The Earl's Revenge by Allison Lane Read Free Book Online Page A

in her words. “But I was telling you about Lord Oaksford and Miss Severton. I cannot imagine what they found to discuss, for both are so high in the instep they rarely deign to notice others, but they were so engrossed in their topic that neither paid the slightest attention to the lads playing nearby. All at once, a stray dog joined the boys, luring them into a chase that bowled the strollers over. They landed in the Serpentine where both promptly succumbed to hysterics. The rumors of Oaksford’s clutchfistedness must be true, for he is certainly skimping on a quality wardrobe. His coat bled all over his cravat, and his pantaloons bagged. Not that Miss Severton noticed. Pond weed was plastered across her face, her gown had turned nearly transparent – for someone so proper, she wears shockingly little underneath! – and her teeth were chattering with cold.”
    Bridgeport had paid only the scantest attention to her recital, a situation that was duly noted by Lady Means across the table. She waited until he seemed thoroughly bored before ignoring all rules of conduct to address him.
    “Will you be attending Lady Wharburton’s masquerade next week?” she asked. Mark inwardly winced. He had been avoiding her eye since sitting down. He had broken with her more than a year before and had no wish to resume the connection. But ignoring the unmannerly interruption did no good, for Mrs. Woodleigh immediately picked up the question.
    “Oh, I do hope you will be there,” she trilled, again batting her lashes. “I have devised the most deliciously scandalous costume. I’m sure you will love it.”
    Lady Means glared.
    “I had planned to, of course,” Mark lied, smiling at the opening she had provided rather than at her. “Unfortunately, I just received an urgent summons from one of my estates. There is a problem that can only be resolved in person, so I will regretfully be from town.”
    “But you will return soon.” Mrs. Woodleigh’s heated eyes and throaty voice announced their relationship to the entire table.
    Thrusting aside a strong desire to strangle the woman, Mark assumed a resigned expression. “Not for some time, Mrs. Woodleigh. The estate is in Cornwall and the problems will take several weeks to resolve. I doubt I will be back before the end of the Season.”
    “Poor man,” commiserated Lady Means, again speaking across the table. “It will be dreadfully lonely to be stranded so far from civilization. Cornwall might as well be China, it is so different from London.”
    “I have heard horrid tales about murder and mayhem there,” mentioned Mr. Groves, joining the sudden informality of the table. His glare implied that Mark should fit right in.
    “Almost everyone is a smuggler,” announced Lord Stoverly in an authoritative voice, though he had not, to Mark’s knowledge, ever traveled farther west than Oxford.
    “Or a wrecker,” sneered Mr. Groves. “No wonder you are having trouble if you must find estate workers among such folk.”
    Mark tried to ignore both the statements and the odd undercurrents, but he was unsuccessful in turning the topic. Mrs. Woodleigh began expostulating on imagined dangers and begging him to remain in London where he would be safe. Mr. Groves interrupted her to regale the table with a convoluted tale of a wrecking that had occurred at least a hundred years earlier, if at all. Lord Stoverly was simultaneously horrifying his neighbors with stories of smugglers’ disputes that Mark was sure had happened long ago in Kent. Lord Marchmont weighed in with the damage smuggling was doing to the war effort, ably seconded by the military gentlemen. Lady Marchmont appeared furious at the fractious disintegration of her dinner party.
    Carrington met Mark’s eyes, his own dancing with laughter.
    Lady Means finally lent her voice in support of Bridgeport remaining in town and suggested he send his secretary to Cornwall instead. “You owe it to yourself to stay where your friends can