Averil’s eyes narrowed as she contemplated the dressing-down she was going to give the man.

Beth eyed her disheveled appearance and shook her head. “No, I’ll do that. Leave it to me. First Jackson and then I’ll send for the doctor.”

One more hug, and Beth went out with purpose.

Unfortunately Jackson had gone so there was no dressing-down done. By the time the doctor had come and examined Averil’s knee, and declared it badly sprained but nothing that a rest and the use of a cane wouldn’t cure, the day was half over.

“Next week you have the champagne supper at Baroness Sessington’s,” Beth reminded her. “Do you think you can still attend?”

“Of course. Gareth needs me there to help persuade the guests to donate their money to his cause. I can’t let him down.”

She also didn’t want to let down the Home for Distressed Women, which she passionately believed in. Not just for the sake of her mother, who had died so tragically, but for all the poor and unfortunate women she had met in her search for her sister.

Beth fussed around her, making sure her knee was raised up on cushions on the sofa where she lay.

“I so wanted to go to St. Thomas’s, Beth,” she said wistfully.

“Write a letter to the superintendent. I will see it is taken at once,” Beth offered. “At least then you’ll know if they are aware of your sister.”

It was the only course of action available to her. Averil wrote a carefully worded letter and Beth sent if off with one of the servants.

What if the superintendent knew where Rose had gone, or even if she was still there? But no, that wasn’t possible. Rose must be eighteen and she would have left the orphanage by now, perhaps found work as a maid or a companion. Perhaps she was married and happy somewhere.

Averil closed her eyes and hoped very much that was the case.

CHAPTER FIVE

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The champagne supper fund-raiser was held at Baroness Sessington’s house in Bloomsbury. The baroness was an enthusiastic supporter, sometimes rather too enthusiastic for Averil’s tastes, but she couldn’t say so. Dr. Gareth Simmons frowned upon those who spoke ill of his patroness—come to think of it, there were a great many things Gareth frowned upon.

Despite her injured knee, Averil had been determined to attend and do her bit. Besides, the knee wasn’t so bad anymore, and she had her ebony cane to lean upon. Looking about her, Averil was pleased to note that so far their guests included a duke, a marquis, and four honorables. Surreptitiously she patted her fashionable curls, which were caught up on her crown with a wreath of waxed flowers, checking to see if they were still in place. Her hair did not curl as prettily as other girls’ hair; its weight eventually caused all its manufactured curls to fall out. By the end of the evening it was always hanging as depressingly straight as a horse’s tail.

Gareth was greeting some late arrivals, his caramel-colored hair brushed neatly forward over his brow.

To hide his receding hairline?

Averil smiled fondly. Gareth was a little vain sometimes when it came to his appearance. Not quite the unworldly saint he liked to portray himself as.

Someone else was watching Gareth.