some people I need to meet, if you would excuse me?’ Jack moved smoothly through his court and discreetly headed towards the group around Dulcinea. He took the long route, careful not to hurt anyone’s feelings. It wouldn’t do to be immediately seen going from one set to another.
Jack tugged on his waistcoat, girding himself for battle. When he was with her, everything was a competition—a delightful competition, but still a competition—and he had to be ready. ‘Steady on, old chap.’ Jack muttered under his breath. He had nothing to fear. What fire didn’t burn it made stronger. When it came to women like Dulci Wycroft, Jack was tempered Damascus steel.
Jack circumspectly dislodged a young admirer whose only crime was to stand next to Dulcinea. Good lord, the ring of admirers got younger by the year. Lord Baden’s son was among the lot tonight. Was the boy really old enough to come up to town now? These men were barely men at all, merely overgrown pups. Or was it simply that he was getting older? At four and thirty, he felt quite the veteran standing amongst Dulci’s collection of young bucks. Regardless, they were no match for Dulci’s wit. Not one of them had a chance of holding her attention.
‘Good evening, everyone.’ His eyes briefly swept the group by way of greeting.
The group’s collective eye fixed on him, their collective breath held, waiting for the sport to begin. It had become something of a ballroom sport for guests to watch Dulci and he spar. Well, sparring wasn’t quite accurate. They didn’t fight. They volleyed with dares and words carefully wrapped in a socially acceptable package. Jack preferred to classify their exchanges more along the lines of lawn tennis. With practiced charm he drawled, ‘Good evening, Lady Dulcinea.’
The match was engaged.
Heads swivelled to Dulci. If she was surprised by his presence, she did not show it. Her greeting was coolly polite, the type one offered to a passing acquaintance although they were far more than that.
‘Wainsbridge, I did not expect to see you tonight.’ Dulci subjected him to a liquid blue perusal, taking in every inch of his attire.
Jack readied for the forthcoming quip. Amid her sea of dandies with their bright waistcoats and popinjay fashions, his sombre apparel, broken only by the dovegrey brocade of his waistcoat, took on a more austere cast. The king’s prized adviser could not strut around looking like a peacock of the most frivolous order. Although what he advised the king on remained a mystery to many.
‘Wainsbridge, are these gloomy tones the best you can do? Such a choice would put a damper on even the most festive of occasions.’ Dulci quizzed him with a perfectly arched black eyebrow. Heads turned back to him, everyone considering his apparel.
Jack bowed, taking the reprimand with consummate ease. ‘I am at your disposal, Lady Dulcinea. What colour would you prefer I wear? The rainbow is yours. Pluck a colour from it and I will see it done. By this time tomorrow, I shall possess apparel done up to your satisfaction.’
The group stared at Dulci, waiting for her pronouncement. Jack thought it highly likely he wouldn’t be the only person sporting Dulci’s colours by this time tomorrow. Tailors all over the city would be busy in the morning.
Dulci snapped open her fan and speared Jack with a knowing look. As he intended, she understood entirely the dilemma he’d placed before her. She could not dare him to wear a hideous colour without making her court appear ridiculous along with him. Nor could she take the uncreative neutral option since she’d been the one to throw down the gauntlet. She had a certain reputation to uphold just as much as he.
‘Azure. I choose azure,’ she announced coyly over the top of her painted fan after pretending to give the answer a great deal of thought. And perhaps she had. Jack had to admit blue was the perfect choice for a careful answer. There were so many shades of blue; a gentleman could pick a hue of his own comfort level.
Jack bowed again. ‘Azure it shall be, Lady Dulcinea. I duly accept your charge with all these gentlemen as my witnesses. Tomorrow night, at the Danby rout, I shall carry out my commission.’
Jack turned his gaze to the man next to him in the circle as if noticing the Spanish gentleman for the first time. ‘Lady Dulcinea, I must beg an introduction. I believe this gentleman and I are not acquainted.’ The match was over. Dulci had won the dare, but he’d got what he came for. The rest of the group wouldn’t realise that. But Dulci would.
Dulci gave a deceptively sweet smile and made the introductions. ‘Wainsbridge, this is Señor Calisto Ortiz, of the Venezuelan diplomatic delegation. I had the good fortune to meet him at a Royal Geographic Society dinner a few days ago. Señor, allow me to present Viscount Wainsbridge.’
The Spaniard bowed smoothly and introduced two other gentlemen in turn, a Señor Adalberto Vargas, who was clearly the august leader of the delegation, and Señor Dias, whose mediocre clothing clearly marked him as the hanger-on.
Ortiz was all handsome manners and Jack disliked him immediately. Younger than his Venezuelan counterparts by over a decade, darkly handsome with inky hair, and expensively dressed, Calisto Ortiz radiated a rather obvious appeal of the kind women found charming. He did not endear himself to Jack further when he turned that charm on Dulci.
For tonight, he’d tolerated enough of the man’s covert ogling of Dulci’s bosom, as deliciously displayed as it was in the tight bodice of her gown. Like recognised like, and Jack recognised Ortiz to be a womaniser of the highest order.
It was time to throw down the gauntlet, in the politest of fashions, of course. A little competition always brought one’s true colours to light and he did not expect Ortiz to prove the exception to the rule. Instead he fully expected Ortiz to prickle in response to a few well-placed remarks. It wasn’t Jack’s job to make friends. His orders were very clear: take the measure of the delegation. There wasn’t a single word mentioned about befriending them.
Jack inserted himself into the general conversation during a lull, casually launching his first sally. ‘Señor Ortiz, como le gusta Londres?’
His fluent command of the language had the desired effect. Ortiz looked momentarily surprised at hearing Spanish. Jack wanted him to be surprised and warned. The Venezuelans might be thousands of miles from home and those who knew the territory, but the English were not without their resources here. The Venezuelans would not be dealing with London-based politicians ignorant of the New World’s geography.
Ortiz favoured him with a cold smile. ‘I assure you my English is quite fluent.’ His terse answer imbued a level of tension into the group. Touchy young man, Jack thought, to be so thoroughly insulted on the acquaintance of six words.
‘Je parle français, aussi,’ Ortiz went on, his steely gaze fixed intently on Jack.
‘Très bien. J’aime parler français,’ Jack smoothly switched into French. He could play this game for a while if Ortiz was so inclined. He might not have the formal degrees of a polyglot scholar, but Jack could bed a woman in six different languages.
Señor Vargas intervened swiftly. ‘Señor Ortiz has been educated at the finest of schools. He’s the nephew of one of the viceroys posted to our region.’
‘Ah,’ Jack exclaimed with all the appreciation he could summon. Señor Ortiz’s role in the delegation was becoming clearer. ‘Are you considered to hold an official diplomatic post, then?’
His enquiry hit the mark. It was petty gratification to see the handsome man’s smile fade into a grim line. ‘I’m an ombudsman.’
‘I
