Truly a Wife (Free Fellows League 4)

The earl frowned, but it seemed more in puzzlement than in anger. “Of whom are we speaking, Galston? Some new infatuation of yours?”

Timothy shook his head. “No, dammit. But she’s my cousin, and she deserves better. You dashed her chance of a good Season with one careless bon mot, and you don’t even recall? Miss Emmaline Mawper, that’s who!”

When the earl continued to stare, Timothy added, “At Almack’s last night, don’t you remember?”

The earl shrugged. “I was in a bad mood, old man, wishing I hadn’t allowed myself to be cajoled into looking into that wretched Marriage Mart in the first place. And I’m sure no one remembers one careless comment of mine.”

“You think wrongly, then,” Timothy retorted. “I’ve heard it repeated twice today already, with more jests tacked on, and Emmaline is in tears, my aunt says. Aunt Mary hauled me out of bed—at any ungodly hour, let me tell you—to complain, although what she thinks I can do … But you’re the mostly-eagerly heeded arbiter of the Ton since Beau Brummel took himself off to the Continent to evade his debtors. If you weren’t so damned perfect, with your elegant neckcloths and impeccable tailoring, not to mention that perfect Grecian coin of a face the ladies swoon over—”

This time the earl shook his head, and a strand of dark hair fell back. For the first time, Timothy had a clear view of the ragged scar that marred the earl’s left cheek. It started above the temple and ran past his ear and on beneath the erect shirt collar, the jagged line almost—but not quite—hidden beneath the earl’s slightly too-long hair, and damned if that shaggy hair hadn’t started a new fad among the calflings who aped Whitby’s casual elegance …

“Perfect?” The earl’s voice was icy.

Timothy swallowed. “Oh, that don’t signify. It just adds a touch of the exotic, don’t you know, romantic war wound, and all that—in fact, the ladies love it,” he protested, but he knew his voice wavered. Damn, he always forgot.

“But that don’t change my argument,” he said, trying to recapture his momentum. “The Ton still looks to you, Whitby, and it ain’t right—you misuse your power over Society’s opinion.”

“If I have any power, as you claim, it is quite unsought and totally irrelevant.” Whitby lowered his face again to sip his wine.

Timothy swallowed, almost tasting his relief.

“Not to the persons you cut down, it ain’t,” he argued. “It’s easy enough to put someone down, much harder to build someone up. Why don’t you do something agreeable for a change?”

“I assure you, Galston, the next time I see Miss Mawper, I will be charm personified—”

But a new voice interrupted.

“Look, a woman—a lady, I should almost say!”

The earl turned back toward the bow windows of White’s, where several younger gentlemen lounged, watching the street. This was male territory, and any respectable lady knew it and avoided St. James’s Street with utmost care.

So why was a young and very pretty girl dashing down the pavement, pursued doggedly by a stout, red-faced female?

Even Timothy paused to stare. None of the onlookers could make out the words spoken outside the window, but they saw the older woman catch the girl by the arm and her lips move in what was obviously an energetic scold.

The young woman’s expression twisted. Was she a lady or not? She was dressed decorously and with obvious expense, but her attitude to the older female—mother, aunt, governess, whatever—didn’t seem in keeping with her youth, nor did she seem abashed by her social transgression. In fact, now she jerked away from the other’s hold, and while the men watched, entranced, landed a passable left hook into the woman’s rounded midriff. The woman staggered back. The girl’s hands curled into fists, and her bonnet slid off her fair hair as she waited for the woman to recover.

“Ten pounds on the younger lady!” one of the watchers called.

“Done. But hardly a lady, I’d say,” another of the gawkers suggested. He added a comment which made the other men guffaw and offer a few disparaging guesses of their own as to the girl’s social status—or even profession.

The earl frowned. One of the men sitting closer to the window looked up to see it, and beneath Whitby’s reproving glance, the laughter faded. The other men turned back to watch the mill in progress.

“See,” Timothy muttered. “I told you people listen to you. All you have to do is frown or s

mile, and the Ton obeys …” He paused to stare out the window at the continuing struggle between the two women. He had obtained what he had come for, so why did he still feel dissatisfied? Someone ought to show Whitby just how misguided the arrogant earl was, he thought.

Outside, the stout woman—apparently thoroughly out of temper—slapped the girl’s cheek. But the younger lady did not give in. She ducked and evaded the next blow. When she glanced up again, her cheek was reddened from the impact, and her eyes were wide with fear.

Timothy thought that the earl had stiffened. Timothy said, “I repeat, raising people up is much harder than cutting ’em down. For example, I’d bet you a hundred pounds you couldn’t make a lady out of—out of—well, whoever that girl is.”

“Probably some rich cit’s daughter who hasn’t heeded her lessons in deportment.” The earl shook his head. “Or mayhap some escapee from Bedlam, judging by her barbaric behavior. Can’t make a silk reticule out of a sow’s ear. Anyhow, we don’t even know who she is.”

“And if I can find out her name? What about the bet?”

“I can’t change her birth, and I’m sure as Hades no damned governess to give lessons in ladylike conduct.” The earl’s dusky eyes seemed to darken even more, but there was something in his tone Timothy had not heard before.

So this time Timothy, elated to at last observe a chink in Whitby’s armor, stood his ground.