David shook his head, bringing his attention back to the company behind him. Certain he was about to regret it, he turned back to them and asked, “What does betting on a lady’s marriage have anything to do with Bell?”
“Don’t tell him!” the second man repeated.
A sinking feeling spread through David’s gut. Damn. He shouldn’t have asked that question. The bet did have something to do with Bell, after all.
“The lady in question,” the smug man replied, still smiling in a way that made David uncomfortable, “is Lady Annabelle Bellingham.”
David released his breath in a whoosh. Lady Annabelle was Bell’s sister. He’d yet to meet her. She was not in London at present and hadn’t been all winter. She and her mother were due back from the countryside for the Season any day now. All David knew about Annabelle was that she was several years younger than Bell and unmarried apparently. Marianne had been worried for weeks that Annabelle might not like her when they met. But Marianne had come back from her visit with Bell’s mother and sister in the country, claiming they were both perfectly lovely and approving of her, which pleased David immensely.
David cleared his throat and tugged on his lapels again. He would certainly regret asking this next question, as well, but curiosity had got the better of him. “Why are you betting on who Lady Annabelle will marry?”
A crack of laughter came from one of the chaps in the group. David didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. These men were supposed to be the cream of Society? They were being crass and ungentlemanly as far as David was concerned.
“Have you ever seen Lady Annabelle?” the smug man asked, with a far-too-smug look on his face.
David shook his head. “I’ve not yet had the pleasure.”
Another crack of laughter from the group made David narrow his eyes.
“Well,” Lord Smug said. “Let’s just say that Lady Annabelle has been out for five Seasons and has yet to pick a husband despite having at least a score of offers, according to the gossips.”
David had to work to keep his face blank and not show his distaste for the subject matter. “So, you’re betting on who the lucky winner will be?” He was being facetious calling Lady Annabelle’s future husband a ‘winner,’ but his word choice only served to make the other men chuckle and elbow each other in the ribs. Vulgar, if you asked him.
“Who it will be, and when,” Smug replied, steepling his fingers together over his chest.
“I see,” David replied. Though he didn’t see at all. It seemed to him that grown men with fine educations and fat pockets should have a score of better things to do than bet on such nonsense, but that wasn’t for him to judge. He merely wanted to leave their company immediately. Being a nobleman wasn’t for him. If this was the sort of foolishness he would be forced to participate in to be a suitable earl, he wanted to go back to Brighton and work in his father’s woodshop, thank you very much. None of these men had spent a single day in battle. None of these men had watched their mates die in agony. None of these men knew anything beyond this privilege and rubbish wastes of time like placing bets.
Lord Smug narrowed his eyes on David again. “You don’t happen to know if Bell has given her a deadline by which to choose a husband?”
David shook his head, his jaw tightening. “Lord Bellingham and I have never discussed his sister’s marriage prospects, I can assure you.” The nerve of these blowhards, thinking that he’d betray his friend’s trust to a gaggle of loud-mouthed strangers.
The group laughed. “So formal? ‘Lord Bellingham?’ We call him Bell.”
Of course David had messed up that bit. He was still trying to learn how precisely to call everyone by their formal titles. He was far from mastering nicknames. “Yes, well, Bell and I have never discussed Lady Annabelle. I’ll just be getting back to—”
He turned to leave as Lord Smug said, “Don’t tell Bell we’re betting on his sister, Elmwood. We wouldn’t want you to spoil the fun.”
David pressed his lips together and nodded once before nearly running from the group to the far side of the room where he’d come from. He had no intention of telling Bell anything about his ridiculous encounter with those men. Not only would it be in the worst taste to repeat anything they’d said, he would not do his friend the disservice of repeating that nonsense in his presence. However…what if the proper thing for Bell to do would be to call them out? Perhaps he should tell him they were being disrespectful to his only sister. Wouldn’t David want the same if someone was being so crass about Marianne?
Bell was back at his side moments later and David breathed a sigh of relief when they strode together into the next room away from the prying eyes of the group of men at the betting book. They entered a smaller room similarly outfitted as the first, with plush leather chairs and carpets, wood-lined walls, and expensive-looking paintings covering nearly every space on the dark-green walls.
“Made some new friends near the betting book, did you?” Bell asked, as they took seats across from each other.
David expelled his breath. “Not hardly.” He bit his lip. Should he tell Bell what the men had said? Was now the time to say something? Or would it be in poor taste? Damn. Damn. Damn. “Who was the man in front of the book? The one sitting in the chair?” Lord Smug.
Bell cocked his head to the side and narrowed his eyes, obviously trying to recall. “Oh, that was Murdock. The Marquess of Murdock, that is.”
Murdock? The name sounded vaguely familiar, but David had heard so many new names over the last several months. Names, rules of comportment, titles, politics. It was overwhelming. In fact, Bell had informed him that he had enlisted his sister, Annabelle, and his mother, Lady Angelina, to teach David how to go about in Society. The two women were unimpeachable members of the Beau Monde and if David needed anyone, it was a pair of experts. He wasn’t precisely looking forward to his ‘earl lessons,’ as Marianne had dubbed them, but he was clever enough to know he was sorely in need of them. It was kind of Lady Annabelle and her mother to volunteer to tutor him. Which was another reason he didn’t particularly care for Murdock and his group of smugs in the other room betting on Lady Annabelle. The young woman was about to do him a favor. The least David could do was keep those fools from besmirching her name.
A footman rushed forward to hand them each a drink they hadn’t ordered. Bell’s was tea, David’s was port. He’d developed an affinity for the wine when he’d been stationed in Portugal. He blinked at the glass and frowned. How the hell did the footman know what he liked to drink? The servant scurried away again before he had a chance to ask him. David shook his head. Privilege.
“Make any bets?” Bell asked next, the side of his mouth quirking up in a half-grin.
David expelled his breath. Blast the ton and all its ridiculous rules of comportment. In this situation, he had no idea how to proceed. He hadn’t had his earl lessons yet. But back in Brighton he would have bloody well told his mate and got it over with. Yes, fine. That’s precisely what he would do. “No, and in fact. I’m not certain I should be the one to mention it, but…” He took a fortifying sip of wine.
“They were betting on Annabelle again, weren’t they?” Bell asked, leaning back in his chair, and straightening his shoulders. He looked perfectly calm. Not at all like a man who was about to call someone out.