Code of Honor Read online

  And he had ability too. He had applied himself to his studies at Oxford and his ideas on farming already had her small holdings turning a modest profit for the first time ever. She knew he was chafing at the bit to run a real estate. Any parent wise enough to look beyond the lack of title or fortune would find an unimpeachable husband for their daughter. And with his handsome features made even more appealing by his open, friendly manner, she did not doubt that there would be more than a few young ladies developing a tendre for him. However, he seemed to have his heart set on one, and with well-placed words here and there among her many connections, she hoped to be able to influence the girl's mother and father.

  It was Alex she worried about. It was not that her niece lacked in practicality — if anything, she had too much of it, having had to have taken up the running of a household and the responsibility of a younger sibling at such an early age. It was Alex who learned to deal with tradesmen and stretch a meager budget when her father went haring off on his projects. No, it was that she was, well, she was too much like her father in other ways. Inquisitive to the point of pursuing an interest regardless of the consequences — Lady Beckworth thought once again of her brother-in law. A brilliant naturalist, but in his passion to achieve his own goals, he had sacrificed certain things for his family that she wondered whether he had a right to do. And in the end, he had left them without a feather to fly with. Impetuous was another word that came to mind when thinking of both of them. Why, else would Marcus have been rushing home on such a dismal night — no doubt to bring some fragile specimen back to his library — when no rational person would have attempted to drive a carriage along the seaside cliffs. Alex had that same unwavering determination, as well as the same touch of recklessness. She had acquired her father's love for the natural world and had translated it into becoming a botanical painter of no small talent. The only reason she had agreed to come to London was to meet the members of the Botanical Society, with whom she had been corresponding for several years.

  A sigh escaped her lips. What a singular family they were, she herself immersed in finishing the work of her late husband, a translation of Homer's Iliad. But where she, at her stage and position in life, was allowed to be bookish and opinionated, Alex was in danger of being considered beyond the pale of Society with her attitudes. She was already considered old. Heaven forbid that she also get stuck with the reputation of being odd. Despite what the girl thought, Lady Beckworth was sure it would be a grave mistake for her niece to cut herself off from...

  "I should think the red shawl, wouldn't you, Lady Aurelia?"

  "Oh. Yes. Of course."

  Maggie draped the soft cashmere over the slight shoulders and arranged it into neat folds. "You are late, as you well know," she said, speaking with the easy candor of a longtime retainer. "Now go along and enjoy the evening — and don't you be worrying about those two. They will manage just fine."

  Hammerton swirled his brandy, eyeing the rich amber color as his mouth turned upwards at the corners.

  "Don't know why you're looking so devilishly pleased with yourself," remarked his cousin. Arthur Standish turned his head as far as the starched, overly high points of his collar allowed. "Thought you, shall we say, disliked the Icy Earl. Can't imagine why you provoked such a wager with him. " He paused to take a large swallow of his own drink. "Especially," he couldn't help but add, "since you've had precious little luck against him. He's bound to win this one too, given the dog's reputation in the bedroom. It's a wonder his breeches are ever buttoned."

  Hammerton's mouth curled up even more. "Ah, but his conquest will serve my purposes very well. To have the girl disgraced and to have her family have to retreat back to the country is exactly what I want." A humorless laugh escaped his thin lips. "And to have Branford act as my unwitting pawn makes it even more sweet. A hundred and some odd pounds is well worth it to use him like a whore."

  Standish grunted as he toyed with the numerous fobs dangling from his brightly striped waistcoat. "I say, it may deuced clever of you. But I'd be very careful in voicing such thoughts aloud." He darted a glance around the room as he spoke as if to judge whether it was likely anyone could overhear them.

  "I'm well aware of the fear most of you have of the man. Well I for one, do not hold him in such awe. I shall prove that his bloody lordship is not so clever by half as I am."

  Standish frowned. "It's said he saved Wellington on the Peninsula through his wits."

  "That's the only reason polite Society receives him. Remember that he also as good as murdered his young cousin there in order to get the title. He's nothing but a scoundrel."

  Standish looked quickly around again. "Careful," he hissed. "I'd caution you not to forget the two duels."

  "Have no fear that I will be fool enough to give him any reason to call me out. No, my besting of him be far more subtle. And far more satisfying."

  "Why do you care about the girl being ruined. I thought we were..."

  Hammerton's lips were still curled in a semblance of a smile. "Because it suits my plan, dear cousin. Yes, it suits it very well indeed. Just leave the thinking to me."

  "Good lord, Sebastian. Never expected to see you at such a gathering as this."

  Lord Henry Ashton made his way to the corner of the ballroom where Branford stood. Whether by accident or design, there were few others near the tall figure of the earl, who was dressed entirely in black, save for the snowy white of his starched shirt and elegantly tied cravat. "Cecelia is an old friend of Lady Worthington, else wild horses couldn't drag me to such a sad crush." He raised an eyebrow in question as he beckoned a passing footman to bring them both a glass of champagne.

