rel="nofollow" href="#ue7832fd4-b389-522d-b776-b8e86e856c23">
Chapter Four
‘It’s scandalous who they invite to these balls.’
‘I heard they were ex-convicts, recently returned from Australia.’
‘Surely not. Lord Gilham would have higher standards than that.’
‘A dear friend of mine told me they were fishermen, grown rich off the proceeds of smuggling,’ the first lady said in an exaggerated whisper, eliciting thrilled gasps from her companions.
Sam suppressed a smile. They’d been at the ball for less than five minutes and already the gossip was rife. He was surprised at how accurate this gaggle of middle-aged women were about their country of origin, at least. Despite spending much of his young life close to the sea, he’d never tried his hand at fishing before, or smuggling.
‘Enjoying yourself?’ George Fitzgerald asked as he clapped Sam on the back.
Surveying the room, Sam grimaced. This was not his world, not what he’d been born into. The cravat at his neck felt uncomfortably tight and the well-tailored jacket suddenly was too snug across the shoulders. Give him an open-necked shirt any day over the ridiculous garments the rich and powerful seemed to favour.
‘It’s certainly...different,’ Sam said.
‘Tell me about it.’
The two men stood side by side. So far no one had found the courage to come up and speak to them, despite the curious stares they were getting, but it would only be a matter of time.
‘These are your people, George. Shouldn’t you be off cavorting with the Lords and Ladies?’
Fitzgerald grimaced. He might have tenuous links to the aristocracy—his father was the second son of an impoverished baron—but George had spent his entire life in the wilds of Australia, raised on a farm. A very successful farm that made him one of the richest men in Australia but more at home around horses and hard work than the glamour of ballrooms and soirées.
‘Any sign of him yet?’ Fitzgerald asked.
Sam shook his head. The whole reason they’d secured the invitation to the Gilham ball was for Sam to start his search for the man who had ruined his life. Lord Westchester. Earl, influential member of the House of Lords and, in Sam’s eyes at least, the devil incarnate.
‘Boys,’ a high-pitched voice pierced the air, putting the two men at the centre of everyone’s attention again. ‘I’ve been looking for you for an age.’
‘Aunt Tabitha.’ Fitzgerald bent forward and kissed his aunt on the cheek, Sam doing the same on her other side.
‘Aren’t there supposed to be three of you?’ she asked. ‘Although maybe it is better to unleash you into society one at a time. The wicked widows won’t know which of you to seduce first.’
‘Crawford is off dancing with some doe-eyed debutante,’ Sam said, his eyes searching the room for their friend. Crawford had picked up the steps to the most popular dances quickly and easily and never seemed short of a partner on the dance floor. Sam was a little less of a natural, but he was agile and quick on his feet. As a result he could dance a waltz or a quadrille and fool a casual observer into thinking he’d been dancing all his life.
‘A
