Talk of the Ton (Free Fellows League 5)

He’d just said he paid the rumors no heed, implying that perhaps Forsythe shouldn’t, either. With a shake of his head, Darien flicked his wrist and said, rather insouciantly, “Chat as you like.”

Mr. Forsythe frowned at his lack of regard and looked down at his hands for a moment before speaking. “We’ve heard, on more than one occasion, that your interest in our daughter has . . . blossomed . . . and that you might be considering something perhaps a little more . . . long-term.”

“And where have you heard this blossoming rumor?” Darien asked, refraining from chuckling at his own jest as Mr. Forsythe was beginning to look a bit like a pomegranate in the face, which, already quite round, was getting redder.

“Where? I, ah . . . well, then, I can say in all certainty that our Emily has been apprised by Lady Southbridge. And, ah . . . Ladies Cheevers and Bristol, and, I believe, Ramblecourt.”

Now there were four women with nothing better to do than wag their bloody tongues all day, Darien thou

ght. But he did think it rather interesting that Forsythe credited Emily with the repeating of the rumors. “And your wife, Mr. Forsythe? Has she attributed these rumors to the same sources?”

“I . . . I believe she has, my lord,” he said, looking a bit confused. “But as Emily is the one who is out in society, more so than her mother, you see—that is to say, she is fond of calling on Lady Southbridge, for example, to talk about upcoming events, that sort of thing.”

“I know very well about that sort of thing,” he said with sly smile, and thought it curious that Freddie had attributed the rumors about Kate to Lady Southbridge as well. The old woman was certainly busy this season. But while Lady Southbridge was notorious for spreading gossip, she was not, as far as he knew, given to fabrication. No, fabrication and deceit were the handiwork of young girls. Girls like Emily, for example, who feigned fainting at large balls.

“No matter how the rumors are started, my lord,” Mr. Forsythe said, as Darien looked at the fire, his mind starting to turn, “it is my duty to inquire as to your true intentions for my daughter.”

Darien suddenly remembered the day at the church spring social, when Emily had so boldly approached him while he was conversing with Kate, and something clicked in his brain.

“Of course,” Darien said absently. “No matter how these rumors are started, no matter who they harm.”

“I beg your pardon?” Forsythe asked, confused, his face getting redder. “Might you speak of your intentions, my lord?”

A light was suddenly dawning, and while Darien wasn’t certain what to make of the things he was thinking, or how they might all fit, his suspicions of Emily Forsythe were suddenly raging. But before he could sort it all through, he had to rid himself of her hopeful father.

He smiled at Forsythe, lifted his glass, and said, “Mr. Forsythe, I am touched by your concern for you daughter. I hope to make my wishes known at the Southbridge Charity Auction Ball.”

Forsythe blinked. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. And then he smiled and sat a little straighter, having obviously reached the conclusion Darien wanted him to reach. A conclusion he hoped the man would repeat to his chit of a daughter and anyone else who would listen.

“I think I take your meaning very well, sir,” Forsythe said, sounding decidedly happier than a moment ago. “Yes, my lord, I do indeed take your meaning! Well then,” he said, coming to his feet, “I believe I have taken enough of your time.”

Darien smiled, too, and gained his feet. “I believe you have,” he said and, clapping the man congenially on the back, he showed him the door.

Chapter Eleven

No one, unless they were dead or in the process of dying, missed the Southbridge Charity Auction Ball.

It signaled the home stretch of the season and was the event where debutantes who had not received an offer, and dandies who were toying with making an offer, wanted to see and be seen. It was the event where the next year’s crop of debutantes was talked about, and speculation made as to how they might be paired up with the idle young men of the ton.

Married couples looked to the event as the last time they might see their lover, either real or potential. The older couples relished the hijinks of the young and speculated openly as to their various chances for success.

The event was held annually at the Southbridge mansion, in the grand ballroom that some said rivaled that of Carlton House, and was, according to most, just as elaborate as that of Carlton House. The walls were covered in blue silk that matched the paint on the ceiling, where a scene depicting heaven, complete with clouds and angels and naked cherubs playing their trumpets of love, had been artfully portrayed. The room was so cavernous that it required a twelve-piece orchestra, positioned in an alcove above the dance floor, which had been polished to perfection with hundreds of beeswax candles and dotted at its borders with potted orange trees.

At the other end of the ballroom, a platform had been erected, and it was from that platform the auction would commence at precisely midnight. In addition to being the event of the season, the Charity Auction Ball could also be credited with raising hundreds of pounds for the Ladies Auxiliary Charitable Works Benefiting Orphans and Pensioners.

Up until the auction commenced, and for hours long after it was over, there would be dancing in the main ballroom, gaming for the gentlemen across the way in the library, and supper served in the formal dining room for those in need of sustenance.

It was the place to be, and the last place Kate wanted to be.

If it hadn’t been for Papa, she wouldn’t be in attendance at all. But he’d been quite firm in this—he’d insisted she attend (“You’re not getting a day younger, Kate,”) and had even commissioned a lovely pale gold gown for her, made of gossamer silk with a train studded in tiny crystals that swept down from the middle of her back. Certainly it was the loveliest gown she’d ever worn, and even she could agree that the pale gold complemented her coloring.

But she’d been appalled when he’d first presented it to her, arguing that a vicar’s widow did not wear something so lovely, and in addition, he could not afford something so fine on his pension.

“I suppose I can, and I did,” he’d said gruffly.

“But why, Papa?” she’d asked as she had taken the gown from the modiste box to admire it.

“Is it not obvious, Kate? You are a young woman in the prime of her life. I can’t bear to see you sitting about this tiny house wearing that drab vicar’s wife gown, reading to an old man night after night! You deserve happiness! You deserve the very best this life has to offer! But you’ll not find it rapping at your door—you must seek it, and I’ll be damned if I’ll allow you to seek it looking like a martyr.”