Luck Is No Lady (12 page)

He believed her when she had said she needed funds. Many members of high society subsisted on the power of their names and ancestry more so than wealth. But why had she been forced into employment? Was there no father, brother, uncle to see to her welfare?

And why hadn't she married?

Knowing her now, it was clear she was a few years older than the traditional age for a debutante, but he couldn't imagine such a small thing would be of much hindrance when she had plenty of fine assets to attract a lord's suit. She was quite pretty with her honey-gold hair and sharp gray eyes. Her features were fine but strong; delicate brows, elegant cheekbones, and a stubborn chin. And her compact little figure with its modest curves and understated sensuality was likely to be an effective lure to men who would wish to unleash her passions.

Roderick stopped in the middle of donning his shirt and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He shouldn't be having such thoughts. Though she currently deigned to work in his club due to circumstances that were none of his business no matter how curious he was, she belonged to a different world.

He was a bastard and a reputed scoundrel.

She was a daughter of the beau monde, a proper lady, and an innocent.

Roderick turned from the mirror and quickly finished dressing.

To hell with it.

He strode to the bellpull. Several minutes later Bishop arrived with his perpetual jaunty grin. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“Is Mr. Lowth settled?”

“He is.”

“I need you to see what you can uncover about a particular young woman,” Roderick said. “I need her true name, her family, where she resides, and where she is likely to spend her evenings.”

The footman gave a snorting chuckle. “I was wondering when this request would come around.”

Roderick gave the young man a scowling glance. “The sooner the better, Bishop.”

With a tug on his forelock, the footman swung from the room.

Roderick entered the grand ballroom, casting his gaze about the room as he made his way past several groups of people.

The ball was being thrown to celebrate the thirtieth wedding anniversary of one of his long-standing financial clients. Lord Michaels had been extremely influential in Roderick's success, often referring members of his extensive acquaintance for investment opportunities.

But more than that, Lord Michaels was a rare gentleman whom Roderick also called friend.

The graze on his arm started to throb as he strolled around the outer edge of the room, reminding him to keep his appearance brief. He kept his discomfort from being revealed in his expression, even when he heard the murmur of disapproval following his progress through the room. Despite his anger toward the society that had shown his mother such cruel bigotry, he refused to give any of these people the benefit of thinking their opinions mattered a damn to him.

“Mr. Bentley, how wonderful to see you.”

Roderick stopped and turned toward the greeting. Lady Michaels stepped gracefully past a small group of young men to give Roderick her hand.

He took it gently and bowed low before straightening again with a smile. There were a few genuine people existing in the
ton
. “Lady Michaels, you are as lovely as ever.”

And she was. Her cherubic face and sparkling blue eyes were surrounded by a halo of brown curls. She possessed a warm, motherly appearance that managed to put everyone she met at ease.

She chuckled at his compliment and swatted his arm with her fan. “I do love how you go on.”

“Lord Michaels is a lucky man.”

“La, it is hard to believe it has been thirty years already. I still remember our wedding day.” A sweet dreaminess entered her expression as her smile softened and her eyes warmed with emotion. Then she lifted her chin to scan the crowd around them. “Have you seen that husband of mine? I left his side only moments ago, so he should not be far.”

“No, but I just arrived.”

She turned her kindly gaze back to him and admonished, “Yes, and I know how quickly you come and go from these little parties. Do be sure to see him before you leave.”

Roderick smiled. “I shall do my best.”

The clever lady narrowed her gaze at his noncommitment. Then she smiled. “I know you shall. Now, I am afraid I must be off again. So many guests to speak with. It is truly lovely to see you, Mr. Bentley. Do say you will come to dinner again soon.”

“I shall—”

“Yes, yes,” she interrupted with a playful grin, “you shall do your best.”

Roderick's easy smile slipped away as Lady Michaels disappeared back into the crush of guests, when he noticed another familiar face was quickly approaching to take her place.

Roderick clenched his teeth.

It was too late to consider retreat. Already too many people had noticed the impending encounter and were looking on curiously. If Roderick turned and walked away now, it would either appear as though he were a coward, or as though he meant to publicly insult his half brother.

Roderick was no coward, and though he had no desire to speak with the current Earl of Wright, he could not afford to openly cut the man either. All that was left was to endure the awkward encounter.

His half brother was less than two years older than Roderick, but he stood a couple of inches taller. His fair hair was brushed back from his face in an elegant style, while Roderick's dark locks fell haphazardly over his forehead. The two men couldn't have been more different in looks or manner, except for one thing—they shared the same striking blue eyes of their father.

