Page 2 of Unmasking the Earl

And how could he behave with such lack of honor?

Cassie folded her arms across her chest and caught sight of the wilting violets. With a growl of anger, she tore them from her bosom, flung them through the window, and slammed it closed.

“Damn you, Julian Carnforth,” she spluttered indignantly. “I’m not letting you ruin your reputation with a light-skirt like that!”

Pausing only to grab an abandoned shawl from a chair, she hurried out of the room and cantered down the staircase in pursuit of Julian and his new ladybird.

Clenching her fists, she vowed, “I’ll work out a way to stop you, just see if I don’t!”

Chapter Two

Something flew out of the window.

Catching sight of it as it fell to earth, Ned Ganstridge turned on his heel and strode back to where he’d seen the girl on the upper floor of Highmore House. What could she have thrown, and why?

Scouting around on the gravel in the shifting shadows was a difficult task, but he found the object eventually and examined it.

A bunch of violets. One that was overdue a watering. Foolish girl. Had no one told her violets were far too delicate for a corsage, especially while dancing?

He twirled the limp stems between his fingers, stroked the silk ribbon binding, and pressed his lips together.

Had his sister done the same with her lover, he wondered. Had Georgiana dropped letters, love tokens, even keys from her bedroom window as she carried on her clandestine affair? No one had any proof, of course, just suspicion and hearsay—there was no way of knowing for certain what vile twist of Fate had overtaken her. But Georgiana was gone, and Ned was no longer fully himself.

A soft chuckle made him spin round, just in time to see a couple of Paxton’s guests hurrying away from the mansion. They were headed for the hot houses, or perhaps the maze, but wherever they were going, they were surely up to no good. In fact, wasn’t the female Lady Lucy, his master’s latest fancy piece?

Well, it certainly wasn’t Captain Francis Wycherley who was with her now.

Ned’s lip curled up in grim satisfaction. Wycherley would be furious, but it was about time that devil got a taste of his own medicine. A man who tangled with the demimonde must expect to be given the runaround.

Ned didn’t give a fake farthing. He very much doubted Captain Wycherley’s fickle heart—if he had a heart at all—would feel the pain for long.

“I hope she gets thrown on her back by that lusty beanpole she’s with and returns to you with an unwelcome gift,” he said vehemently, glaring after the departing pair. A good dose of the clap or the pox—now, that would be much more painful.

And fitting.

His fingers started to curl into a fist but were halted by the small bunch of flowers in his hand. He peered down at them. Had the bronze-haired beauty thrown them to him? No one had ever done that before. No one back home would ever have dared such a thing.

Tucking the limp blooms into the pocket of his nankeen waistcoat, he sauntered back along the line of carriages to join the straggling throng of coachmen and flunkeys. Matthews, Wycherley’s footman, gave him an appraising look, then reached into the pocket of his caped coat and produced a flask.

“It’s about time, Mr. Ganstridge,” he said, “to lighten your spirits. Have a sip of my mountain dew. That’ll warm up your gizzard and wipe the scowl off your face.”

“Thankin’ you,” replied Ned briefly, accepting the flask.

He took a sip. Huh! Call this mountain dew? It was weak as maid’s piss. Pretending enjoyment, he said casually, “I see our master’s been cuckolded by Lady Lucy.”

“Has he, now?” inquired Matthews. “Who’s she gone off with?”

“No idea. A skinny longshanks, by the look of it. Good-looking, from what little I could see.”

“Master won’t mind,” commented Matthews, retrieving the flask. “He were never going to marry her, anyway.”

“She don’t seem the kind to care about marriage,” Ned observed, matching his accent to the coarse dialect of the other servants.

“Isn’t that what they all want, women? Get their fambles on some poor unsuspecting cove, dig their claws in—”

The flask was offered again, but Ned gestured to Matthews to keep drinking. If the liquor loosened his tongue, it could be extremely useful.

“How d’ye know he wouldn’t want to marry her?” Ned asked. “She’s comely enough.”