Dangerous Gentlemen (Daughters of Sin 2)

“Really, Cousin Stephen, you’re sounding more and more like some pompous and important man of government than my cousin. I have no delicate sensibilities. I simply want to know how an apparently persona non grata—if that’s the right term—can be allowed to rub shoulders with the haute ton and dance with…innocent debutantes like me. Surely if his reputation is so fearful, he’d have been forcibly removed by the very supercilious butler who greeted us?”

Stephen looked unimpressed. Lowering his head, he muttered, “Don’t shriek, then, Hetty, when I tell you that Sir Aubrey was married to a woman who became so fearful of him she ran away to seek refuge with her cousin, the new Viscount Debenham, as he’s become known since his recent inheritance.”

He gripped Hetty more tightly as he danced her down the room beneath an arch of fellow dancers’ arms, emerging to add, “When Sir Aubrey went after his wife, Lady Margaret, she took her own life, leaving a letter outlining the full extent of Sir Aubrey’s evil associations and crimes.”

“Oh.” Hetty swallowed. This was not at all what she’d expected. Distracted, she waited in line for the next part of the dance, her gaze returning to the dangerous gentleman who so fascinated her and who was now partnering his lovely consort beneath the arches. “Then why was the letter not sufficient to condemn him?”

Another look of discomfort flitted across Stephen’s face. He cleared his throat. “It has gone missing. Lord Debenham, or Mr. George Carruthers as he was formerly, in

formed Foreign Office of the contents of his cousin’s letter. He’d found it clutched in the late Lady Margaret’s hand but said that after leaving the room to seek assistance, the letter had disappeared when he returned. He believes it was stolen by a retainer, perhaps ignorant of its importance, who planned to gain by it through blackmail.”

Shaken, Hetty clasped Stephen’s hand for the final steps of the dance. “And has that happened? Has he been blackmailed? When did Lady Margaret die?”

“Eighteen months ago. And no, to date there has been no sign of the letter.”

Hetty smiled but the force of Stephen’s response tempered her smugness.

“Keep your distance, Hetty. I’ve told you only what I believe appropriate for a girl of your delicacy, but there’s more.” Coming up from his bow at the conclusion of the dance, he added, “Those who fall foul of Sir Aubrey have not all lived to tell the tale.”

* * * * *

A traitor. The words chased themselves around Hetty’s head as Stephen led her toward the lackluster Mrs. Monks, a youngish widow and, like Hetty, not possessed of the kinds of qualities likely to inspire the passion Lady Margaret clearly had inspired in her male admirers.

So when Araminta sidled up to her sister to mention in her usual patronizing manner that Hetty had what appeared to be a poppy seed between her teeth, Hetty was glad of the excuse to scuttle away to the sanctuary afforded by her friendly, luxuriant potted palm to pick at the elusive poppy seed—which she soon suspected never existed. Resuming her earlier occupation, she gazed from amidst the greenery upon Sir Aubrey, in earnest discussion with two gentlemen Cousin Stephen had pointed out as government ministers.

How handsome and urbane he looked; how charming his manner. The thrill that curdled in her lower belly was followed by suspicion as she reviewed Stephen’s possible motives for damning his character.

Did he fear the man might break her heart? That Hetty was so bird-witted, painting him black would make inevitable rejection easier for her?

Sir Aubrey was everything Hetty would have thought she’d find repugnant in a man. He was immaculate with an edge of danger that unsettled her. Some might say his confidence verged on arrogance. He could not be more different from poor Edgar.

And yet for some inexplicable reason he set her pulse racing, made her throat dry and sent the heat to her cheeks every time he even looked in her direction.

Not that his few glances registered either his chivalry at the start of the evening or his painful disregard partway through. He simply looked right through her.

She was safely out of the gentleman’s orbit and always would be. Sir Aubrey consorted with bold beauties he never married. Not pale, plump and wilting wallflowers like Hetty.

Eventually the night was at an end. Hetty had been counting down the hours as increments of torture, but Araminta was positively glowing with success as she climbed into the carriage beside her sister for their return home.

“It’s a shame you didn’t dance with Sir Aubrey as I did—twice—Hetty dearest, for that might have livened up your spirits. When you look as glum as you do now, I’m reminded of last night’s roly-poly pudding sitting on my plate with two currants staring at me, just like your eyes.” Araminta’s pretty white teeth gleamed in the light of a street lamp above her ivory fan as she went on to reflect on her own success. “Mr. Minchin came to claim me for my second quadrille just as Sir Aubrey arrived to ask me. Well, you won’t believe what happened.”

Although Hetty evinced no desire to find out, Araminta breezed on. “Sir Aubrey said he’d waive the fifty pounds Mr. Minchin still owed him from a game of faro the night before if Mr. Minchin waived his claim to his dance with me.”

Araminta’s eyes glittered. “Of course, it wasn’t very chivalrous of Mr. Minchin to agree, was it, though who would you have preferred to partner you, Hetty? Mr. Minchin or Sir Aubrey?”

It was a rhetorical question, Hetty knew. Araminta did not concern herself with other people’s desires unless they ran counter to her own, in which case she was assiduous in trampling them. Hetty knew that to her cost. Still, like the dutiful sister she was, she murmured, “Sir Aubrey, I’m sure. He must admire you very much.”

“Indeed he does.” Araminta gazed thoughtfully at the carriage roof, unconsciously licking her lips. “He is a very good catch. Though only a baronet, he is in line for a viscountcy and to inherit large landholdings in Wiltshire. His country seat would be the grandest for a hundred miles, I’m told. And of course, he’s very handsome. I couldn’t consider a husband who wasn’t.”

Bravely, Hetty said softly, “You didn’t think Edgar was handsome.”

She was not surprised when Araminta scoffed with no concern for her sister’s feelings. “Edgar was going to be master of The Grange. It didn’t matter what he looked like, for you know my greatest desire has always been to be mistress of my beloved family home.” She sniffed, her expression suddenly tragic, and for a moment Hetty thought she was at least paying lip service to the grief she should feel at poor Edgar’s untimely death. Instead, Araminta’s tone was bitter. “Now Mama’s enceinte and if our new sibling is a boy then he will inherit. If we get a sister and Cousin Stephen inherits, Cousin Stephen’s reluctance to marry me just because I’m his cousin forces me to make my way in the world as best I can.” A satisfied smile banished her grief as she pronounced, “I just can’t make up my mind whether to set my sights on Sir Aubrey or the new Lord Debenham.”

Gloomily, Hetty reflected that Araminta was just the kind of dazzling beauty who apparently appealed to Sir Aubrey. “Sir Aubrey is not looking for a wife, I’m told.” Hetty looked combative. “He’s said to enjoy dalliances, though.”

“A handsome gentleman like Sir Aubrey is bound to be regarded with jealousy and to have detractors.”

“Of whom Lord Debenham is one.”