"Well, that's true enough." Gillingham cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Told the Misses Inglebright you'd be attending. You'll be more than welcome, I imagine, but I should warn you, the society's nothing but a pack of aging spinsters who get together once a week and rhapsodize over a bunch of damn poets. Women are very, very inclined toward that sort of romantic nonsense, y'know."
"So I've heard. Nevertheless, I find myself curious to see how country folk are entertaining themselves these days."
"Suit yourself. I'll ride over to Rose Cottage with you and introduce you, but after that, you're on your own. You won't mind if I don't hang around, will you?"
"Of course not," Simon murmured as a groom led the horses forward. "This is my odd notion and I am quite prepared to live with the consequences."
Simon vaulted lightly into Lap Seng's saddle and cantered down the drive alongside his host. The anticipation he was feeling was growing stronger, gnawing at his insides. He fought to control it. He prided himself on his ironclad self-control.
Simon had little doubt of his welcome from the Misses Inglebright and the group of poetry-reading spinsters. He might not be handsome in the style made popular by Lords Byron, Ashbrook, and others, but he was, after all, an earl.
That simple fact, Simon was well aware, combined with his enormous wealth and power, was fully capable of erasing a multitude of defects in a man's physical appearance as well as obliterating a wide variety of assorted sins, lapses in judgment, and various character failings.
The ladies of the Thursday Afternoon Literary Society had no doubt been thrilled to learn the Earl of Blade wished to attend their humble salon.
Rose Cottage proved to be humble indeed. It was a tiny little house, situated off a short lane not far from the village, surrounded by a tiny little rose garden.
Two small, gray-haired women of indeterminate years stood at the gate greeting three other women who had just arrived on foot. They were all bundled up against the cold in worn, aging cloaks and pelisses that were uniformly drab in color. Their old-fashioned bonnets were tied tightly under their chins.
Simon surveyed the ladies standing at the gate as he rode up with Lord Gillingham. He got the immediate impression he was about to confront a flock of nervous gray pigeons. He swore softly to himself, wondering which of these dull birds was Emily Faringdon. He experienced an odd sense of dismay and realized he was also somewhat surprised.
Somehow, from her letters, he had not pictured her as one of these severe, middle-aged females. He had been expecting a young woman who bristled with brash energy and overindulged romanticism.
Five pairs of wary eyes peeped out from under the unfashionable bonnets. Not a one of those gazes appeared to belong to anyone under forty. Simon frowned. He had been positive Miss Faringdon would be far younger. And prettier. The Faringdons were known for their looks as well as their feckless ways.
"Good afternoon, ladies." Gillingham removed his hat with an air of gallantry and smiled jovially. "I have brought along your guest for the afternoon. Allow me to introduce the Earl of Blade. Just recently returned from the East Indies, y'know. Wants to see what's up in lit'ry circles back here in England."
Simon was in the process of removing his curly-brimmed beaver hat, steeling himself for the task ahead, when it suddenly struck him that there was no sign of welcome in any of the five pairs of eyes that confronted him.
His own eyes narrowed as Gillingham ran through the introductions. There was no doubt about it. The ladies of the Thursday Afternoon Literary Society were not thrilled to see him. In fact, he could have sworn he saw annoyance and suspicion on their faces. One would almost think the good ladies of the society would prefer he not be there at all.
Gillingham quickly finished the formalities. "The Misses Inglebright, Miss Bracegirdle, Miss Hornsby, and Miss Ostly."
The women all responded politely, if unenthusiastically, to the introductions. There was no Miss Faringdon, Simon realized. He could not deny he was relieved but it also complicated the matter. He hoped she was merely late in arriving.
"Kind of you to join us today, my lord," Miss Bracegirdle, a tall, bony woman with a long face said quite coldly.
"Yes, indeed," the older of the two Inglebright sisters declared primly. She sounded as if she would much rather he had gone hunting instead. "How nice of you to take an interest in our little country society. I fear you will find us quite uninteresting, however. Not at all like the brilliant salons in London."
"No, no, not at all like London gatherings," Miss Ostly, plump and dowdy, chimed in quickly. "We're quite behind the times here, my lord."
"I have encountered no particularly brilliant literary salons in London," Simon said smoothly, curious at the reception he was receiving. Something was not as it should be here. "Merely a few groups of chattering ladies and dandies who prefer to discuss the latest scandals rather than the latest works of literature."
The five women glanced uneasily at each other. The younger Miss Inglebright cleared her throat. "As it happens, we occasionally slip into such silly talk ourselves, my lord. You know how it is in the country. We look to city folk for the best gossip."
"Then perhaps I will be able to provide you with some of the latest on dits," Simon retorted, half amused. They were not going to get rid of him that easily. He would leave when he chose.
The women glanced at each other, appearing more uncertain and annoyed than ever. At that moment the sound of a horse's hooves clattering down the lane caught everyone's attention.
"Oh, here comes Miss Faringdon now," Miss Hornsby said, showing signs of genuine excitement for the first time.
The elusive Miss Faringdon, at last Simon glanced over his shoulder to see a dappled gray mare cantering toward the small group. Something went taut in his gut.
The first thing he noticed was that the woman on the mare's back was riding astride rather than sidesaddle. The second thing he realized was that this was certainly no gilt-headed Faringdon. Bright red curls were flying about wildly beneath a jaunty straw bonnet.
Something sparkled on the lady's face. Simon was deeply intrigued. Emily Faringdon was wearing a pair of silver-framed spectacles. The sight of them held him riveted for a few seconds. No other woman of his acquaintance would have been caught dead wearing spectacles in public.
"Miss Emily Faringdon," Lord Gillingham confided in a low whisper. "Family's pleasant enough, I suppose, but they're all gamesters, the lot of 'em. Everyone calls 'em the Flighty, Feckless Faringdons, y'know. With the exception of Miss Emily, that is. Nice girl. Too bad about the Unfortunate Incident in her past."
"Ah, yes. The Incident." Simon recalled the gossip he had gently pried out of his hostess. It had been extremely useful information. Although he did not yet have all the details, he knew enough about Emily's past to know he had a powerful tactical advantage in the campaign he was about to launch.
He could not take his eyes off Emily Faringdon. He saw with amazement that there were a handful of freckles sprinkled across her small nose. And the eyes behind the sparkling lenses were quite green. Incredibly green.
Lord Gillingham coughed discreetly behind his hand. "Shouldn't have said anything," he muttered. "Happened when she was barely nineteen, poor chit. All in the past. No one mentions it, naturally. Trust you won't, either, sir."
"Of course not," Simon murmured.
Lord Gillingham straightened slightly in the saddle and smiled kindly at Emily. "Good afternoon, Miss Emily."
"Good afternoon, my lord. Lovely day, is it not?" Emily brought her mare to a halt and smiled warmly at Gillingham. "Are you joining us this afternoon?" She started to dismount without assistance.
"Allow me, Miss Faringdon." Simon was already out of the saddle, tossing the reins to Gillingham. His eyes skimmed quickly, assessingly over Emily as he strode forward. He was still having trouble believing he had run his quarry to earth at last. Every Faringdon he had ever seen had been tall, fair-haired, and inordinately handsome.