a man with almost vulpine features, his cheekbones impossibly high, his eyes the pale blue of a glacier.
“Just because I don’t let any Tom, Dick, or Harriet into my breeches—like you—doesn’t mean I lack for amorous company, Rowe,” growled a man with a square jaw and shoulders as wide as a doorway.
“Both of you, button it. There’s a lady present.” The man who uttered this had a Scottish accent and a bearing that could only be described as martial. His spine was straight and his gaze was keen and assessing, as if he was taking the measure of a battlefield. He bowed. “Beg pardon, ma’am.”
“Lady Whitfield,” Noel said, “I must insult you by introducing you to my friends.”
“You are this month,” the one called Rowe said. “The check cleared.”
She couldn’t believe that Noel could permit such insolence, even if these men were his old schoolfellows. And yet he only laughed in response.
“Lady Whitfield, this is William Rowe.”
“The political writer,” she said, shocked at both Rowe’s relative youth as well as his easy manner with Noel. He also did not seem unusually eccentric to her. “Your articles—they’re incredible. That one about the certain decline of the ruling class was especially fascinating.”
“Lady Whitfield is a genius,” Rowe said to Noel, startling a laugh from her.
“This towering edifice is Theodore Curtis,” Noel continued, gesturing toward the man whose muscles seemed to strain his jacket.
She gaped at Curtis. He had the body of a Samson, and, according to Noel, had been on the wrong side of the law in his youth. “The barrister? You defend the poor. I’ve read transcripts of your appearances in court and the eloquence of them has occasionally moved me to tears.”
“I agree with Rowe,” Curtis said. “She’s a genius.”
“Finally,” Noel said, “and least of all, this is Major Duncan McCameron, late of the 79th Regiment of Foot.”
“The hero of the Battle of the Pyrenees.” Jess couldn’t stop herself from staring.
“You’re well-read,” Rowe said with a smirk.
Noel sent her a look full of admiration. “There’s no one—Holloway included—who’s got a thirst for knowledge like her.”
“When you know things,” Jess said, “you can take over the world.”
“You best Wellington for ambition.” Noel beamed. “That’s a compliment, my lady.”
“I took it as such. And you keep distinguished company.”
“Ma’am.” McCameron bowed again, all military precision. “It was duty, nothing more. I’d take issue with the liberal use of the word hero.”
“But that’s what the press dubbed you,” Jess objected.
“They are out to sell papers, ma’am. Nothing more.”
“McCameron is, as usual, nauseatingly modest.” Noel walked to the Scotsman and thumped his fist against his chest. It was a measure of the major’s strength that he swayed only slightly from the force of Noel’s wallop. “Ply him with enough whiskey, he’s sure to tell you a thrilling tale of him against an entire battalion of Bonaparte’s best riflemen.”
Jess turned a wondering gaze to Noel. “You told me they were your friends with a ridiculous name—you said nothing about being bosom companions with some of England’s shining lights.”
All four of the men laughed. “Shining lights?” Rowe repeated. “Good Lord, the things that pass for respectability these days.”
“What the deuce are you reprobates doing here, showing up without a word of warning?” Noel asked, though there was no irritation in his voice.
Curtis shrugged his massive shoulders. “Rowe wanted to delve into some manuscript archive in Leicester, and, as we were passing by Carriford, we thought we’d duck in and give our regards.”
“It’s the height of the Season, and you assumed I’d be here.” Noel’s gaze was steady. “Or perhaps you hoped I wouldn’t be here. You know there’s an open-door arrangement for the Union regardless of whether or not I’m in residence. Free beds and a meal for any of you.”
It was a generous policy that went above his usual bonhomie. Clearly, he cared very much for the men who made up the Union of the Rakes.
“You ass,” McCameron said with affection. “Of course we hoped you’d be at Carriford. The beds and meals here aren’t that exemplary.”
Curtis rolled his eyes. “Too busy in London with his wife. Only a new book can make him as happy.”
“I think books fall a distant second to Lady Grace,” Rowe noted. “Would be that we’d all find someone who gave us the same contentment.” His expression turned suddenly melancholy, and he moved to look out the windows that fronted the house.
Was Jess imagining it, or did Curtis send Rowe a look fraught with longing?