George Safton arrived in the late afternoon to inquire about the bluestocking’s health. His navy coat and fawn trousers were calculated to remind her of Kevin Whattling’s usual morning attire. Although he refrained from remarking on it, he noted the red and puffy eyes and trembling lip with satisfaction. Something was wrong, which could only mean that things were working to his advantage. But he had never been one to rest on his achievements.

“I’m very glad to see that your misencounter the other day has had no ill effects,” he replied when she assured him she was all right. “A lady cannot be too careful in these trying times.”

“Don’t I always say it,” Miss Tindale agreed beside her mistress on the sofa, patting down the skirts of her black bombazine.

Miss Welch offered him a wane smile. “I assure you, Mr. Safton, between Martha and Fiching, I’m in very good hands.”

“It is a blessing to have true friends,” he said with a nod, letting his smile include her companion and butler. Miss Tindale was beaming at him, so he had clearly won her over. The butler was scowling at him, but he didn’t suppose that mattered much. “And speaking of friends, you haven’t by any chance seen our mutual friend Mr. Whattling recently?”

He had the satisfaction of hearing Miss Tindale sniff derisively while her mistress paled until her skin clashed with the violet silk gown she was wearing.

“I do not expect to see Mr. Whattling again in the near future,” she replied.

He sighed, keeping his triumph to himself. “Pity. I’ve been having a great deal of trouble catching up with him. He had mentioned wanting to catch Kean at Drury Lane with me. I went so far as to procure three tickets—for myself, Mr. Whattling, and his friend Mr. Sloane, but neither of them have sent word they will be able to attend. I do so hate attending the theatre alone. One feels so out of place.”

Miss Tindale sighed in understanding. Miss Welch was studying her hands folded in her lap.

“I don’t suppose…” he looked as pathetic as he was able. “No, no, a great inconvenience, I’m sure.”

“What?” Miss Tindale demanded. “Surely, Mr. Safton, you know that we would be happy to do you a service. Why, you saved Miss Jenny’s life.”

Jenny. What an utterly plebeian name. Still, if it would advance his cause, he ought to make use of it. “Not at all, Miss Tindale. I only sought to provide what minimal assistance I could. Your Miss Jenny should feel in no way beholden.”

 

–

 

No, she shouldn’t. Jenny snuck a peak at the dark profile from under lowered lashes. She wasn’t sure what it was about the man, but she couldn’t trust him. The smiles he was so want to bestow never seemed to lighten the dark in his eyes. Still, he had been very kind the other day and quite thoughtful to check up on her wellbeing.

“If there’s something you need, Mr. Safton,” she told him, “I will do what I can to help.”

“Would you do me the honor of joining me at the theatre tomorrow evening?” he asked.

Martha clapped her hands. “What a splendid thought! May we, Eugennia?”

Jenny looked from Martha’s eager face to Mr. Safton’s hopeful one. She had no desire to do anything but retire to her room and continue to cry, but that experience hadn’t been remotely satisfying. She was quite partial to Edmund Kean’s acting, and company other than Martha’s might be enjoyable. What harm could it do?

“Thank you, Mr. Safton,” she said with a nod. “That would be a very nice diversion.”

 

–

 

Giles and Nigel couldn’t stand not knowing the results of their handiwork. They invited Kevin to dinner at Nigel’s apartments, where they were sure not to be disturbed by the odious George Safton. By that time, Kevin had managed to regain his composure. It was all to the good, he told himself, although he wasn’t sure he’d be able to convince himself of that for a while. He consoled himself with the fact that the next heiress might not wreak such havoc with his conscience.

But he couldn’t let Giles off the hook so easily. Much as he admired his friend’s generosity and willingness to help, he needed to make a statement regarding the privacy of his actions. Thus as the dinner wore on, he refused to volunteer information, and he turned aside any subtle attempt to bring his courtship of Miss Welch into the conversation. Even though Nigel’s dining room was spacious and decorated in cool colors, both his friends were soon adjusting their cravats and squirming in their walnut seats as if the quarters were a bit too cramped. By the time Nigel’s liveried footmen were serving the third course, neither of them could sit still.