  Branford gave his friend a brief smile, then continued to survey the crowd, eyes intent as a hawk hunting some unsuspecting prey. "I have my reason, Henry."

  Ashton snorted. "You sound as if you've stepped from some damned Radcliffe novel. It may make the ladies swoon — and don't give me that basilisk stare either. It may make most of your acquaintances quake in their boots but it has no such effect on me."

  Branford chuckled and the hard planes of his face softened for a moment as his eyes lit with real humor. "I thank you for the set-down my friend, else I'd be in danger of becoming puffed up with the sense of my own consequence."

  Ashton grinned. "Nonsense." He paused, his face becoming more serious. "Though I've never understood why you allow people to think you..."

  Branford's face had hardened into its usual inscrutable mask. "Henry," he said, a note of warning in the tone.

  "Damnation, Sebastian. I've become concerned about you of late. You're drinking far more than is good for you, not to speak of standing stud for half the wives of the Ton. And you're neglecting Riverton, which I know how much you care..."

  "Henry." The voice was even softer, but indicated it would brook no resistance. "You are a good friend. But even friends may go too far."

  Ashton let out a sigh. "Very well," he muttered. " For now."

  Branford swept the room with his gaze once more. "Do you know a Miss Chilton?" he asked abruptly.

  Ashton looked puzzled. "Why yes, her aunt is a good friend of my mother's. But why do you ask?"

  "Introduce me."

  "Whatever for. Not your type at all."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Not a stunning young widow or a bored Countess," answered Ashton frankly. "Not even terribly attractive. In fact, rather a bluestocking, half on the shelf. Lady Beckworth's her guardian. Family's come to Town to give the pup of a brother some polish, so my mother says. They haven't got much blunt, though. Not likely either of them will be able to make much of a match."

  Branford's eyes narrowed slightly at the news. "Nonetheless, introduce me."

  His friend frowned slightly, then shrugged. "As you say, you must have your reasons. But I consider Lady Beckworth a friend of the family — though I know you well enough to know you wouldn't dream of toying with an innocent."

  Ashton worked his way
through the crowd to where a cluster of matrons sat gossiping among themselves while keeping an eagle eye on whom was dancing with whom. There was also a much younger lady at the edge of the group, her expression one that seemed to indicate her thoughts were anywhere but the ballroom.

  "Miss Chilton." Lord Ashton bowed politely as the young lady started, her eyes betraying a brief flash of annoyance as she focused on the two gentlemen in front of her.

  "Good evening... Lord Ashton." The tone was hardly welcoming.

  "May I have the honor of presenting my friend his lordship the Earl of Branford."

  "How do you do," she replied with a singular lack of enthusiasm as Branford bent over her hand in turn.

  "May I have the pleasure of a dance, Miss Chilton" he asked. The band was striking up a waltz. "Perhaps this one, if you are not taken." He had already noticed that the dance card dangling from her wrist was all but empty.

  She seemed to hesitate for a moment, then rose slowly and placed her hand on his proffered arm. Ashton was right, he noted. She was no raving beauty. Her hair was merely brown, not a striking blonde or glossy raven, and her mouth was a touch too wide, though obviously expressive. She was too tall and her curves not rounded enough for the tastes of most gentlemen. But her eyes, a hazel color flecked with green, had a depth that was intriguing, hinting at hidden facets not readily discernible on the surface.

  However, if her aunt hoped to marry her off she had better employ another modiste, he noted. The dress was a disaster. The insipid mauve color clashed with her best features, her eyes, and the cut made her look gawky and ill proportioned. Girlish ruffles and bows were in abundance, and the effect was more appropriate for a female of twelve rather than twenty four. Branford, whose taste was acknowledged to be impeccable, nearly winced as he turned to face her full on.

  She danced much better than he expected, moving with a lithe grace and matching his steps effortlessly. As he was deciding to forgo the usual compliments on her dress in favor of another less egregious social lie, she spoke first.

  "As a matter of fact, I have been wanting to meet you, my lord."

  Branford closed his eyes for an instant. Now would come the usual outrageous compliments or silly simperings that every unmarried girl felt obliged to offer up to a rich, titled bachelor. He had forgotten how much he loathed all of this. How had he allowed himself to be drawn into such a stupid, senseless bet? Ashton was right on another thing — he had been drinking too much.

  Despite such thoughts, he replied in a neutral tone. "Is that so? And why is that, Miss Chilton."

  "Because in the paper you sent to the Botanical Society on the gardens at Riverton, you are mistaken in thinking that the purple flowers are (Latin) They do not grow in this climate. They are no doubt (Latin), which look very similar. Of course it is a reasonable error for someone ignorant of botany to make."

  It was not exactly what he expected to hear. He nearly trod on her foot. "What?"