The earl approached with the confidence of a man born to his station, fully aware his place in the world towered over most.

It annoyed the hell out of Roderick.

“Bentley,” the earl said stiffly as he came to stand before Roderick.

Roderick held back the smirk that threatened whenever he faced his father's ever-so-noble legitimate son. He gave a shallow nod instead. “My lord.”

The earl frowned, apparently hearing the note of sarcasm in Roderick's voice. Unfortunately, Roderick's unwelcoming attitude did not succeed in dissuading the man from continuing the conversation. The earl glanced about the room before turning his gaze back to Roderick and lowering his voice.

“There is something on which I wish to speak with you.”

“I am not interested.”

The earl stiffened his stance, straightening his spine. “Since our father's death—”

“Your father.” Roderick's jaw tightened. “I had no father.”

Two pairs of blue eyes stared at each other for a few brutal moments before the earl shifted his gaze and took a deep breath, releasing it in a way that sounded suspiciously like a sigh of resignation.

“You will not even consider hearing me out?”

“To what purpose?” Roderick asked.

Wright stood proud and unwavering against Roderick's acid tone. The balanced brace of his feet, the way he clasped his hands behind his back and held his chin at just the right angle, all displayed his inborn confidence. But as seconds slid by, Roderick saw his half brother's gaze slip occasionally to the side to glance at the guests around them.

It was not every day someone witnessed the heir and the bastard in open conversation.

Roderick imagined how they must appear to onlookers—one fair brother, one dark, one noble, one disreputable, both supremely uncomfortable. He couldn't help but find the humor in it, and a grin tugged at his lips.

The earl noticed his humor and arched an eyebrow in question.

Something unspoken passed between them in that moment. A subtle, unintentional communication.

One corner of the earl's mouth curled as he seemed to understand Roderick's amusement. Before he changed his mind, Roderick replied, “Come by the club sometime and we can talk.”

The earl gave a small tip of his head in acknowledgment, then turned without a word and strode away.

Roderick decided not to dwell on the odd encounter. He would listen to whatever the man had to say about their father and then be done with it.

Casting his gaze over the room once again, he hoped to see Lord Michaels so he could offer his congratulations on the man's anniversary and then make his escape.

The ballroom had filled exponentially while he had stood in awkward conversation with the earl. Guests moved in slow, undulating waves around the perimeter, while dancers jostled about in the center. Just as he was about to give up on speaking with his host and get himself out of there, something extraordinary caught his eye.

His chest tightened painfully and a chill spread to his extremities.

He hadn't expected to see Emma tonight. Hadn't anticipated what it would feel like to witness her again in her natural state.

His modest little bookkeeper was elegantly dressed in a gown of pale blue. Her honey-hued hair was styled in an intricate woven mass at her crown, with gentle wisps falling against her cheeks and teasing the length of her neck.

She stood beside a gaggle of matrons and chaperones. One slim hand rested on the back of a chair occupied by an elderly lady with ink-black hair and lips tinted a ruby red, who held a pair of opera glasses to her face as she scanned the room.

While he stood transfixed, Roderick watched two young ladies approach on the arms of their dancing partners. Though the ladies were both brunette and obviously younger, the family resemblance between the three women was unmistakable.

The gentlemen bowed and took their leave, leaving the ladies to themselves for the moment. That was when Emma glanced up. Her gaze swept toward him, and Roderick reacted on instinct, turning away to melt into the crowd around him.

Unfortunately, he made it only a certain distance through the crowd before his retreat was blocked once again. He hoped it was far enough to get him out of Emma's range of sight.

Marcus Lowth stood before him. The young man appeared to be fighting an urge to slump his shoulders, but his chin was firm and his gaze determined.

“Mr. Bentley,” he said with a respectful nod of his head.

“Lowth.”

Marcus had managed to slip past the guard Bishop had set at his door by recklessly climbing down the trellis outside his window. The boy had likely still been piss-drunk when he did it. The idiot was lucky he hadn't broken his neck, though perhaps that had been part of his intention.

There was an awkward pause, then Lowth cleared his throat and stood a bit taller.

“I owe you an apology, sir.”

Roderick raised a brow.

Interesting.

