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

Averil’s gaze crossed with that of Baroness Sessington, who was standing by the supper table. Knowing that Gareth would not like to see his patroness being neglected, she hurried to join the other woman before he could notice.

The baroness was prone to simpering, and Averil found her mannerisms and giggles sometimes difficult to bear, but she was Gareth’s patroness and so she did her best.

“We are serving a very good quality champagne,” the baroness pronounced, lifting her eyeglass to ogle the bottles. “Not French, but I’m certain half of the guests won’t know the difference.”

Averil forced a smile. She did try to like the baroness, really she did. For Gareth’s sake.

He was currently a guest in her house in Bloomsbury, and as for those who whispered that for a single gentleman to be living in the baroness’s home was most unseemly, well Averil didn’t believe for a moment that there was anything untoward about it. Gareth was not a wealthy man and his practice as a doctor was not well-paid. He treated the poor for what they could afford to pay—which was nothing usually. And besides, the baroness was sixty. At least!

Averil’s thoughts had been drifting, but luckily Gareth arrived at that moment and took the baroness’s arm, leading her away toward the crystal glasses and the champagne.

With a sigh, Averil hobbled across to share the chatter around the supper table, heavy with silver trays of food, and heard her stomach rumble discreetly as the strawberry-adorned cream cake was cut. Averil took a small slice, telling herself she deserved it, and tried not to think about her generous curves.

I find your proportions exactly to my taste.

The earl of Southbrook’s deep, velvety tones echoed in her head. She felt her cheeks warm at the memory. She’d thought of the earl a great deal since their encounter at The Tin Soldier. A great deal too often, if she were honest. He might be someone who lived on the fringes of society, he might be considered dangerous and wicked, but there was something about him that struck a chord with her. Perhaps it was that she, too, had a past, a shadowy secret that she kept to herself. Averil knew that she, too, could easily have become a person cast out of society because of her mother’s behavior.

What had the earl done to earn such condemnation? What was his secret crime? Or was he, like her, simply suffering from the ill-conceived behavior of some member of his family?

The string quartet began to play again and Gareth was back at her side.

“You do look very well tonight,” he said, and for the first time his gaze took in her rose silk dress with its daringly low neckline. “Although perhaps something a trifle more modest next time?”

“Gareth, you told me to wear this! You said that when General Bunnington saw me he would be sure to give a generous donation.”

Gareth appeared perplexed, a man with a great deal on his mind. “Did I? General Bunnington does give generously whenever you are at one of my evenings, Averil, but surely I did not suggest you dress immodestly?”

Immodestly! “You are very forgetful, Gareth,” she said sharply.

The members of the string quartet took their bows and began another piece. The music drifted pleasantly over the gathering and Averil let her thoughts drift with it. There was no word back from St. Thomas’s orphanage yet and she was keen to pay a visit as soon as possible. Tomorrow, perhaps, if she could persuade Beth. Now that her knee was getting better surely her companion would have no objection? Averil knew it wasn’t rational—after all it had been fifteen years since she’d seen her sister—but she felt as if there wasn’t a moment to lose. She’d planned to meet with Jackson at the Home for Distressed Women—he worked there for Gareth, although exactly what he did Averil wasn’t sure—but lately she hadn’t been able to visit there either because of her knee.

At her side, Gareth interrupted her fretful thoughts. “Averil, are you listening to me? Lady Jane Viney hasn’t arrived.” He was casting anxious looks over the crowd. “She promised faithfully. And what about Mrs. Mulgrave? I know for a fact she is in town this week. That is two guests who haven’t turned up. Two donations we desperately need.”

“Three,” said Averil automatically.

“Three? Who else . . . oh, the Earl of Southbrook!”

Averil started and stared at him with wide gray eyes. “What do you mean? Sir Stephen was the third guest. The earl isn’t invited!”

“Now there you’re wrong. He wrote asking if he could be of assistance and I sent him an invitation. I hadn’t thought the earl the sort to be interested in charitable works but one never knows. Besides it was too good an opportunity to miss.”

Averil wasn’t listening. She was feeling curiously light-headed. Lord Southbrook was coming here? Why? It made no sense. As Gareth said, he had never shown an inclination for charitable works. And despite her memories of their encounter, memories she liked to relive in the privacy of her room, she wasn’t sure if she ever wanted to see him again, not in the flesh.

Liar, whispered a voice in her head. Seeing him in the flesh is all you think about.

“Does the baroness know?” she asked, slightly breathless. “His reputation, Gareth . . . she won’t be pleased, and neither will your guests.”

Gareth’s face took on a mulish expression. “I do not judge people by their reputations, Averil. If the earl wants to come here and

help us then I will welcome him with open arms.”

And he would, too, she thought darkly.

Could this be all her fault? When she’d told her friends at Miss Debenham’s that she was going to marry the earl, had the words been ill-omened? By saying them aloud had she invited some dreadful calamity into her calm, quiet life? Well, certainly a little more excitement than she was used to. And surely that was no bad thing?

For a moment she saw again his dark, piercing gaze and scarred face, as he carried her upstairs to her bedchamber. The Earl of Southbrook in her bedchamber! Well, his son, Eustace, had been there, too.

“How did . . . his face . . . how did . . .?”