Kasey Michaels by Escapade Read Free Book Online Page B

himself, Simon had done his possible with his estates in Sussex: cutting rents, installing the best stewards he could, and staying in almost daily contact with his people while he worked behind the scenes in London. He had quietly set up and now supported a half dozen charities. He had taken up his place in government, argued for some semblance of sanity both publicly and privately, employed as many servants as he could, and gave his lavish custom to shopkeepers, haberdashers, and vintners who were badly in need of paying patrons.
    It wasn’t enough, but it was all he could do. As much as he detested the degree of waste and the spendthrift ways of the London Season, he was aware that the fits and follies of London society also provided the sole support of thousands of people, from the chimney sweep to the carriage maker to the umbrella sellers in small shops along the side streets of the Metropolis.
    Simon liked his friends Bartholomew Boothe and Armand Gauthier for many reasons, but uppermost in value was that they shared his concerns over the hell-bent-for-leather rush to perdition that many of their acquaintance were pursuing. Brummell, for one, was soon going to be forced out of England entirely, because of personal economic reverses brought on by reckless gaming, and because the man had a mouth that was much too glib for someone of mediocre birth and limited funds. Next to go, Simon felt sure, would be Richard Brinsley Sheridan, three parts genius, one part glorious fool, who continued to spend money long after his pockets had been emptied.
    And then there was George, Simon’s own dear Lord Byron, who doggedly held to his belief that the people of England, if not the ton , would never abandon him, even as scandal upon scandal rocked his former glory, driving him deeply into debt, pushing him headlong toward personal disaster.
    It was for that reason, and to discuss both Brummell and Sheridan, that Simon was originally to have come to White’s today, to sip wine with Bartholomew and Armand and consider possible ways of rescuing their friends from their own follies.
    As Simon approached the table it was to see both Bones and Armand already there. He paused a moment to observe his friends without their knowledge, as they hadn’t seen him as yet, and were deep in some argument.
    Bartholomew Boothe was a most intriguing man to look upon, if one was of a mind to investigate the intricacies of the human skeletal structure without having to go to the bother of performing an actual autopsy: rail skinny, bony, and with a skin that was rather thin both physically and in attitude.
    Of only medium height, with pale hazel eyes and unfortunately stringy brown hair, he had nothing much to show the world, and he believed that the world had even less to show him. But he was a good enough egg for all of that, Simon knew, loyal and true, if a bit of a dark cloud. He kept his friends centered, unable to go off on a potentially injurious lark without first considering all the dire consequences Bartholomew Boothe could see lurking behind every silver lining. Simon and Armand considered his bare-bones attitude and opinions much in keeping with his physical appearance, which was the reason behind his rather strange nickname.
    An opposite to Bartholomew in every way, Armand Gauthier was tall, devastatingly handsome, and of a sunny disposition that made him popular with both sexes—although the gentler gender saw possibilities in his startling blue eyes, dramatic, long black hair, and impressive physique that went miles beyond the appreciation of his male friends. And, to most of the world, he was an enigma, which made Simon doubly flattered to have Armand see him not only as a valued friend, but as a confidant as well.
    It was Armand who saw Simon first. Probably sensed his presence. Armand was like that. Deep. Faintly mysterious. “Simon’s here, Bones,” he said as Simon pulled out a chair and sat down. “Tell him what you’ve just