Lord Devere's Ward by Sue Swift

of one’s pocketbook?” Byland laughed. “Not at all, Devere. But look at us!” The florid-faced, overweight lord patted his own belly. “I, for one, am grateful to have been born a wealthy peer. Otherwise, I’d never swive a single maid.”
    Quinn joined his friend’s laughter. “And I, the bran-faced, ginger-pated Duke of Limbs, would awaken alone forevermore.”
    “‘Tis not so bad for you. The ladies enjoy your amiable personality.” Byland poked Quinn in the ribs and waggled his brows. “Especially that little opera dancer, oh, what is her name?”
    “My lips are sealed,” Quinn said. In fact, he had dropped the lovely Mistress Granatt as soon as she had spread her favors beyond one bedmate. Quinn did not share.
    “Sealed with her ardent kisses, I vow! But which of your devil’s spawn are you racing today?” Quinn chuckled. “Your favorite rival, Tyndale’s Treat, runs in the second heat against your Bylander.” The big black stallion, Quinn’s pride and joy, was descended from the Darley Arabian. At age five, Treat was unbeaten.
    Treat ran well, winning his race. Quinn collected his winnings, plus several offers for the purchase of the flamboyant, swift-footed black. Smiling, he refused all of them.
    He returned to London to give orders concerning the Tyndale townhouse on Bruton Street. Although he had once lived in the early Georgian home, which had belonged to his parents, Quinn preferred his smaller residence on Berkeley Square. However, Bruton Street, boasting a spacious ballroom as well as numerous bedrooms, salons and drawing rooms, suited the presentation of the young women to London society.
    Quinn stared moodily out his window onto Berkeley Square, watching late afternoon fade to dusk. It being late March, the square was free of frost and snow. A light mist gathered to shroud the harsh contours of the buildings which lined the Mayfair streets. Unaccountably restless, but with no engagements that night, he determined he’d visit his club in St. James.

    Dressed in evening wear, Quinn crossed Piccadilly, keeping an eye out for the odd mishandled equipage. Though ’twas early in the evening for the ton to be hurrying to engagements, numerous carriages clotted the busy thoroughfare.
    His mood lifted as he spotted Sir Willoughby Hawkes. Game to a fault, Hawkes could be counted on to take Quinn out of Crab Street. But Hawkes wore a frowning brow. What could be bothering him?
    “You know, old chap, I’m thinking of becoming leg-shackled. Must protect the lineage and the estate, and all that. Any prime articles coming out this year?” Quinn eyed Sir Willoughby warily. A fine fellow, Hawkes, but one had to be canny about encouraging Sir Willoughby. Quinn didn’t know if he wanted a closer familial relationship with his crony. Although a landed baronet, Hawkes, a notorious rake, could not be considered the best possible catch for his niece Louisa. As for Katherine, that was not even a question.
    “Can’t rightly think of anyone who might suit you, old man,” Quinn said, keeping his voice casual.
    “Off to White’s for a spot of supper?”
    “Oh, it’s early yet. I thought I might call at the Nymphos Hotel to examine the new talent.” Quinn found his friend’s inclination odd, but remained mum. If Hawkes wished to form a lasting connection with a suitable miss, the Nymphos, a notorious buttocking shop, was not the place to frequent. Quinn himself had no interest in the place anymore. The bachelors parted at the corner of King Street, one to proceed east to Leicester Square and the aforementioned Nymphos, the other to turn to St.
    James and dinner.
    After dining at his club, Quinn amused himself gambling. White’s, a haunt of the older generation, was a trifle dull for his taste but he made it his business to be seen there. He kept half an ear open for political gossip, believing at this juncture awareness of the inner workings of the House of Lords could be greatly to his ward’s