Seeing that Roderick did not intend to interrupt, the young man continued. “I was an addled arse, sir, and had no right to bust into the club like I did and…and threaten you…and try to…”

Roderick took pity on the fellow. The boy's remorse was as disconcerting as his painful lack of self-assurance. That Marcus found it in himself to admit wrongdoing and apologize for it told Roderick he had far greater character than Marcus likely believed himself.

He gave the young man an earnest look. “It took a strong spine and a level head to offer your apology and admit your mistake to me tonight.” He flicked his gaze to the small crowd that had gathered around them to watch their conversation intently, straining to hear what they said. “Especially with such an audience.”

Marcus blushed, but to his credit did not falter or glance away from Roderick. His chin lifted by a small degree, revealing an independent nature that had likely instigated his reckless behavior in the first place. “I felt it the right thing to do, sir.”

Roderick crooked a smile. “Your brother would probably disagree.”

“To hell with that self-important snob,” Marcus muttered angrily, his spirit returning at the mention of Tindall.

Roderick laughed at that. The words too closely resembled Roderick's own thoughts regarding his old friend.

Marcus Lowth would make it through his current despair and become a better man for it.

As soon as Roderick finished that thought, it was followed by a rush of certainty similar to what he experienced when he came across a lucrative investment.

He smiled. Tindall was not going to like this one bit.

“Walk with me, Marcus. We have a few things to discuss.”

“We…we do?” There was a hint of hope in his question.

“Let us see what can be done about the trouble you are in,” Roderick replied as he turned to leave the ballroom, making certain to walk a path that took him away from Emma's position by the matrons. He could only hope the small crowd around them had hidden him from her view.

Marcus fell into step beside him. “You would really help me?”

“If I can,” Roderick replied.

“Why?”

“You will prove to be a good investment, Mr. Lowth. I have a sense of such things.”

* * *

Emma had no idea how she managed to continue talking when her breath had stopped completely.

What on earth was Mr. Bentley doing at the Michaels' anniversary ball?

She didn't think he had seen her, but it had been awfully close. Only half listening to Portia go on about an argument she had witnessed between two young ladies on the dance floor over a supposed elbow jab, Emma cast an eye over the crowd, her heart racing as she waited to see where Bentley might reappear.

She had gotten only a brief glimpse of his profile. Maybe it had not been he after all. She could have been mistaken.

But she wasn't. She knew it was he. She knew it by the way her stomach had fluttered and her cheeks had warmed. By the sudden sensitivity of her skin and the tingle down her spine.

How was she going to manage evading him all night?

She couldn't let him see her in this guise.

Why not?
an internal voice prodded.

Because he would start asking questions, and she would feel compelled to answer truthfully. It was getting more and more difficult to lie to the man. And then, because he was clever, he would figure out she had been the girl behind the curtain, and she would have one less reason to deny her dangerous and increasing infatuation.

Against her better judgment, she kept glancing back to where she had last seen him. Finally, the crowd shifted again to reveal his presence once more. Her stomach clenched tight at the sight of him. He stood with his back to her now, but the subtle defiance in his posture and the proud tilt of his head had become inordinately familiar to her. The other gentlemen in the ballroom melted away in comparison. Their overblown confidence and practiced arrogance were nothing more than background to Bentley's innate self-assurance. In the midst of the ever-elegant nobility surrounding him, he stood apart.

Forcing her gaze to the young man with whom Bentley was speaking, Emma's breath expelled in a sudden puff. It was the young Mr. Lowth, whom she had last seen sobbing as Bishop assisted him from the club drawing room two days ago.

An instant of fear claimed her before she recalled that it had not been Lowth's intention to harm Bentley that day. In truth, he looked anything but threatening as he stood talking to Bentley now in his perfectly tailored clothing and neatly combed hair.

If Emma had seen young Lowth in this guise first, she never would have suspected he would have any cause to wield a weapon in a drunken fit of despair.

Goodness, she likely would have encouraged Portia and Lily to talk with the young man she saw tonight.

She cast a sweeping glance about the room. The ladies and gentlemen of the
ton
paraded effortlessly through the ballrooms and drawing rooms of society with such poise and grace. Was the veneer so polished and bright simply to conceal ugly secrets lying beneath the facade?

Emma's stomach clenched with the hypocrisy of her thoughts.
She
harbored such a secret.

Looking back toward Bentley and the young Mr. Lowth, she saw them turn to walk away. But not before the younger man glanced past her position. Her heart stopped for a moment, thinking he might recognize her. But his expression never changed. He had likely been far too deep in his cups that day to even know she had been in the room.