“But have you seen Miss Welch today?” Giles finally blurted out. Nigel glowered at him from the head of the long table, but he manfully refused to cringe. “That is, how is your courtship going?”

“When did you say Evalina Turnpeth was returning to town?” Kevin asked Nigel before taking a bite of his host’s excellent beef.

Nigel stopped glowering long enough to blink. “June or July, I’m told. Didn’t you hear Giles?”

“Most assuredly,” Kevin said with a smile, nodding at his rotund friend across the damask-draped table. “I would never ignore you, Giles. I thought perhaps you’d take the hint. I need the name of another heiress.”

Now it was Giles turn to frown. “Why?”

Nigel coughed. “Miss Welch turned you out, did she? I must say I gave her more credit than that.”

“It was the flowers, wasn’t it?” Giles groaned, paling and collapsing against the back of the Sheridan chair. “Oh, Kev, I’m so sorry! I was only trying to help!”

Kevin waved the issue aside with his spoon. “Don’t concern yourself, Giles. We were fast approaching this junction in any event. Although, I must say, flowers from both of you were a bit too much.”

Giles hung his head until his double chins were resting on the shirt points of his white evening shirt. “It was only some roses. And I did put in some of my comfits.”

“Yes, well, those went over very nicely, as you might suppose.” Kevin eyed his friend thoughtfully. “Am I to understand, then, that neither of you sent carnations, gardenias or lilies?”

“Certainly not,” Nigel said with a sniff. “Lilies are for the elderly, gardenias are insipid things, and carnations are highly unoriginal.”

“Of course,” Kevin allowed with a half-smile, his mind busy. Who else knew of his plans and would want to help? Perhaps it didn’t matter. She had turned him out, as Giles had guessed, and there wasn’t much hope that that would change.

“Contradictory female,” Nigel muttered. “If her tastes are so refined as to be upset by a few flowers, you’re well rid of her.”

“Hear, hear,” Giles seconded. “Who will you try next, Kev?”

“Don’t encourage him,” Nigel scolded. “Whattling, this plan was ill-conceived from the first. Surely there must be something else you can do. What about Lord Hastings in the War Office? Surely he must need some help mopping things up.”

Once again he could only wonder at his friend’s knowledge. Kevin spread his hands. “Napoleon is safely on Elba, and the Congress in Vienna is busily carving up his holdings. I don’t imagine Hastings has much for me to do. Besides, I hear he is entirely too busy trying to get his son Leslie away from the gaming set before his great aunt, Lady Agnes, finds out.”

“I say, I think you’re a bit hard on Leslie Petersborough,” Giles put in. “That Chas Prestwick fellow he hangs about with is nothing like George Safton.”

Kevin regarded him silently. Nigel scowled. Giles sunk behind the silver epergne in the center of the table.

“Nevertheless, Whattling,” Nigel continued, “you have to keep trying. There must be something you can turn your hand to raise this money.”

Kevin shook his head. “Not quickly enough, Nigel. And despite what I said about Lord Hastings, chucking everything to leave for France now feels too much like running away.”

“And marrying some female for her money feels more manly?” Nigel demanded.

Kevin threw down his napkin and rose. “I’m sick and tired of being lectured to. I got myself into this mess, and I will get myself out. And I’ll thank the two of you to stay out of it from here on.”

Giles started to protest, but Kevin didn’t stop to hear whether it was an apology or agreement with Nigel. He stormed out of the room, sending one of the footman flying for his top hat and cloak. His foot was on the step when Giles caught up with him.

“Don’t go like that!” he begged, jowls quivering. “We’re your friends, Kev. Nigel means no harm.”

“Then he should stay out of my affairs,” Kevin growled, turning to leave. “You both ought to have more faith in me.”

“Fanny Brighton turned down the duke,” Giles replied.

Kevin stopped, looking back over his shoulder at him. “What?”

“Fanny Brighton, the gel Nigel says laughs like a horse. I heard she turned down the duke because he didn’t have enough dash. She’s worth twenty thousand per annum.”

Kevin stepped back and clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank you, Giles. I appreciate your confidence.” He turned once more to go and felt the tug of annoyance that Giles’s faith hadn’t lightened his steps.

