blond locks were washed with brown, the marquis had been blessed with a thick corona of bright golden curls. These he wore longer than was fashionable, so that they bounced about his face with a rakish flare that drove the young Pinks about Town to comical imitation, even to the point of buying outrageous, curly wigs to mask their own inferior heads of hair.
There were a few of those silly boys here, but none would pass for the marquis. The real Montborne had a presence that could never be overlooked.
As if he’d read Con’s thoughts, Montborne smiled knowingly and raised his dish of coffee in salute. “Fancy meeting you here,” he said, loud enough to attract attention in a drawing room, but just loud enough to be heard in the raucous coffeehouse.
“As if you’d grace Will’s with your presence for any other reason.” Could he wish himself back through the doorway if he just stood there long enough?
“This fine establishment? It pulls a person in, why, with all of its enlightenment and high conversation. A great mind like myself would hardly want to be seen anywhere else. You there,” Montborne flagged a passing serving boy, “a dish of coffee for my brother, and a scone.”
Con’s stomach rumbled. Confounding hunger. There was no getting out of this, and now he had the deliciousness of a hot scone to look forward to.
He closed the few feet separating him from his brother and pulled out a chair. He seated himself to Montborne’s right so that he looked into the tavern instead of at the door. He’d come for a distraction, after all.
“That’s better.” Montborne kicked his heels out and crossed his long legs at his ankles. “Now try to look the least bit happy to see me. Your frown is scaring these fine gentlemen.”
“No one is looking at me.”
Montborne rolled his eyes. “Fine, then. Your frown is scaring me. You know I don’t like it when one of you is put out with me.”
“I’m not put out with you.”
“Oh?” Montborne’s lips formed a disbelieving O. He raised his eyebrow and made a show of widening his eyes with incredulity. While fashionable gentlemen and high sticklers prided themselves on their ennui, Montborne preferred to be expressive. “Then why did you sit in the library like it was the Inquisition?”
“Because Antony wants my head.”
“That?” Montborne brushed away the intense, half-hour interview as if it meant nothing.
“Yes, that.” Easy for Montborne to wave it off, wasn’t it? It wasn’t his life being picked apart. “Tony wants me to marry her. But you should know that. You were there.”
Montborne shrugged. His long fingers drummed slowly against the tabletop. “Yes, I suppose I was. But to be truthful, his droning takes me right to sleep. I’ve no idea how he holds the attention of the House.”
A serving man arrived with the scone and coffee, and for a moment Con was allowed a reprieve. A limited one, for the fact was, given what lies Con had told, it wasn’t Tony’s fault if he thought Con ought to marry the rich woman he’d impregnated.
The thought of having all of Society assume he’d married her for her money gave him hives. They might even think he’d impregnated her just to force her hand, for why would a woman of her means and independence ever settle for a penniless fourth son like himself, otherwise?
He was cursed if he did and cursed if he didn’t. He preferred the cursed that didn’t make him look like a parasite.
“This tête-à-tête is costing me a small fortune,” Montborne drawled. “The least you could do is hold up your end of the conversation.”
Con rolled his eyes. “I thought the least I could do is smile.”
“That was before. Now I’ve waited so long for you to arrive and tell me something of interest, I require another dish of coffee. These coins don’t come easily, you know.”
Montborne’s gaze was knowing. Uncomfortably so.
Con’s back stiffened. “You think I’m her cicisbeo, too?”
“I don’t. I don’t believe it of her and I don’t believe it of you. What I do believe,” he took his time before finishing his thought, “is that she has you wrapped around her little finger.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve known Elizabeth for many years. Not all of them good.”
“You’re friends?” Con asked stupidly. He should have known it. His brother ran in a fast set. Montborne’s friendship with Celeste Gray, a particularly popular courtesan, was notorious. They’d lived in each other’s pockets, or close