Regency Rebels: Scandalous Lord, Rebellious Miss / An Improper Aristocrat

Matthews gasped, then looked like he was going to cry into his brandy.

‘See?’ Henley crowed his triumph. ‘Dayle don’t want you pawing any of the females in his family, either.’

‘She’s not family,’ Charles said, trying to keep his temper. He tried to look apologetic. ‘Listen, Matthews, Miss Westby is not your conventional débutante. She’s not the sort of girl your father would probably even wish for you be courting.’

‘Don’t try to turn me up sweet, now. It must be me you object to. Nothing wrong with the girl. She’s got breeding, and money. Your own mother dotes on her, and so do the Lowders.’

‘Seen the Duchess of Charmouth take her up in her carriage at the park, myself,’ Henley put in. ‘Heard her Grace asked for the girl’s advice on her new ballroom. If the duchess embraces her, the rest of the ton will have no choice in the matter, even if the chit has spots and six fingers on each hand.’

That was the problem, Charles thought. Embrace her the ton already had, with a vengeance. Her name was on everyone’s lips, as much as his own. Suddenly everyone had an amusing little tale to tell of Miss Westby. The events she attended were an instant success. The vivid colours of her gowns were touted as a natural expression of her artistic temperament and were aped by matrons, widows and any woman old enough to escape pastels. The Prince Regent himself demanded an introduction, examined her portfolio, and spent an hour discussing designs with her. Now her passion for décor was an asset, not an oddity, and the fickle haut monde clamoured for her advice.

It was galling. He behaved like a monk and was cursed for a fiend. She broke half of polite society’s rules and they worshipped her for it.

Not that he could blame them. She’d hit their insular little world like a mortar shell, scattering insipid young misses like shrapnel, but she’d done worse to him. She’d bewitched him with her beauty, seduced him with her laughter. She’d made him forget.

He had forgotten his companions. They were both staring at him with knowing expressions on their faces.

‘Perhaps you aren’t the problem after all, Matthews,’ Henley mused. ‘Perhaps Dayle wants the chit for himself.’

‘You got the Ashford girl all wrapped up,’ complained Matthews. ‘You don’t need both of ‘em.’

Charles had had enough. He stood. ‘I must go. I wish you good hunting, Matthews.’ He threw a handful of coins down on the table, enough to pay for the entire evening’s tally of drink, and he strode out, calling for his vehicle.

He had wasted enough time, mooning like a schoolboy. He didn’t have time for it. He had to concentrate. He must work out this mess that passed for his life—for the sakes of those who no longer had one.

He forced his thoughts back the encounter he had had with Mills this morning. A small, dark man. A file tracing his activities. It was devilish little to go on. Though he racked his brains, he could not think who might hate him so. The only people he’d ever truly wronged were dead. And now to find his enemy had been watching him so closely for years? It made no sense, but it sent a shiver of unease up his spine.

Perhaps Jack had made some progress. With luck, his brother would be in his rooms and they could have a private word before the party. He took the ribbons from his groom and set out.

He was passing Humphreys, the renowned print shop, where the usual crowd gathered to see the new prints in the windows, when the cry went up.

‘It’s him!’

‘Hey, Dayle! Can I have an invitation to your next party?’

A chill descended over Charles and he pulled the horses up short. On the street, an older woman pulled a young lady away. ‘Don’t look at him, dear,’ she said, with a sniff. ‘Let us go.’

Tossing the reins to his groom, he approached the window, already certain what he was about to see.

It was worse than he imagined. Burning rage twisted in his gut, bubbled up and spewed out of him in a particularly inventive string of blasphemies. Stalking inside, he snatched one of the offending things off the glass. The catcalls and ribbing continued as he accosted the first apprentice he found. ‘Where’s your mistress?’ he barked.

‘U-upstairs,’ the boy stammered.

‘Lead on,’ Charles said.

‘Oho!’ The involuntary chuckle escaped Jack when Charles handed the paper to his brother. ‘Oh, my.’

‘Is that all you can say?’ growled Charles. They were in Jack’s cluttered bachelor’s quarters and Charles was trying to pace without toppling one of the many towers of books and papers.

‘No, as a matter of fact. I have to say I’m insulted that you never invited me to any of your orgies.’

Despite himself, Charles laughed. ‘Damned caricaturists. Yes, they’re clever, but it doesn’t sit so well when it’s you they ridicule.’

‘Yes, but Cruikshank, no less! No one is truly notorious today until Cruikshank mocks them!’ Jack bent to examine the piece more closely. ‘Well, old chap, sorry to say it, but he is very clever. Portraying you entertaining the ton in one room while the wild orgy is going on behind partially closed doors! And the detail is brilliant.’

‘Brilliant and devastating.’

‘Look—half the patronesses of Almack’s are on one side, while on the other.’ Jack looked up. ‘Did you truly have an affair with the Annie Ewing?’ he asked, his voice filled with awe.

‘Of course not,’ Charles snapped.

‘Oh, well, I’ve always enjoyed her singing. It’s clear from this how she came by her nickname.’

‘You are missing the important part, Jack.’

‘More important than Amply Endowed Annie’s bared breast?’ his brother asked, grinning.

‘Take a look at what the half-clothed revellers are reading.’

‘Hmm, yes, that lucky fellow is holding a paper, isn’t he? The Radical Review? And look over here, on the floor next to these energetic ladies, a book, The Real Rights of Man. Bad form, my boy, to mix pleasure and politics.’

‘But that’s just it, it’s the same thing as last time. An attack on my morals and my politics in one fell swoop.’

‘So you think that the same person is behind both?’

‘I feel that it must be. But who?’

‘I feel sure that it is not Avery,’ Jack said with a sudden serious turn. ‘I’ve kept an eye on him, as you asked. He truly is miserable, Charles. I don’t believe it is an act, and I don’t believe it is only his honour that is damaged. I think he misses the old girl.’

‘But why should he continue to stir up trouble for me? He certainly does it openly at Whitehall, if not clandestinely with these attacks.’

‘You’re an easy target, and a natural one for him. You’re mixed up in the business that has humiliated him, and there is a true political divide between you. Frankly, I admire the old man for staying in town. Many a lesser man would have fled home in the face of such embarrassment, and never been heard from again.’

Charles stopped pacing and turned to face his brother. ‘Perhaps that is the whole idea. Perhaps either one or both of us were supposed to withdraw, to tuck our heads and hide, but from what?’ He sat in the chair across from Jack and scrubbed his hair to help him think. ‘It must be me, since the latest round was aimed at me as well.’

‘But perhaps the caricature is only the natural result of all the rest, and not a new attack.’

‘Ah, but I haven’t told you all of it.’ Charles told his brother of what he had learned from the Augur’s editor. ‘And, when I found that—’ he gestured toward the cartoon ‘—I had a little talk with Hannah Humphreys.’

‘She gave up Cruikshank?’

‘Told me where I might find him, rather. He was not a bit apologetic, but he did tell me something interesting.’

Jack only raised a questioning brow.

‘He said he would never have had the idea for that thing if he hadn’t met someone new at his regular coffeehouse.’

‘A small, dark, wiry man?’