“And Kevin,” Giles called, “this time, I’ll wait on the candy until you give me leave.”

“You might as well give it to me now, old boy,” Kevin said with a laugh. “I have a feeling that, this time, I’ll need it.”

 

–

 

As it turned out, not even Giles’ excellent comfits could have helped Kevin during his visit to the Brighton’s the next afternoon. In fact, he quit the house so thankfully that he found himself walking entirely too fast toward his own apartments and forced himself to slow to his usual stroll. He shuddered inside his navy morning coat just thinking about his close call. Whatever had possessed Giles to recommend her?

Miss Fanny Brighton had a laugh much closer to the bray of a mule than the whinny of a horse. That trait would have not been important to him, however, if she had been a pleasant person. But Miss Brighton was painfully aware of her position on the marriage mart, and she evaluated every gentleman who showed interest to see what a bargain she was buying.

From the moment he had been ushered into the sitting room, he had felt as if he were on the block. The room, which was decorated after the Chinese style in vibrant shades of blue and red with satin draping nearly every surface, seemed hot and crowded, even though the only people in it were Miss Brighton and her mother. Both were as overdressed as the room, their silk gowns sporting any number of laces and bows and ribbons until he wasn’t sure the color of the underlying fabric.

Unlike Miss Tindale, Mrs. Brighton could barely contain her eagerness at his call, small pudgy hands fluttering like two overweight butterflies at every sentence he uttered. However, he was quick to notice that those tiny dark eyes in a round face were much more calculating than her flighty manner indicated. They were every bit as calculating as the questions her daughter asked ever so innocently.

He answered most of them straightforwardly enough. After his experience with Jenny, he was even more determined to behave as honestly as possible. However, as she quizzed him about his family, his education, and his connections, he began to have the perverse desire to say something outrageous. The way the proprietary smile grew with each response he gave made him long to wipe it off her face.

“I haven’t seen you about much of late, Mr. Whattling,” she ventured after he had apparently answered her earlier questions satisfactorily. “How have you been keeping yourself?”

The temptation was simply too great. “By gambling and horse racing, madam,” he replied. “I find throwing away a bundle on a fresh pony invigorating. I imagine that’s what’s landed me in the financial spot I’m in.”

“So many gentlemen in financial difficulties these days,” Mrs. Brighton commiserated. “What a blessing we do not have such a problem.”

“I don’t imagine anyone would have such difficulties were they in our shoes, Mama,” Fanny replied with her characteristic laugh. “Why, I could gamble as long as I like, and most likely I’d never do more than touch the interest. Do you hunt, Mr. Whattling?”

He had hunted any number of times, finding the pastime enjoyable with a good field. “Not a great deal,” he replied. “Tedious sport.”

He had the great satisfaction of seeing Mrs. Brighton frown. Fanny pursed her lips thoughtfully. “That will have to change, of course,” she murmured. “I am quite fond of the sport.”

“And I imagine you’re quite good at it,” Kevin responded, offering her his most charming smile and wondering just how soon he could escape the house without insulting them both. However, as the questioning continued, he began to wonder whether he cared if he insulted them. He could not like the mercenary gleam in those pale blue eyes. The way she kept brushing against his coat as if to ascertain that the muscles she was seeing were real only made him want to quit the house in haste.

After another half hour, he managed to find his opening and bowed himself out with some excuse about seeing to his horses. He vowed never to return. Money or no money, he refused to be trotted out the rest of his life as the fine specimen of a man Fanny Brighton had bought. Jenny would never have treated him as if he were the strongest steer at auction!

But had he treated Jenny any differently? The thought pushed its way forward as he headed for his apartments. True, he hadn’t patted her withers or demanded to count her teeth, but he certainly had gone in with the understanding of exactly what she was worth financially. He had sought to bargain his male prowess for her money, all the while hoping she might have more to offer than financial support.

And she had considerably more to offer. Perhaps that was what had been bothering him. Instead of a straight bargain—his good looks for her fortune—he had been willing to take her spirit, her intelligence, and her beauty as well. It had never been an even bargain. The benefit was all his.

No, Eugennia Welch was well rid of him. The only question was, what was he to do now?