Regency High Society Vol 7: A Reputable Rake / The Heart's Wager / The Venetian's Mistress / The Gambler's Heart

‘Does not everyone become nervous around so many people?’ He tried to school his features into those of a self-conscious dancer.

Her eyes still mimicked saucers as the dance began, but she soon showed that she took his request very seriously. She quietly cued him on what step came next and complimented him when he made a correct figure. She was so absorbed in his performance, she appeared to have totally forgotten herself. As they moved down the line, the fear on her face had vanished, replaced by a rather sweet smile.

The set was long and boring, but Sloane congratulated himself on giving Miss Simpson a bit of confidence. When he finally returned her to her still-disapproving mother, she glanced around the room with more interest than fear. He bowed and bid her goodnight. As he turned from her, he saw Lady Hannah enter the room.

Rather he should say that he saw Miss Hart enter the room, accompanied by Lady Hannah and her mother, for it was Miss Hart who captured his gaze first. Because of her gown, he told himself. It was the colour of an evening sunset, the sort of soft orange that sometimes lights the horizon. Miss Hart’s gown caught the eye more readily than a white one festooned with pink ribbons, flounces and silk flowers.

It might cause talk if he immediately approached them, so he walked to a corner of the room and stood at the crowd’s edge. The two young ladies followed Lady Cowdlin to a bevy of dowagers and chaperons, obviously of Lady Cowdlin’s acquaintance. Miss Hart turned to survey the room. She caught sight of him, hesitating a moment as she did. Sloane experienced a spark of awareness, but he would not credit that. It would merely be due to the high drama of their first encounter, that was all. A memory of danger and excitement often was accompanied by the same surge of emotions the real incident created. Why, he could not go down to the docks without reliving the macabre thrill of battling the French spy he’d been tracking, of the viciousness of the fight, and ultimate victory when his sword plunged deeply into the man’s chest.

Blinking away that memory, Sloane nodded slightly to acknowledge Miss Hart. She smiled, and her gaze eventually travelled on.

A familiar young man he’d not noticed before walked over to him. ‘Good evening, sir.’

Sloane was momentarily without speech.

The young man smiled. ‘I am your nephew, David Sloane.’

Sloane shook his head, as if waking from a stupor. ‘Yes, yes, I know who you are. I confess I am surprised…’

No member of his family had spoken to him or called on him or otherwise acknowledged his presence since he had arrived in town. He took a breath and extended his hand. ‘How do you do, David.’

The young man accepted the handshake warmly. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Uncle.’

This nephew had been a mere lad, not even old enough for school, when Sloane, then a youth himself, had last seen him. It had been during a rare holiday from school that Sloane spent with the family. He recalled his father being in some towering rage, the reason escaping him. Perhaps he’d been caught downing ale with the field hands at the pub, or had it been the time he’d overturned his father’s new gig?

Did his nephew’s memories of Uncle Cyprian include hearing the Earl’s barrage of verbal abuse and his stinging lashes with a whip? If the young man were spared such memories, as Sloane was not, he was certain the Earl and David’s father would have supplied other evidence of Uncle Cyprian’s total moral collapse.

David smiled again. ‘I had wanted to make myself known to you before, but I’d not found the opportunity.’

Sloane gave him a grave look. ‘Your father and grandfather will not approve of your speaking to me.’

The young man laughed. ‘I dare say not, but I assure you, I am not in agreement with them. Frankly, I think it does our family discredit to cut you off without a word.’

Our family? Sloane was amused at his nephew’s words.

David’s father had been born to the Earl of Dorton’s first wife—the virtuous wife. Sloane’s mother was not virtuous. She’d had a fairly public liaison with a dashing but impoverished Italian count, and, though the Earl of Dorton had declared Sloane his son, it was widely bandied about that Sloane was the product of that rollicking affair.

Indeed, the Earl, the man he called father, had branded him with the name Cyprian lest anyone forget what his mother was.

What he was.

From the time Sloane was old enough to understand these matters, the Earl had made certain the boy knew how good the Earl had been to acknowledge him as his son, how hard the Earl had tried to keep Sloane’s mother on the country estate, how she ultimately left them both when Sloane was not yet three years old, running off to Paris with her count.

