A Compromised Lady by Elizabeth Rolls Page A

in the same season as herself and had been accepted back into their number.
    Her public acceptance by Diana Fox-Heaton ensured that. Diana had accompanied her back to the drawing room. Several women she had known as a girl had come up to her, inviting her to various parties. She thought about Diana as the maid readied her for bed. They had not been close friends years ago, but they had liked each other. And Diana had gone out of her way to help tonight. She had warned her that rumours were circulating. Rumours that suggested Miss Winslow’s long absence from society might have very little to do with mourning a lost love…
    She shivered. Diana was married to Sir Francis—one of the very few people who could have any inkling of the truth. He had been a close friend of Nigel Lallerton’s, that was how she had come to know Diana. They had been part of the same circle. What would he say to his wife’s renewed friendship with her?
    She slipped into bed and blew out the lamp. Despite her exhaustion, sleep mocked her. Diana had been quite as outspoken as Richard on the subject of Lord Dunhaven…Francis says he simply wants a brood mare—and that no father of sense will give his consent to such a marriage. You know, there was all sorts of gossip when his wife died—but nothing could be done. No servant would ever speak out in a matter like that!
    Thea shivered. Aberfield, however, was willing to promote the match.
    A hard-edged face slid into focus. Dark eyes that usually spoke of cool control, self-discipline—eyes that had positively blazed with some violent emotion this evening. Heat flickered, tingling inside her
    —Richard must really loathe Dunhaven for some reason, she told herself. She didn’t think she had ever seen him so angry—except once when he was a boy, and his mother had just visited…She sighed. She hadn’t much liked Richard’s mother herself and she wondered what the new Lady Blakehurst was like…Richard seemed to like her, even if Lady Arnsworth didn’t.

    Richard walked back to Grosvenor Square in company with Braybrook. They had ended the evening in the card room, playing piquet for penny points with an added shilling for a game, and a pound a rubber. Richard had emerged ahead by a couple of pounds and half a bottle of brandy.
    ‘The sad thing is,’ said Richard, jingling the coins in his pocket, ‘that if I played for larger stakes, I’d lose resoundingly!’
    ‘Naturally,’ said Braybrook. ‘My father always said much the same; you only win when you can afford to lose. Pity he didn’t take his own advice speculating. Here we are—Arnsworth House.’

    ‘So it is,’ said Richard, inspecting the familiar portico.
    A faint scraping sound brought both of them swinging around sharply. A small dark shape detached itself from the steps leading down to the area and resolved itself into a boy.
    ‘What the devil are you doing there?’ demanded Richard.
    The lad hung back. ‘Would one of you be Mr Richard Blakehurst?’
    ‘What’s that to you, lad?’ asked Braybrook suspiciously.
    Richard shook his head. ‘It’s all right, Julian,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m Mr Blakehurst.’
    ‘Note for you then, guv,’ said the boy, approaching. ‘From a lidy,’ and pushed the note into Richard’s hand. He was gone in a flash, racing off along the pavement and disappearing around the corner into Upper Grosvenor Street, before either of them could stop him.
    Richard stared after him with raised brows. ‘Idiot boy,’ he said. ‘I’d have given him sixpence.
    Wonder who’s writing me love notes?’
    Braybrook raised his brows. ‘Love notes, Ricky? You?’
    Richard grinned, breaking the seal and opening the note. ‘Do you think you and Max are the only men in London ever to—good God!’
    He stared in disgust. Who the hell had penned this filth?
    Braybrook twitched the note out of his hand and read aloud, ‘How many times will you tup the gilded whore tonight?’ In an expressionless voice, he