excelled. No study had been too difficult for him. No sport too daring. He’d grown—by his grandfather’s own admission—into a fine figure of a gentleman.
But they weren’t in Florence now, nor in Paris, Cairo, or Bombay. They were in England.
“I’m not insensible of my duty,” St. Clare said. “I’ve done everything you bid me.”
“Not everything,” Allendale snapped.
St. Clare continued unperturbed. “I’ve engaged a new tailor and bootmaker. I’ve set up my stable. I’ve joined the right clubs and attended the right balls and parties. I’ve even been forced to endure the company of those very men who once ostracized my father.”
At that, Allendale frowned deeply. “Jackals, every one of them,” he muttered. “A pack of bloody jackals. They drove him to his death.”
“As I’m well aware.”
St. Clare’s father, the late James Beresford, Viscount St. Clare, had in his youth engaged in countless affairs of honor and had earned for himself a reputation as an excellent shot. But when, as a result of a foolish dispute over a carriage accident, he’d dueled with and killed the youngest son of the Duke of Penworthy, the ton had accused him of taking advantage of a weaker opponent.
The viscount’s honor had been tarnished. His friends, such that they were, had deserted him.
His father had deserted him.
It was a fact that Allendale never mentioned—and one that St. Clare could never forget. The late viscount had needed Allendale’s protection, and Allendale—a man who had valued familial pride over his actual family—had thrown his son to the wolves.
Facing arrest, St. Clare’s father had fled to the continent. It was there he’d lived out the remainder of his short life, dying in his thirty-third year of an insidious wasting disease.
“Your father was a damned sight too trusting. Fell in with the wrong sort of people. But you… You know better. I believe you don’t trust anyone.”
St. Clare’s mouth hitched in a half smile. “Nonsense. I have a great deal of trust in my valet and my groom.”
“There’s a lot to be said for loyal retainers,” Allendale agreed, temporarily diverted. “But you won’t distract me. I want your word. Your word as a gentleman. You’re to leave off dueling until you’ve secured the title. If you’ve got a disagreement with someone—confound it, I don’t see why the devil you should have, but if you do—sort it out some other way. From this day forward, your sole purpose is to marry some suitable female and get yourself an heir. By gad, I’ll choose the gel myself if it comes to it.”
“I’m obliged to you, sir,” St. Clare said. “But I shall choose my own wife.”
An image of Margaret Honeywell sprang into his mind.
He recalled the way her face had looked in the firelight, shadowed and beautiful. The way she’d felt when she’d fainted into his arms. A shapely scrap of femininity—altogether too weak and frail. He’d had an overpowering urge to gather her close. To hold her and never let her go.
She’d been ill, that much was plain.
It shouldn’t matter. He had no patience with delicate, swooning females. But Miss Honeywell’s late-night visit had upset the balance of his mind. She’d left him restless and unsettled. His thoughts were full of her.
Indeed, he was sorely tempted to call on her at the Trumbles’ residence in Green Street. Later that day, after his grandfather finally left him in peace, he even made several attempts at writing a note inviting her to take a drive with him in his curricle.
Dear Miss Honeywell. Would you do me the honor of accompanying me—
My Dear Miss Honeywell. Please put me out of my misery and consent to join me—
None of his impulses seemed appropriate. He hadn’t been properly introduced to her. Showing up at her door would be extremely bad ton. And a personal note from an unmarried gentleman to an unmarried lady was borderline scandalous.
He was going to have to find someone to present him to her. Either that or disregard the conventions altogether. Unfortunately, no matter how much he considered the matter, he couldn’t determine the best course.
The result of his uncharacteristic indecisiveness was that he didn’t see Miss Honeywell again until three days later, and very much by chance.
Amongst the many activities afforded in town, the theater was the only one that the Earl of Allendale genuinely enjoyed. The previous week, he and St. Clare had seen Edmund Kean in Macbeth. So impressed was the earl by Kean’s performance that he proposed getting a small party together to see the play a