foremost client of his firm. And since
almost all of his reports had been positively and for the most part truthfully
glowing, it had been a duty that was easily borne by him. Of course there was
one area in which he'd not been truthful with his client, but as it had been
what he'd always regarded as such a minor one, his bending of the facts in that
regard had never really troubled his conscience a whit.
Face
it, Robert, he
now told himself, in seeking to spare the old man's doting heart, you were
too cowardly to tell him that, in addition to being every inch the golden boy
his grandfather dreamed of raising, Brett Westmont has become one of the worst
rakes in England—at least where women are concerned!
Adams
sat farther back into his upholstered carriage seat and pondered the facts.
Brett Westmont had left a trail of broken hearts and pining females from one
end of London to the other, and God knew how many other places besides. He was
widely known in sophisticated circles as one who used women ruthlessly,
attracting them immediately like flies to honey through his astounding good
looks and outwardly charming manner, then dropping them just as quickly when
his fancy strayed to another. All of London whispered about it. Why, he was
becoming almost as notorious as Lord Byron, who was frequently seen in his
company.
And
the only reason his grandfather, the duke, had never found out about this one,
less-than-savory, side of the young heir's nature, was because the duke of
Ravensford lived like a virtual recluse, buried away in the family estate here
in Kent— that, and Adams's prudent discretion and his decision that it would be
harmless to spare the old man's feelings.
But
now Adams wondered if it had been as harmless as he'd always imagined. What
should he do? If he procured the woman—a simple enough task—and unblinkingly
allowed the duke to offer her to Brett, the young man was likely to
explode—with anger or amusement, he wasn't certain which— and give away the
entire game he'd taken such pains to cover all these years. No, owing to the
old man's poor state of health, that way could result in disaster. There was
only one answer: sometime between now and the presentation of the woman, he
would have to corner Lord Brett Westmont and confess all to him. Yes, that was
it. The man had always impressed him as being possessed of more than a modicum
of good sense and understanding, and Adams now felt he could be relied upon to
help protect his grandfather and keep up the game.
With
a final sigh of satisfaction, Adams relaxed in the briskly moving carriage.
Tomorrow he would travel to London. He knew just the place—what was it
called?—Hampton House, that was it. Tomorrow he would make inquiries at Hampton
House.
CHAPTER
THREE
Monica
Chatworth's almond-shaped eyes narrowed to chocolate slits of ill-concealed
hatred as she observed Ashleigh through the half-open doorway of her chamber.
The younger woman was down the hallway, bending over a narrow stand just
outside Madame's suite, where she was preparing to lift an ornate silver tray
that held the remains of Madame's breakfast and carry it down to the kitchen, a
task she accomplished promptly every morning at eleven. From where she stood
Monica missed neither the feminine, curved outline of Ashleigh's hips and
derriere beneath the simple servant's frock she wore, nor the lilting melody of
the tune the young woman hummed gaily to herself as she went about her work;
and the observed combination rankled.
The
increased shapeliness and other obvious charms of Ashleigh Sinclair were
becoming a constant reminder to Monica that she herself was not getting any
younger in a profession where youth and its accompanying beauty were
everything, and that there would always be newer, younger flesh waiting in the
wings to replace her when her own allure began to fade. The happy tune
emanating from Ashleigh's lovely throat was even more disconcerting; word was
out in the
almost all of his reports had been positively and for the most part truthfully
glowing, it had been a duty that was easily borne by him. Of course there was
one area in which he'd not been truthful with his client, but as it had been
what he'd always regarded as such a minor one, his bending of the facts in that
regard had never really troubled his conscience a whit.
Face
it, Robert, he
now told himself, in seeking to spare the old man's doting heart, you were
too cowardly to tell him that, in addition to being every inch the golden boy
his grandfather dreamed of raising, Brett Westmont has become one of the worst
rakes in England—at least where women are concerned!
Adams
sat farther back into his upholstered carriage seat and pondered the facts.
Brett Westmont had left a trail of broken hearts and pining females from one
end of London to the other, and God knew how many other places besides. He was
widely known in sophisticated circles as one who used women ruthlessly,
attracting them immediately like flies to honey through his astounding good
looks and outwardly charming manner, then dropping them just as quickly when
his fancy strayed to another. All of London whispered about it. Why, he was
becoming almost as notorious as Lord Byron, who was frequently seen in his
company.
And
the only reason his grandfather, the duke, had never found out about this one,
less-than-savory, side of the young heir's nature, was because the duke of
Ravensford lived like a virtual recluse, buried away in the family estate here
in Kent— that, and Adams's prudent discretion and his decision that it would be
harmless to spare the old man's feelings.
But
now Adams wondered if it had been as harmless as he'd always imagined. What
should he do? If he procured the woman—a simple enough task—and unblinkingly
allowed the duke to offer her to Brett, the young man was likely to
explode—with anger or amusement, he wasn't certain which— and give away the
entire game he'd taken such pains to cover all these years. No, owing to the
old man's poor state of health, that way could result in disaster. There was
only one answer: sometime between now and the presentation of the woman, he
would have to corner Lord Brett Westmont and confess all to him. Yes, that was
it. The man had always impressed him as being possessed of more than a modicum
of good sense and understanding, and Adams now felt he could be relied upon to
help protect his grandfather and keep up the game.
With
a final sigh of satisfaction, Adams relaxed in the briskly moving carriage.
Tomorrow he would travel to London. He knew just the place—what was it
called?—Hampton House, that was it. Tomorrow he would make inquiries at Hampton
House.
CHAPTER
THREE
Monica
Chatworth's almond-shaped eyes narrowed to chocolate slits of ill-concealed
hatred as she observed Ashleigh through the half-open doorway of her chamber.
The younger woman was down the hallway, bending over a narrow stand just
outside Madame's suite, where she was preparing to lift an ornate silver tray
that held the remains of Madame's breakfast and carry it down to the kitchen, a
task she accomplished promptly every morning at eleven. From where she stood
Monica missed neither the feminine, curved outline of Ashleigh's hips and
derriere beneath the simple servant's frock she wore, nor the lilting melody of
the tune the young woman hummed gaily to herself as she went about her work;
and the observed combination rankled.
The
increased shapeliness and other obvious charms of Ashleigh Sinclair were
becoming a constant reminder to Monica that she herself was not getting any
younger in a profession where youth and its accompanying beauty were
everything, and that there would always be newer, younger flesh waiting in the
wings to replace her when her own allure began to fade. The happy tune
emanating from Ashleigh's lovely throat was even more disconcerting; word was
out in the
Similar Books
