A Gentleman Never Tells(55)
The server approached, and Brent waited until he’d placed his drink on the table and turned away, before saying, “What I really want to know, Sir Randolph, is if there will be more scandal coming.”
A genuine look of puzzlement wrinkled the dandy’s forehead, narrowed his eyes, and tightened his lips. “I’m not sure I know what you mean by that comment.”
Brent picked up his ale and took a sip. The tankard hit his bruised lip, and he stifled a wince. Every time it pained him, he thought about how good it would feel to pummel Mr. Alfred Staunton’s face into the ground.
“Then let me be forthright with you, Sir Randolph,” Brent said, placing his ale back on the table. He looked the man coldly and directly in the eyes, wanting to make sure there would be no misunderstanding as to what he had to say. “I do not want to wake one morning and find you have blabbed to every scandal sheet and gossipmonger in the ton about your clandestine affair with my mother almost thirty years ago, because if you do, I will pay you a visit.”
Sir Randolph jerked back as if Brent had struck him. Wide-eyed surprise quickly turned to a deadly glare. It didn’t surprise Brent that the man wasn’t cowed by his strong words.
Sir Randolph’s hands jerked to the table, and his fingers white-knuckled the edge as he leaned in closer to Brent. “By your words, my lord, it’s clear you don’t know me, so I’ll forgive you this once for questioning my honor and not take offense at what you just said. I have only one and will always have only one thing to say about your mother to you, Society, or anyone else in London. She was a fine and virtuous lady, and I’ll take up my sword, my pistols, or my fists against any nobleman, gentry, or servant who dares to say differently about her. And, my lord, that includes her sons.”
Brent sat back in his chair and slowly nodded. He couldn’t have said that better himself. “Then we’re in agreement, Sir Randolph.”
Eleven
Has fortune dealt you some bad cards? Then let wisdom make you a good gamester.
—Francis Quarles
Gabrielle was treading on unfamiliar ground. She hated to be late for anything. It went against her nature. It worried her if anyone had to wait for her, no matter for how short a time. She had fought the urge to race downstairs to meet Lord Brentwood the moment he was announced. Instead, she had paced in her room, making him wait for over an hour before gathering up her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves to make her way below stairs. From what she could tell, stepping on his toes and making him step on hers hadn’t seemed to do much to deter his desire to marry her. He took her bungling of the waltz in stride the way a perfect gentleman should. If she hadn’t been so stunned by his calm acceptance, she would have laughed when he said all she needed was a few more lessons. That was not what she’d wanted to hear. But since that little episode hadn’t worked at all, she had been thinking up new ways to annoy the viscount.
From her father, she knew that few gentlemen could abide a lady who was habitually late. She was hoping her tardiness would add another unacceptable trait to the list he must now be forming about her. But just in case, Gabrielle had more than one card up her sleeve. She wasn’t leaving anything to chance. She was going to add as many uncomplimentary things about herself as she could while they waited for her betrothal to Staunton to be dissolved.
It wasn’t easy for her to play the part of a twit, but she had to believe if she annoyed Lord Brentwood enough, he was sure to give her up as unredeemable and insist to her father that he couldn’t marry a young lady who was so inept at so many things.
She smiled as she slipped her velvet drawstring reticule over her hand. She had written some dreadfully long and uninspired poetry and had it tucked in her purse, ready to pull it out at the most inopportune time and read it to him. Considering the extreme look of anguish she saw on Lord Brentwood’s face when he’d heard Lord Snellingly recite his poetry, her attempt at verse should have the viscount running for the country to get away from her.
Much to her surprise and puzzlement, when she made it to the bottom of the stairs, she heard talking and laughter coming from the drawing room. She had expected to find him extremely annoyed or, at the very least, to hear Lord Brentwood pacing from sheer boredom as she had been doing in her room. She hurried down the corridor and, when she rounded the doorway, she saw Lord Brentwood and her aunt in delightful humor, playing a game of cards across the small table that sat between the two settees.
He certainly wasn’t in the dither she’d hoped to find him. Far from it. He looked as if he was actually enjoying himself with her aunt. Gabrielle was the one who felt flushed, out of breath, and annoyed that he wasn’t. Obviously, being late wasn’t going to provoke him as long as Auntie Bethie was around to amuse him.