Kasey Michaels by Escapade Read Free Book Online Page A

I know it.”
    “Mother, what is it?” Simon inquired with some concern as he laid a hand on her shoulder, for it wasn’t like his booming, rollicking mama to be so solemn. Having the woman whisper was as unusual as would be seeing a duck fly backwards across the Serpentine. “What on earth are you mumbling about?”
    Imogene tipped her head, pressing her cheek against the back of Simon’s hand. “You love me, don’t you, Simon? Love my outlandish ways, my somewhat daring manner, my plain speech, how I insist upon riding astride—as I’m convinced your brigand did last night?”
    “I adore you and you know it—” Simon began, just to have her cut him off.
    “You adore me,” the viscountess repeated, sighing as if he had just disappointed her to the very depths of her soul. “Just as all those milk-and-water pusses who mince and flirt and giggle at you from behind their fans bore you past all patience. Oh, Simon, don’t you see?”
    Simon withdrew his hand, standing very straight. “Those stays are keeping the blood from your brain, Mother,” he pronounced tightly. “I want to find this girl, this idiot , to save her from herself before she can get into worse trouble. She’ll be hanged otherwise, and I can’t have that on my conscience. That is my reason, Mother, and nothing more. If anything, I had a brief thought that I might introduce her to Armand. But that’s all.”
    “Of course it is, Simon,” Imogene agreed, her bottom lip beginning to quiver. “I’m going to lie down for a while now I think, dear, and will see you later.” She turned and began slowly mounting the stairs, leaning her hand rather heavily against the smooth mahogany railing and looking almost small and frail—which was a considerable feat for one of her robust size and good health. “Perhaps Kathleen will bring me a vinaigrette, or some burnt feathers.”
    “Or your bottle of gin,” Simon called after her angrily before whirling on his heels and leaving the house as Emery stood at attention, holding the door open for his master. “Women!” he complained to the longtime family retainer, who only nodded and said, “Absolutely, sir. Always.”

A man must make his opportunity, as oft as find it.
    —Francis Bacon
    Chapter Three
    S imon sauntered into White’s shortly before two, slowly making his way through the tables, pausing to speak to friends who called out to him. He was smooth, polite, but never wavered in his determination to end up at his usual table in front of the bow window, a happy place of prominence lately made considerably sadder by the frequent absence of Mr. Beau Brummell.
    As a matter of fact, there were more than a few empty chairs at White’s lately, which was unusual considering the fact that the Season had been under way for a good while, but not at all unimaginable, considering the state of the economy. Simon knew that his mother’s remark on the staggering rate of unemployment in the servant classes had a lot to do with the fact that many of his peers had been feeling the pinch that had followed hard on the heels of the final victory over Napoleon. The economy had not been helped by the past two seasons, one of the worst winters and wettest springs in more than a decade.
    Spring lambs had stupidly stood in the fields with their even more ignorant mothers and died under the onslaught of spring hail, which had also ruined many a crop. Manufacturers were closing their doors, trade both into and out of England was falling at a rapid pace, and Parliament was run by fools and jabbed at by idiots.
    And through it all, Prinny kept building, and the dandies, out of their desperation, kept parading and gambling too deep. The ladies of the ton kept up their lavish entertainments, the radicals kept haranguing, and the poor became poorer, angrier. All that was needed, in Simon’s opinion, was a fiddler and a fat fellow named Nero to pound out the tune while the country bumed down around all their ears.
    For