  "The flowers in the south garden. I take it you are the only Earl of Branford"

  Branford stared at her, speechless.

  "Mr. Simpson was too afraid to correct you, but I said that was utter nonsense — any sensible person would want to know of his error." She paused and regarded his stony face. "Oh dear," she sighed, half to herself. "I had looked forward to talking about the gardens with you, but it appears that, like most gentlemen, you disapprove of ladies who wish to have an intelligent conversation."

  Branford recovered his wits. "No, Miss Chilton," he answered dryly. "On that I have formed no opinion, since I have little experience in having an intelligent conversation with a lady."

  There was a pause. Alex smiled. "Touché, my lord."

  In spite of himself Branford found himself smiling back. The girl had wit as well as backbone.

  "You do not look half so dragon-like when you smile, you know. Or do you prefer to frighten people with that black scowl?"

  Branford unconsciously drew his dark brows together.

  "There, you see," she said. "You are doing it again. It is quite intimidating, you know."

  "And you, Miss Chilton. Are you always so outrageous, or are you just hoping I will take you back to your chair so you can resume your own private thoughts and not have to be bothered with having to do the polite." He watched a wave of surprise wash over her face. "You are not the only one capable of observing people," he added.

  Her eyes met his for a moment, the green fleck alight with some emotion, before she dropped her gaze in some confusion.

  "Now, about my gardens. What would you like..."

  The music was drawing to an end and the surrounding couples were beginning to leave the floor. Branford found himself irritated that the dance was over so quickly. "It appears we will have to wait for another waltz. Shall we say the one after the supper break?"

  "If you wish, my lord." Alex had composed herself and answered evenly, her chin thrust up slightly as if to say that she, at least, was not in the least bit intimidated by him.

  "Good." He delivered back to her aunt and it was only as he was walking away that he realized he had utterly forgotten the reason he had asked her to dance in the first place. He cursed under his breath. Now how had he been distracted? His purpose was to confirm the girl's availability and figure out a plan of seduction — and what had he done but begin a conversation on botany! Well, he had another dance. He would guide the conversation as he wished the next time around.

  He took another glass of champagne and sought out an empty corner of the room. The look on his face was even more forbidding than usual, ensuring the solitude he desired. Something he couldn't quite put a figure on was bothering him and try as he might o shake the feeling, it kept drawing his attention to the half obscured figure of Miss Chilton sitting silently among the turbaned matrons.

  A lovely widow he had recently dallied with swept close by and tried to catch his eye, but he pointedly ignored her. He had no intention of dancing any more than he had to this evening. His booted foot began to tap impatiently on the polished parquet and once again he cursed his judgement — or lack of it — in letting himself become embroiled in such a situation.

  Then it struck him. Miss Chilton had not once batted her rather attractive lashes at him, nor had she simpered nor flattered him. On the contrary, he thought with a twitch of a smile. She had all but called him a gudgeon. There was something hidden in those interesting eyes of hers, but it was not artificial gaiety or a forced fawning. In short, she had not made any attempt to... flirt. The realization only served to increase his sense that something was not quite right about the whole thing. Surely if she was as experienced in the world as he had been led to believe....

  A short, somewhat plump middle-aged gentleman had stopped to converse with Miss Chilton. Garbed in evening clothes that had most assuredly not seen Weston's hand, he looked as much a country dweller as the girl herself. But she was evidently glad to see him, as evidenced by the warm smile she bestowed upon him. Branford could make it out even through the swirling silks and flickering candles. She then rose and they began to make their way towards the supper room.

  Branford moved through the crowd to where a sumptuous buffet had been laid out for the guests. Ignoring the platters of delicacies, he stopped quite near to where Miss Chilton and her acquaintance were seated enjoying a selection of succulent lobster patties. She appeared not to notice his arrival, not once turning her head or glancing his way. He made a point of moving two or three steps to his left, where he would be directly in her line of sight. Still not the slightest acknowledgement of his presence. Her attention was riveted on her companion who was speaking with great animation, punctuating his points with a flourish of his silver fork.

  "Ah, there you are, Sebastian. Are you going to be so rag-mannered as to avoid me entirely tonight?"

  Branford turned to face a petite blonde whose porcelain skin and artfully arranged curls gave her the air of a china doll. He knew much better, however, than to be deceived by
such an innocent appearance — few who knew her cared to match wills with Lady Ashton.

  Cecelia." He flashed one of his rare smiles as he bent over her hand. Thinking of his earlier statement to Miss Chilton, he mentally corrected himself. Lady Ashton was one of the few ladies who possessed great sense along with her more obvious charms. "I was merely waiting until the bevy of admirers thinned to a manageable number before storming their ranks."

  "Fustian," she exclaimed, giving him a slight rap on the arm with her fan. "You, of all people, I wouldn't expect to toadeat me!"

  Branford gave a low laugh. "Rarely have I been accused of being a toadeater."