The Temptation of the Night Jasmine by Lauren Willig Read Free Book Online Page B

him with an elbow to the ribs, Rob turned back to the other man. ‘Yes, I am Dovedale.’ The name felt clumsy on his tongue. ‘And you are?’
    ‘Frobisher. Martin Frobisher.’ Suddenly the man was all eagerness to please. Letting the quizzing glass fall, he stuck out a gloved hand, noted the sticky splotch of spilt wine that marred the surface, rubbed it hard against his leg, and held it out again. ‘I believe our families are distantly connected …’
    ‘Through Adam, perhaps,’ drawled the man behind him. ‘I can’t conceive of any connection closer.’
    Frobisher’s cheeks mottled, but, surprisingly, he refrained from retaliating in kind. With a quick sideways look at the other man, he subsided into obedient silence.
    ‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,’ said Robert neutrally.
    The newcomer wafted a languid hand in greeting. ‘Sir Francis Medmenham, at your service. Like the rest of these louts, I am passing the holiday season on your largesse.’
    With his gleaming boots and large gold signet ring, he made a very unconvincing mendicant. His appearance accomplished that towards which Frobisher only strove, his coat boasting a restrained three capes, his hair brushed into a perfect Titus, and his hat brim tilted just forward enough to provide a rakish air without obscuring his vision.
    The name poked at Robert’s memory. ‘You haven’t been in the army, have you?’ he asked.
    ‘Me? No. I might sully the shine on my boots. My valet would never forgive me.’
    ‘I wish you would,’ grumbled Frobisher. ‘Then he might finally defect to me.’
    Medmenham looked the other man up and down with chilling disinterest. ‘I don’t think so.’
    Frobisher scowled, but was still.
    ‘It’s just that your name sounds familiar,’ said Robert.
    Medmenham’s lips curled in a thin smile. ‘You’re probably thinking of my illustrious relations – the Dashwoods of Medmenham Abbey.’
    ‘Good God,’ said Robert. ‘So that’s it.’
    ‘What’s it?’ asked Charlotte innocently.
    ‘Nothing,’ said Robert quickly.
    At least, nothing his cousin ought to know about. Medmenham Abbey had, in the previous century, been home to a group of devoted debauchees known sometimes as the Order of the Friars of St Francis of Wycombe, sometimes as the Monks of Medmenham – in short, the Hellfire Club. Robert’s father, who had tottered drunkenly on the edge of polite society by virtue of his position as son of the second son of a duke, had once been invited to their revels. He enjoyed recalling the occasion in lurid detail while in his cups. There had been strange initiation ceremonies and underground chambers dedicated to mysterious rites, most of which seemed to involve wine and women, generally in that order. As far as Robert could tell, it boiled down to nothing more than wenching with a fringe of the occult.
    It was, however, exactly the sort of organisation with which a certain Arthur Wrothan specialized. Wrothan had run his own version of the Hellfire Club back in Seringapatam, pandering to the jaded palates of the officer set. Having firmly turned down his first invitation, Robert hadn’t been asked again.
    ‘I have a rather well-known house,’ said Sir Francis smoothly. ‘An architectural gem of its time.’
    ‘Really?’ said Charlotte innocently. ‘How nice.’
    ‘Oh, it is rather,’ agreed Sir Francis genially. ‘We have lovely parties.’
    ‘I’m certainly glad you could join our party,’ Robert broke in smoothly, shifting so that he stood between Medmenham and Charlotte. ‘Are you passing the entirety of the holiday at Girdings?’
    Medmenham observed the new arrangements with quiet amusement. ‘Ten lords a-leaping and all that rot. Sorry – I forgot that it’s your rot, now. No offence meant, old chap.’
    ‘None taken,’ said Robert, echoing his tone of urbane detachment. Charlotte, he noticed to his relief, had been distracted by the task of extracting her friend from the