The Irresistible Rogue (Playful Brides #4)(15)

“Oh, that is too much fun,” Rafe heard Sir Roderick say under his breath.

Rafe scanned the baron from head to toe. His hair was too slick. His cravat too neat. His coat too lint-free. His boots too polished. His nose too straight. His eyes too blue. No. There was not much to like about Lord Fitzwell. Not much at all.

The duke and duchess soon extracted themselves from the baron’s company, and Rafe watched as Fitzwell made his way around the room, ingratiating himself with the other guests. First Swifdon, and then each man of the next successive rank. He completely ignored the Hunt brothers, mere misters, and of course he didn’t bother saying another word to Rafe.

Rafe returned to his seat in the corner. Being ignored by that pompous jackass didn’t bother him. Rafe had dealt with people like Fitzwell his entire life. People who believed the measure of a man was taken by his title and lineage and little else. Rafe turned the brandy in his glass and stared into its amber depths. He’d long ago given up caring about the doings of the nobility. He wasn’t a part of it and he never would be. He concentrated on his job. And at the moment, his job had brought him to Mayfair to the elegant party of the Earl of Swifdon. It was true he respected Swifdon and Claringdon, and Donald had been a fine fellow. But they were clearly the exceptions to the rule. Rafe wouldn’t even be here tonight if it weren’t for his needing Daphne. He took a deep breath. Daphne. The lady might be diminutive but she certainly knew what she wanted and how to get it. And apparently, at the moment, she wanted Lord Fitzwell. She remained at his side laughing at his jests and generally peeping up at him with those wide gray eyes above that questionable fichu.

Rafe let his gaze rake over the baron one last time. Fitzwell walked with a self-satisfied swagger, and after he was done greeting those whom he obviously felt were worth his attention, he posted himself to the right of the duke’s elbow and proceeded to comment on every word out of Claringdon’s mouth.

Rafe’s eyes narrowed on Fitzwell. Everyone had a tell. If you looked long enough, you’d see it. Told you a great deal about a man. Yes, everyone had a tell. And he’d just witnessed Lord Fitzwell’s. Rank and status were his gods.

The drawing room door opened just then and a heavyset older woman wearing a purple turban came strolling slowly into the room thumping a well-worn cane in front of her.

“Aunt Willie!” Daphne exclaimed, turning and rushing toward the lady.

“Daphne, my dear, you look as fresh as a daisy.” The woman took a moment to pull a quizzing glass from her ample bosom. “Is that the fichu I made for you last winter, dear? It looks just right on you.”

Rafe struggled to keep a smile off his lips. Ah, that was why Daphne was wearing that thing.

Daphne’s mother, the dowager countess, hurried over to greet her older sister as well, and the three of them returned to the group standing in the middle of the room. Daphne helped her aunt sit in a large chair that faced all the occupants. “This is my aunt, Lady Wilhelmina Harrington,” Daphne announced to the room at large.

“And who is your rumored bridegroom, Daphne?” Aunt Willie asked, gazing about the room, her quizzing glass pinned to her cloudy grayish-blue eye.

Daphne winced. “Oh, Aunt, I—”

Aunt Willie pointed her quizzing glass directly at Rafe. “Because I certainly hope he’s that delectable young man right there.”





CHAPTER NINE




“Bonsoir, Capitaine Cavendish.”

Rafe was standing near the door of the drawing room, waiting while the other guests gathered before they all went into dinner together. He glanced over to see a young girl dressed in some sort of pink concoction of tulle and satin that looked like something a carnival performer would wear on stage. She was busily batting her eyelashes at him and spoke with a decided French accent. He looked twice.

“Good evening, Miss…?”

“Mademoiselle Montebanque. Mademoiselle Delilah Montebanque.” The French accent did not dissipate. No doubt the name was actually a solid English Montbank, but the way the girl pronounced it, Rafe was certain she’d added a few unnecessary letters. “Do forgive me, I know we should not speak as we have not been formally introduced.”

Rafe bowed over the hand she delicately offered. “I’m happy to correct that error now, Miss Montbank. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“I simply j’adore parties, do not you? Although I am not yet allowed to attend them. At present I am avoiding my governess, who is no doubt desperately searching for me.” She plucked at the large pink bow that sat on the top of her head.

Rafe couldn’t help but smile. Her beginner’s French was charming and he admired the girl’s pluck. “Forgive me for being rude, but are you related to the Swifts?”

“Oh, mon Dieu. Je suis désolée. How remiss of me not to explain. I am Lord Swifdon’s cousin. My mother’s sister is his mother’s sister. Comprenez-vous?”

“I think so,” Rafe answered. “How did you know my name?

“Oh, how could I not know your name, Capitaine?” the girl answered vaguely. Her dark eyes grew wide. “Vous ne parlez pas fran?ais?”

Rafe coughed lightly into his hand. “I speak it, Miss Montbank. I merely don’t prefer it to my native tongue. I spent a bit of time in France, as you may know, and none of it was pleasant.”