How she and the man who sired him got caught in the revolutionary upheaval there and, as titled persons, went to their deaths on the guillotine.

Sloane wrenched his thoughts back to this nephew. ‘Your grandfather will be angry, I dare say.’ And, like as not, would place the blame at Sloane’s feet.

His nephew’s eyes twinkled. ‘I shall plead an attack of Christian charity. Grandfather will not dare argue on that score.’

Sloane could not help but laugh. ‘I trust the Earl is in good health? And your father as well?’

The young man replied, ‘My father is quite robust. Grandfather fatigues easily, although he will never admit to any weakness. Otherwise he is much as he has always been.’

Trying to still the flood of painful memories that suddenly assaulted him, Sloane asked other polite questions about the health of other relations who would, like as not, cross a street to avoid having to greet him. David answered just as politely, with an open countenance that led Sloane to think his sentiments might be genuine. The young man’s looks were more poetic than manly, with features that in the father appeared weak, but in the son seemed kind. Sloane could not help but like him.

As they chatted, Sloane kept half an eye on Lady Hannah—and her cousin. The two ladies left the chaperons and were slowly promenading around the room, stopping to chat with Lady Hannah’s ‘particular’ friends.

They eventually came near enough for Lady Hannah to feign surprise at seeing him. ‘Why, Mr Sloane, how delightful to see you here tonight. You recall my cousin, Miss Hart.’

Sloane gave Miss Hart an amused glance. ‘Yes, Miss Hart. I am able to recall our first meeting quite well, I assure you.’

Miss Hart’s lips twitched.

Lady Hannah gave a tittering laugh, placing her hand briefly on Sloane’s arm. She turned to his nephew, waiting for the introduction.

Sloane obliged. ‘Lady Hannah and Miss Hart, may I present Mr David Sloane.’ He deliberately withheld their relationship, lest it put David in an awkward position.

His nephew bowed. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Hannah, Miss Hart. Mr Sloane is my uncle, you know.’

‘Oh, is that not splendid!’ Lady Hannah cooed, more automatically than genuinely. ‘Tell me, are you gentlemen enjoying the assembly tonight?’

Enjoy would not be a word Sloane would attach to Almack’s. His nephew answered first. ‘I assure you, my lady. I begin to enjoy myself immensely.’

Lady Hannah blushed prettily and tittered again.

Not only poetical looks, Sloane thought in amusement, but a tongue to go with them. He glanced at Miss Hart, who returned a knowing smile.

‘Are you gentlemen not dancing?’ Lady Hannah piped up, with a flutter of eyelashes.

Undoubtedly this had been her objective all along. To work her way around the room to Sloane’s side, so he could be the first gentleman to ask her to dance.

‘The next set is a waltz,’ she added significantly.

Before Sloane could open his mouth, David spoke, ‘I would be honoured to be your partner, my lady. There is nothing I could desire more.’ He accompanied this speech with a suitably earnest look.

‘Oh.’ Hannah blushed again, clearly pleased. ‘Then I suppose we must dance, sir.’ She turned to Sloane. ‘Would you be so good as to ask my cousin to dance? I would not wish to leave her standing alone.’

Sloane disliked her ordering him around every bit as much as he had the ruffian in the park. He was not some besotted slave devoted to her every whim, but he gave an assenting nod.

David lost no time in whisking her on to the dance floor as the music started. Sloane turned to Miss Hart.

She gave him a level look. ‘My cousin presumes too much, Mr Sloane. You are under no obligation to ask me to dance if you do not wish it. I am well able to walk across the room and rejoin my aunt.’

He understood the irritation in her voice, so like his own, but if she walked away from him, someone was certain to spread the tale that the notorious Cyprian Sloane had been rejected by a mere baron’s daughter. That would cost him. Besides, should he allow Lady Hannah’s presumption to stop him from doing what he longed to do?

He raised his brows to Miss Hart and spoke with deliberate exaggeration. ‘And what if I have pined for just such an opportunity?’

She immediately caught his humour. ‘Flummery, sir.’