“Allow me to introduce you to some of the chaps,” Bell continued, striding through the club as if it were his second home.
David took a deep breath and mentally prepared himself to meet ‘some of the chaps.’ Around here that could mean a duke or another marquess like Bell. Despite his wealth and obviously privileged upbringing, Bell was a good man. He was betrothed to David’s sister, Marianne, but the two had met before David had any inkling that he was, in fact, the heir to the Earl of Elmwood, which made his sister a lady. David still couldn’t believe it. After Bell, Marianne, and David had returned from France last autumn, he’d learned that his deceased father had been the only son of the Earl of Elmwood. But the last several months had done little to allow the reality to sink in.
Now, David was a nobleman, a toff, an aristocrat. It was all too much. In Brighton, they were raised if not in poverty, then certainly not in luxury. They lived in a simple cottage with three bedchambers. One for their parents, one for Marianne, and one for David and Frederick to share. They’d done chores and scrubbed floors and cut down trees for their father’s work. They’d fished, and hunted, and gone to country dances, and when they’d come of age, David and Frederick had joined the army and Marianne had become Lady Courtney’s maid.
But in their entire upbringing, nothing, nothing had given them the slightest hint that Father had been an earl’s son. Apparently, he’d had a falling out with David’s grandfather over the desire to marry David’s mother, and instead of relenting, David’s father had seen fit to renounce his future title and raise his family in Brighton, away from the crowds of London and his former life. But even on his deathbed, Father had not mentioned who he really was. It sometimes made David hope that the entire thing had been an enormous mistake. But General Grimaldi himself, Head of the Home Office, had been the one to track down the truth, and apparently there was no mistaking the fact that David’s father had been the only son of the Earl of Elmwood. Which meant that David, as his surviving son, inherited the title upon Father’s death.
“See, over there,” Bell pointed to a group of men all hovered around a large book in the corner of the main sitting room. “That’s the infamous betting book. All sort of things are wagered upon between the pages of that tome.”
David didn’t have the heart to tell Bell that he’d never heard of the betting book and furthermore, he didn’t care about it. Wagers were placed by fools. Fools who were soon separated from their money. David had seen more than one poor sop in the army lose a month’s pay or more by being far too ready to gamble it away on a silly chance.
“Come with me to the next room,” Bell said. “Perhaps some of my friends are here.”
Bell had barely taken two steps when another man materialized from the corridor and stopped him. “There you are, Bellingham. I’ve been looking for you. Might I have a word…in private?”
Bell glanced back at David, who gave him a quick nod before turning around, his hands clasped behind him to find something to occupy his time while Bell spoke with the gentleman.
David had learned that Bell had another life when he’d come with Marianne to rescue him from a French prisoners-of-war camp. Bell, as it turned out, was a spy for the Home Office, and furthermore so was Marianne. Although David was sworn to secrecy on both counts, he was also accustomed to looking the other way when Bell was called away suddenly.
David turned back to look at the group of men near the betting book. It was the last thing he wanted to do, the very last, but he might as well be cordial to these men of his newfound class. He walked over to the small group and cleared his throat.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. What are you betting on today?”
The men looked up at him, confused, as if a goat had wandered into the club and asked the question.
“I beg your pardon.” David cleared his throat and wished he was anywhere else but here. “I suppose I should have begun by introducing myself. Terribly sorry. I’m… My name is…”
“You’re Elmwood, aren’t you?” one of the younger men asked, narrowing his eyes on David.
David tugged at his lapel. He still wasn’t used to the bloody fine cut of cloth he was wearing these days. Bell had dragged him to one of the best tailors on Old Bond Street and now he was the proud owner of over a dozen shirts of the finest linen, two dozen pure white cravats, perfectly fitted breeches, and boots so shiny you could see your reflection in the toes. Not to mention the trousers, and socks, and waistcoats, and handkerchiefs. Monogrammed handkerchiefs. It all cost more than he might have made altogether in his previous life, David reckoned, but he’d soon learned that the title of Elmwood also came with a significant fortune. Apparently, his grandfather had been a very wealthy man.
“Yes, I am,” David replied, admitting to his title, and feeling like a complete fool. Of course they all knew who he was already. Bell had warned him that his name had been in the papers nonstop since the news of his arrival had spread through London like wildfire. Marianne had to hide in Lady Courtney’s town house for weeks for fear of being plowed down by a gaggle of ladies eager to make the acquaintance of the sister of the new earl and the fiancée of one of the most elusive bachelors in the country.
The men shot each other uncomfortable looks, while David wished he was wearing brown so he could slink back against the wooden walls and hide. Had he said something wrong? Done something gauche? Apparently he had, because none of them were answering him, and some of them were shifting awkwardly in their seats.
“Can you keep a secret, Elmwood?” one of the men said, an unpleasant smile on his face.
“What sort of secret?” David replied, already wanting nothing to do with any sort of a secret this set might have.
“Don’t tell him,” the first man said. “He’s tight with Bell.”
“Yes,” David replied nodding. “I’m quite tight with Bell.” If these chaps had a secret to keep from Bell, David certainly didn’t want to hear it. He began to slowly back away from the group.
“We’re betting on a lady,” the smug man continued.
David winced as if the act of shutting one eye, might cut off the access to his ears too.
“A lady?” he replied, already turning on his heel. He didn’t want to hear another word. “Very well. Sounds good. I’ll just go—”
“To be precise,” the man continued, “we’re betting on which of us a certain lady of the ton will marry.”
For some reason, the lady outside at last night’s dinner party sprang to mind. The woman was a handful, but she seemed like the type of lady one might place a bet upon. Perhaps on how rude her next act would be. After he’d returned to the dining room last night, David had ended up making his excuses to his hostess and leaving for the night. He’d briefly considered not giving the rude blonde the satisfaction of thinking she’d chased him away, but the more likely scenario was that she wouldn’t give him a second thought. She obviously had a great deal of experience being rude to men in private. She’d no doubt forgotten their encounter the moment he’d left her company. It seemed it would take longer for him to forget her. Was that what being an aristocrat would be like? Getting used to beautiful women being rude? He’d much rather go back to Brighton and find a nice, unassuming local girl to marry. He would need a countess eventually. Or so Bell had told him.