Thomas. White’s awaits. Good evening, Miss O’Fallon, perhaps another time?”
Evleen stared after Montague as he made a hasty retreat. In Gaelic she muttered, “Go nithe an cat th is go nithe an diabhal an cat.”
“I take it you were not wishing my brother a pleasant evening?”
“It’s an old Irish saying. I said, may the cat eat him and may the devil eat the cat.”
Thomas looked amused. “What a fitting end for Montague.”
Evleen smiled up at him, noting he looked more handsome than she had ever seen him in a double-breasted frock coat with claw-hammer tails, long trousers, a fine linen shirt, and an “Oriental” tied cravat. “You came along at the right time. Sure and I’m happy to see you.”
“Sure and I’m happy to see you, too,” he said, mocking her Irish brogue but in an endearing kind of way.
“I thought you never went to routs.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why—?”
“Your fault. I couldn’t stay away.”
Her pulse quickened at his startling reply. But what could she answer? She would take the wisest course—find another line of conversation. “I had best go find the Trevlyns. They’re waiting for their carriage to—” she could not keep from wrinkling her nose in distaste “—take us to another rout.”
“So at last you’re getting a taste of life in the ton,” he said pleasantly. “And how are you enjoying hobnobbing with society’s finest?”
“So far, I am not enjoying it at all, what with this ridiculous rout, and then Montague—” She cut her sentence short, wise enough to realize she had said enough about his brother. Besides, it was hardly politic to keep disparaging the esteemed Earl of Eddington, destined to be the Marquess of Westhaven some day. “Sorry, that slipped out. I didn’t mean—”
“Have you read Childe Harold?” asked Thomas, growing serious. It was written by—”
“Lord Byron. Does it surprise you we have books in Ireland? But we do, and, yes, I’ve read the poem.”
He ignored her barb. “The poem concerns a debauched young nobleman, the weary survivor of many a love affair and many a night of riotous living. One line reads, ‘Apart he stalked in joyless reverie.’ That’s Montague, miserable in his debauchery. The line suits him perfectly. I suspect Byron used him as a model.”
Ah, so Thomas did perceive his brother’s shortcomings. Even so, politeness decreed she should search for something complimentary to say. “But Montague has his charms, certainly.”
“I love my brother, but he is an arrogant, joyless man, drugged with pleasure and hell-bent on self-destruction.” Thomas grinned unexpectedly. “But enough of such a grim subject. Come, I shall escort you back to the Trevlyns.”
Lydia scowled when she saw them. “Good evening, Lord Thomas. You should not have wandered away, Evleen. Where have you been? Come, our carriage has arrived.”
Lord Thomas asked, “Are you going to the rout at Lady Fanshawe’s?” Lydia nodded. “Then your carriage must be crowded. I have the family coach tonight. Kindly allow Miss O’Fallon to ride with me.”
“Well, I...” Lydia looked discomfited, obviously wondering what rule she might break if she consented.
“You have nothing to worry about, Mrs. Trevlyn,” Thomas said, amused. “My coach will follow so closely behind yours you would instantly be aware of any... shall we say, foolishness?”
To Evleen’s surprise, the dour woman actually managed a small laugh as she declared, “Oh, Lord Thomas,” and playfully tapped his chest with her fan. “You know we trust you. It’s just that I am always mindful of my duties as a chaperone.”
“Let Evleen go with him, Mama,” Charlotte said indifferently. “He’s right about our carriage being crowded.”
Lydia shrugged. “Oh, very well, she may ride with you, Lord Thomas.” It was obvious the matter was of little concern to her. With careful eyes, she surveyed the crowd. “I don’t suppose your brother... ?”
“I am afraid not, madam. I believe he has gone off to White’s.” Thomas bowed slightly to Evleen. “Shall we find my coach, Miss O’Fallon? I am wild with anticipation at the very thought of the next at-home.”
“As am I,” Evleen declared, doing her best to keep a straight face.
When Evleen sat back in Thomas’s closed coach she remarked, “You could have asked me.”
Thomas settled next to her. “Would you have said no?”
“Of course not, but you could have asked.”
“Point taken, but you needn’t be so fractious.” He leaned out the window and called to the coachman, “On to Lady Fanshaw’s.” Reaching for a blanket, he regarded with distaste the thin, inadequate shawl that only partially covered her gown. “It’s cold tonight. I don’t know why you