Lord Devere's Ward by Sue Swift

outburst was averted by the timely interruption of the orchestra, which struck up a lively tune to herald the resumption of the show.
    After the farce, they watched the fireworks. Their acrid scent battled with the combined smells of horses, sawdust and unwashed crowds as the Penroses left the circus; the performance was not over, but Pauline complained of fatigue.

    Sir Willoughby Hawkes watched their departure.
    He had conceived the most astonishing interest in the personal affairs of his old school friend, Quinn Tyndale. He had no previous notion of Devere’s involvement with his sister’s family, but as he watched the Earl usher Pauline from the box, handling the tired, cranky girl with a deftness clearly born from experience, he realized that his friend’s attachment to his relations was long, deep, and sincere.
    Hawkes noticed a rough-looking duo watching Devere and his niece. Startled, he edged closer to eavesdrop.
    “Is that ’er?”
    “‘Ee said a dark-haired tib, but I ken she were older and bigger.”
    “Blast him for havin’ so many young female relations.” said the first fellow bitterly.

    “Shut yer gob! Just twig the cull, that’s what we’re paid for.” The pair fell silent as Hawkes passed by, swinging his hawk-headed walking stick. Sir Willoughby made a point of glaring at the two Captain Sharps, who were dressed in castoff finery which looked for all the world as though they had been rejected by footmen in a bawdy house. The tarnished frogging on the lapels of one rogue could not have done him credit even when new. Combined with the cauliflower ear and broken nose of its wearer, it created the image of a very tough customer.
    The other character was dressed more plainly, in dusty black with an old-fashioned beaver drawn over his forehead.
    Sir Willoughby hesitated. He had no reason to accost the rascally pair even if he thought they might have designs on the contents of his pockets or the property of his friends. He contented himself with warning them off with another glare. He whacked the ebony stick suggestively into the nearest pillar; it sank deeply into the soft wood. He jerked it out with a powerful twist of his wrist, and gave the toughs another frown.
    “‘Ee’s a lively one, isn’t ’ee?”
    The other hesitated. “‘Ee be awake to us. That’s bad, ’ee twigs our lay, and ’ee’s a friend of the H’earl.
    All them gentry coves know each other.”
    “Aye,” agreed his companion, sounding
    impressed by his cohort’s knowledge of the doings of the Quality. “But we’d best not tell the old man.
    Might lose this job.”

    * * *

    Sir Willoughby Hawkes was the undisputed holder of the title of the Most Notorious Rake in London.
    He exhibited all the outward tokens of appearance which any aspirant to rakedom must: the height, the handsome face with lowering brow, the fine figure which would strip to advantage. He regularly traded blows with Gentleman Jackson, clipped wafers at Manton with his unerring shot, and purchased his nags at Tattersall’s. He was a dandy without any of the affectations of that accursed breed.
    His collars were high without absurdity, his coat cut by Weston, and his cravat impeccable. His fine Hessian boots gleamed with a blacking made from champagne.
    1820 heralded a fresh new era in England. The nation stood on the brink of empire. The mad old King had died, leaving the Prince Regent the undisputed claimant to the monarchy. The Industrial Revolution promised riches for those peasants who would show the imagination to seize the historical moment and courageously uproot themselves from their rural antecedents to relocate to England’s booming industrial heartland. London teemed with excitement as it filled with lords and ladies eager to resume the mating game as a new season began.

    The thrills of the time evaded Sir Willoughby. For Wicked Willy, as he was known to the London wags and Covent Garden Abbesses, the accomplishments required of the Most