It Happened One Midnight (PG8) by Julie Anne Long Page B

aspired to Byronic fame stood in one corner, gesticulating wildly, while another man, a novelist of some sort whose hair was much too long, as if he was far too busy thinking deep thoughts to ever cut it, listened and bobbed his head in agreement. A painter named Wyndham, rumored to have painted a portrait of Tommy, but whom Jonathan knew primarily produced remarkably colorful and prurient works of art for a brothel called The Velvet Glove, stood near them not troubling to look anything other than bored and incredulous, which made Jonathan like him.
    And then there was Lord Prescott, a viscount who was reportedly nearly thirty years old. Older than everyone present, too thin for his frame, he leaned against a wall, alone, and still, but for his eyes. His eyes tracked Tommy about the room.
    And thus far he was the only person she seemed to be studiously ignoring.
    Interesting, that.
    Prescott was a viscount. Wealthy. Unmarried. “A rather dry chap,” Argosy had once described him, upon meeting him once socially. An indictment, indeed.
    The Countess of Mirabeau was enthroned in another corner near the large marble fireplace, which, to Jonathan, seemed unnecessarily cherub-bedecked. Their fat little cheeks and buttocks bulged from the corners and crawled all the way up the wall, in a great debauched arc. Today the countess was dressed in a toga, a wreath ringing her head, sandals on her feet.
    “Greek today, are we, my lady?” he’d asked her.
    “Carpe diem, Mr. Redmond. Carpe diem.”
    “I shall endeavor to carpe, thank you. It’s good to see you looking so well.”
    “Likewise, young man. But aren’t you overdressed? Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in a toga?”
    “No doubt,” he agreed. “Perhaps next time.”
    He was contemplating migrating over to chat with the countess now, because her benign madness suited his mood, when Argosy said, “Come to Tattersall’s with me tomorrow, Redmond. I could use your advice about a new mare.”
    Argosy was trying to distract him from his brood, which he was just settling into nicely.
    “I would, apart from the fact that Tattersall’s is less a pleasure than a torment now that I haven’t a damn sou.”
    “Which inconveniences me as much as it does you. Your decision has suddenly deprived me of my most tolerable friend.”
    Jonathan snorted. “Your pain is poignant, truly.”
    “Why did you sink all of your profits into another shipping venture, Redmond?”
    “Because the time was right and I think it’ll yield twice my investment, if not more, and very soon. The cargo of silks was magnificent. And because I fully anticipated having my allowance to draw upon in the interim. It was a miscalculation I shall not make again.”
    Argosy frowned faintly through all of this. “Firstly, how on earth do you know this sort of thing? Wouldn’t it be nearly as profitable or predictable to sink your profits into the tables at a gaming hell? Secondly, I’m not certain a man should go about describing silks as magnificent. Thirdly, your father is rich. You don’t need to know how to do anything in particular, apart from perhaps riding and shooting and dancing, all of which you already do uncommonly well.”
    “Firstly, I think nearly anything that will make a profit is magnificent. Silks are magnificent. Gaslight is magnificent. Cotton manufacturing is magnificent. The new color printing press I’d like to finance? Mag nificent. Secondly, I suspect any sort of knack I may possess, such as it is, I inherited from my father, rot his soul. But I’ve a taste for it now, and I’m bloody good at it and I like it. Thirdly, I’m not sure a man should go about complimenting another man’s dancing skills, but it’s kind of you to notice.”
    Argosy grinned. “I’ll tell you what’s magnificent. Or rather, who.” He gestured subtly with his very fine chin to Thomasina de Ballesteros, who stood angled away from them, busily captivating a guest.
    Jonathan raised his voice a