persuade them,” Miles said. “Seduce them to our point of view if we must. Compromising a lady is a very effective way to secure her fortune.”
“And a very dishonorable one,” Dexter said. Sometimes he thought that where women were concerned, Miles had neither scruples nor principles.
Not that he could afford the scruples and principles that beset him. Miles had also brought with him a letter from Dexter’s sister Annabelle. Written in Belle’s loopy,extravagant hand, it had reminded Dexter of all the reasons why he needed to marry money—if reminder was needed.
Belle had written,
Mama was in her cups last night, and she let slip to us that you had gone to Yorkshire not only for the fishing, dear Dexter, but also to offer yourself on the Altar of Matrimony for all our sakes! Such Noble Sacrifice! You are indeed the Best of Brothers!
There was much more in the same vein about how much Belle was looking forward to her come-out ball the following year and how Charley and Roland had lost their shirts at the gambling tables the previous night, and how Mama had an utterly beautiful new peacock-blue morning gown. Dexter shuddered to read the list of all their extravagances.
There was also a short note from his father’s ward, Caroline Wakefield, whom everyone knew to be another of the Anstruther Collection masquerading under the false respectability of wardship.
Caro had written crossly,
Dear Dexter, pray do not regard Belle’s nonsense. The truth is that if we have no money we shall all have to economize and in the last resort find employment. Belle will not expire over the loss of a season, and your mama would have more to spend on gowns if she did not spend so much on gin. If you choose to marry for money for our sakes then you are a fool.
Dexter smiled ruefully and put the letters in his case. Caro had grown up with no illusions about her place in the world and a far more practical approach to financial matters than his other siblings. He tried to imagine blond featherbrained Belle going out to earn a living—and failed miserably.
“I should stay here and work,” he said, gesturing to Lord Liverpool’s letter, “and so should you. Liverpool mentions that there is someone who may be able to help us in the matter of Warren Sampson and that you will effect an introduction—”
“Later,” Miles said, grabbing his arm and hustling him out of the room. “Anyway, this is work, Dexter. You need to listen to the gossip and to meet the suspects. What better way than by mingling with all the fortune hunters and heiresses at the assembly?”
They went out into the market square. It was a blustery night with the wind rising and the moon dodging behind ragged clouds. The Morris Clown Inn, a sprawling coaching inn that dated back to medieval times, was on the southern corner of the square, opposite the town’s small but nicely appointed assembly rooms. Fortune’s Folly had been little more than a hamlet until fifty years before when Sir Monty’s grandfather had taken advantage of the fact that the natural springs around the village were thought to be medicinal. He had created a spa, laid out a small park, built an assembly room and a circulating library and had watched Fortune’s Folly grow into an exclusive watering place. There were new houses and shops, and in the summer the town attracted visitors from Harrogate and York. Now that it was the marriage mart of England it attracted a fair amount of riffraff, as well.
“Oh dear,” Mr. Argyle, the master of ceremonies, said unhappily, on seeing them. “Not two more gentlemen. Disastrous!”
He threw open the doors to the assembly rooms and Dexter immediately saw the problem. The place was packed with men in evening dress and there was scarcely a lady to be seen.
“All the respectable visitors have left town,” Mr. Argyle said. “They say that Fortune’s Folly is full of fortune-hunting rogues who lower the tone of the place.”
“They’re not mistaken,” Miles said. He caught Dexter’s arm. “Look, there’s that dashed libertine Jasper Deech. He’s been hanging out for a rich wife for years.”
“So have you,” Dexter pointed out. “So have I.”
“That’s different.” Miles looked affronted. “Deech is very unsavory.” He paused. “It’s not impossible that Deech could be the one engaged in criminal activities. I have often wondered where his money comes from. And that is Warren Sampson over there—” He gestured toward a middle-aged, florid-looking man who was rocking back on his heels as he surveyed the room. “I cannot believe that he seeks a wife here. He is not in need of a fortune.”
“Men like that always want to increase their capital,” Dexter said dryly. “I thought he was already married?”
“He buried his second wife last year so perhaps he is looking for a replacement,” Miles said. “Speaking of disagreeable characters, is that not Stephen Armitage over there, as well, fawning over Laura Cole? It certainly isn’t marriage he’s after there! He tried to fix his interest with her in London before she was even out of mourning. Frightfully bad form.”
Dexter spun around so quickly that he almost dislodged three glasses of lemonade from a tray carried by one of the servants. He apologized and tried to right the drinks before they splashed all over his and Miles’s shoes. It had not occurred to him that Laura would be present that evening but now he wondered why he had made that assumption. The main purpose of the assemblies might be for the young ladies of the neighborhood to meet eligible men, but it was also an opportunity for everyone in the community to meet and mingle and talk, and tonight there was much to talk about.
“Laura is in looks tonight,” Miles said, still watching the dowager duchess with deep appreciation. “I always thought she was far prettier than anyone gave credit and now that she is rid of that louse of a husband she positively blooms—” He broke off on a splutter as Dexter took him by the neck cloth and pulled tight.
“You are mighty familiar, bandying about her grace’s name with such ease,” Dexter said through his teeth. The unbearable thought that Miles might be another of Laura’s lovers took hold in his mind and could not be dislodged, no matter how he tried. Miles was a rake of the first order and his conquests were legendary. Dexter knew that it should not matter to him if Laura Cole was simply another name on the list but the fury that clouded his mind was as sudden and uncontrollable as it was unexpected and illogical. Miles, Stephen Armitage, and no doubt a dozen or more others…
“Steady, old fellow,” Miles protested, flailing his arms about and wheezing for breath, “Laura is my cousin! Known her since we were children. Why shouldn’t I use her name?”
Cousin. The word pierced the rage that seemed to envelope Dexter’s mind like a blanketing fog. Laura was Miles’s cousin, not his mistress. His grip eased slightly.
“Your cousin?”
Miles’s eyes bulged. “That’s what I said. Remember when we were in London I told you that I had a cousin living here? And what is it to you, anyway, Dexter?”
Dexter released him slowly. “I didn’t know,” he said. “I thought that the Duchess of Devonshire was your cousin.”
“She is.” Miles looked affronted. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Dexter? No reason why you should know all the ramifications of my family tree, is there? I have cousins all over the Ton, not that it’s any of your business.”
“Good evening, Miles. Mr. Anstruther…”
