Page 22 of Souvenir of Love

“One might have said something similar about you thirteen years ago.”

“But I didn’t go about frittering what was left, and I didn’t ruin innocent young girls to bolster my fortune. I worked to repair it.”

Cole leaned forward, his voice very low. “And some might say a peer working in the French textile trade to rebuild his fortune is an even greater scandal than a peer seducing an heiress.”

“I will not apologize for engaging in trade.”

“But you’re not likely to trumpet it about either.”

“So, you think I should force Dinsmore to come up to scratch.” Rafe changed the subject.

“I think you have little choice. A duel might restore your honor, and perhaps, on the surface, Elizabeth’s, but it will not stop the talk. You could do worse than James Dinsmore.”

Rafe snorted his disbelief.

“At least Elizabeth likes him.”

“For his pretty blue eyes and his blond tresses. A schoolgirl’s crush.” Rafe’s long fingers toyed with the stem of his untouched wineglass. “My sister imagines she sees beyond a pretty face, and believes there is goodness in a heart that has none.”

“And what if she is right? What if she can find goodness in James Dinsmore?”

Wine splashed redly on Rafe’s fingers. “And what if she is wrong?”

“Then she has a marriage no worse than any other arranged marriage in the ton.”

“Where to, sir?”the coachman asked as he swung open the carriage door.

James paused, feeling the cool night air sweep over him. He hadn’t really considered his destination. It was eleven thirty, too late for the theater, too early to go home. He hadn’t the funds to gamble, and he was in no mood for a brothel. He mentallyreviewed the parties whose doors would be open to him that evening.

Dull, duller, dullest.

Particularly without the intriguing prospect of Elizabeth Harcrest’s attendance.

Little chance she’d show her face after what had happened.What he’d done to her…The night air suddenly seemed damp and heavy. James squared his shoulders as if to toss it off. Christ, but he was becoming maudlin about the girl. “Get a grip on yourself, man,” he muttered.

“Beg pardon, sir?” There was a hint of surprise in the coachman’s respectful tone.

“Lady Lambert’s.” James named the place he was most likely to find Lounsbury and Ashton. Mindless chatter, that’s what he required, talk of horseflesh and whores. No more pensive ponderings about the worth of his soul or redeeming his future. He climbed into the carriage and the coachman swung the door shut behind him. James leaned out the window. “Lady Lambert’s. Do you know the address?”

The coachman nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Then let’s put some speed into it.” James rapped the door with a gloved hand for emphasis.

“So, I said to Hardy, if you’re not going to take the bloody horse back, the least you can do is provide the funds to nurse the damn nag back to health…” Lounsbury, as usual, was lamenting his difficulties with a recent purchase.

“Quite right, Lounsbury.”

Odd, James reflected,how some people could continue the same conversation night after night.He supposed Lounsbury found it comforting, the mental equivalent of a favorite pairof worn slippers. He focused on the stripes in Lady Lambert’s ballroom wallpaper.Were there thirty-two or thirty-three?

“I say”—Ashton hurried up to them, face flushed with brandy and dancing—“that Neville-Smythe chit is a sprightly dancer.”

“Skin seems a bit spotty.” Lounsbury, at last dropping the subject of horses, lifted a lorgnette to examine the girl in question.

“Who says I was looking at her face?” Ashton giggled.

Lounsbury let his eyeglass drift lower. “My word.” He nudged James. “Take a look, Dinsmore.”

“A mereMissNeville-Smythe won’t catch Dinsmore’s eye,” said Ashton. “I hear James has been after nobler sport.”