accuse me of being dishonorable! I would never renege on a bet.”
“Dishonorable enough to sell your sister into prostitution.” Malcolm Pringle, up to now the silent member of their little imbibing group lazily slouched in comfortable chairs in White’s, spoke up. “Not well done, Newton. She is your stepsister.”
“Mind your business, Pringle. This doesn’t involve you,” Lyons snapped.
Pringle shrugged. “Just saying.”
“Well, say it to yourself. The chit is under Newton’s control. He can do with her what he wants.”
“Sad life women have.” Pringle stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles. “Doesn’t seem right that she can be bartered away like a horse. Or slave.”
For a fleeting second Randolph felt an embarrassed twist in his stomach. Then he pushed the thought away to dwell on something else. Maybe he should attend some of these ton events. He doubted Amelia would be at one, but perhaps he could find himself a wealthy wife. Like Lyons said, he had a title, and never had a problem attracting the ladies.
Of course, he’d never before tried attracting one of the respectable ones. But he could always try.
“Lady Broomfield is holding some sort of ball next week. I’m sure there’s an invitation in the pile most likely sitting on your desk at home,” Pringle said, reminding Randolph of the stack that he almost never went through. Warm lemonade, giggling debutantes and marriage-minded mamas bored him to tears. The girls were so well guarded a man was lucky to even get a kiss.
Randolph stretched. “I just might do that.” He grinned at Lyons. “Maybe I’ll find a rich wife and then I can pay you off and forget about Amelia.”
Lyons shook his head and glared at him, his snifter of brandy halfway to his mouth. “No deal. I want the girl.”
“You said you would take payment if she didn’t turn up.”
Daniel shrugged. “I’ve changed my mind. I want Amelia, and I want her soon. I don’t care what you have to do. Just find her.” He rose and left the club, swaying on his feet, not looking back.
“What are you going to do now, Newton?” Pringle asked.
“Find the bitch.” He gulped the rest of his drink.
Amelia took one last look in the mirror to admire herself. The ringlets framing her face gave her an impish look. The new pale green linen dress, one of the several she’d purchased while on her shopping trip with Driscoll fit her well. The white embroidery on the cuffs of the sleeves and the bottom of the dress made it look like the perfect morning dress a young lady of Quality would wear.
And despite her current circumstances, she must remember that she was a lady of Quality. She’d been born that way, raised that way, and would one day return to that status.
She hoped.
Although it wasn’t promising. With no family to speak of, no friends in London in the upper crust, it would be quite the challenge to find an acceptable husband. She could most likely secure a position as a companion to an older lady, or a governess to a lord’s children. That would certainly be a proper position for her, but a suitable match would be almost impossible from there.
The fairy tales and the romance novels of Miss Austen and the Bronte sisters, where all works out well in the end for the poor heroine, were fiction. Amelia had to deal with real life. Her original plan to save enough money to move elsewhere was still foremost in her mind. Hopefully in her new location—maybe a cozy little village—she might attract a vicar or kindly shop owner. She didn’t need a wealthy or titled husband. Just someone she cared for and who cared for her. A home of her own. Children to love and nurture.
All of those dreams were, unfortunately, dependent on not being forced to comply with Randolph’s intentions. She shuddered remembering how close she’d come to being passed off as a mistress.
She left her bedchamber and made her way to the dining room, which was empty. Generally, Driscoll and Dante were present having their breakfast. But food sat in covered dishes on the sideboard, as well as pots of tea and coffee, so she assumed they would join her shortly.
She fixed her tea and took a seat, inhaling the satisfying aroma, the steam from the cup misting her face. She missed this one little indulgence when she’d been forced to leave her country home to live in London.
Randolph had refused to allow Cook to buy tea