Revenge In Regency Society: Brushed by Scandal / Courting Miss Vallois. Gail Whitiker

      ‘You are a gentleman in every sense of the word.’

      ‘Just don’t let me hear any mention of the words engagement or marriage or I shall be forced to renege on my promise,’ he warned.

      Tom grinned. ‘I shall do my utmost to make sure you do not.’

      They parted on the best of terms; Tom to return to his happy home, Barrington to return to his study to find out what new information had come to light. While there might be more comfort in the former, he was not of a mind to complicate his life by taking a wife. Investigating the underhanded dealings of others was hardly conducive to forming intimate relations with gently reared young ladies. It was neither the occupation of a gentleman nor what he’d planned on doing when he’d returned to London after his father’s death.

      However, when an unfortunate set of circumstances involving two of his father’s friends and a large sum of money had forced him into the role, Barrington had discovered a unique talent for uncovering the hidden bits of information others could not. His carefully cultivated network of acquaintances, many of whom held positions of power and even more who held positions of knowledge, made it easy for him to find out what he needed to know and, over time, he had established himself as a man who was able to find solutions for people’s problems.

      Naturally, as word of his reputation had spread, so had his list of enemies, many of them the very men he had helped to expose. Beneath society’s elegant and sophisticated façade lurked a far more dangerous element—one comprised of men to whom honour and truth meant nothing. Men who were motivated by greed and who routinely committed crimes against their fellow man.

      Hence Barrington’s wish to remain single. While he could be reasonably assured of his own safety, he knew that if his enemies tried to get to him through the woman he loved, he would have no choice but to comply with their demands. The unscrupulous did not trouble themselves with morals when it came to getting what they wanted.

      That’s why he had taken to avoiding situations that might place him in such an awkward situation. He existed on the fringes of society, close enough to be aware of what was going on, but far enough away that he wasn’t seen as potential husband material. So far it had worked out well, much to the annoyance of his happily married sister. He was able to assist the people who came to him with problems, while avoiding the complications that came with marriage.

      Now, as he headed to his study, Barrington wondered which of the sins was about to be revealed and who would be thrown out of Eden as a result. Paradise was sometimes a very difficult place in which to live.

      ‘Ah, Richard,’ he said, opening the door to see his good friend, Lord Richard Crew, standing at the far end of the room, his attention focused on a particularly fine painting by Stubbs that covered a large part of the end wall. ‘Still hoping I’ll sell it to you?’

      ‘Hope has nothing to do with it,’ Crew murmured. ‘Eventually, I’ll name a price you won’t be able to refuse.’

      ‘Don’t be too sure. I’ve rejected every offer you’ve put forward so far.’

      ‘Fine. I’ll make you another before I leave today.’

      Barrington smiled as he moved towards his desk. Lord Richard Crew was an ardent lover of horse flesh and owned more paintings by Stubbs, Tillemans and Seymour than any other gentleman in London. Quietly picking them up as they came available for sale, he had amassed an impressive collection—with the exception of Whistlejacket, a magnificent painting of a prancing Arabian thoroughbred commissioned by the Marquess of Rockingham and acknowledged by many to be one of Stubbs’s finest. That was the piece of work currently hanging in Barrington’s study, and the fact that he owned the one painting his friend wanted more than any other was a constant source of amusement to him and an ongoing source of irritation to Crew.

      ‘Did it ever occur to you,’ Barrington asked now, ‘that money doesn’t enter into it?’

      ‘Not for a moment,’ Crew said, finally turning away from the canvas. ‘Every man has his price and it’s only a matter of time until I find yours. But rest assured, I will find it. And I know exactly where I’m going to put Whistlejacket once I finally wrest it from your iron grip.’

      Barrington smiled. ‘And where might that be?’

      ‘In my study, opposite my desk. That way I’ll see it when I’m working.’

      ‘I would have thought you’d want it in your bedroom.’ Barrington moved to the credenza and poured brandy into two glasses. ‘That way, you’d see it most of the time.’

      ‘True, but I would only be paying it half as much attention.’ Crew’s smile widened into a grin. ‘After all, there are so many other pleasurable things to occupy oneself with in the bedroom, wouldn’t you agree?’

      The question was rhetorical. Lord Richard Crew’s reputation as a lady’s man was honestly come by because, in point of fact, Crew adored women. He had ever since a buxom dairy maid had introduced him to the pleasures of Venus in the loft of his father’s barn, followed in quick succession by three of the housemaids, two of the village shop girls, and a married woman Crew had steadfastly refused to name.

      As he’d grown into a man, his appreciation for the fairer sex had not waned, but out of respect for his parents, he’d left off tupping the household servants and moved on to ballet dancers and actresses. He had steadfastly avoided marriage and refused to trifle with virgins or débutantes, saying it was a matter of pride that he had never deflowered an innocent or given false hope to a well-born lady. And once it became known that he preferred his women uncomplicated and experienced, the list of married ladies willing to accommodate his voracious appetite grew.

      Hence Barrington’s surprise when, during the investigation of the Marchioness of Yew’s infidelity, he’d learned that his good friend was finally in honest pursuit of the lady’s very respectable and exceedingly lovely nineteen-year-old daughter, Rebecca.

      ‘Sexual conquests aside, dare I hope you’ve come with news about the identity of Lady Yew’s alleged lover?’ Barrington enquired.

      ‘Nothing alleged about it.’ Crew strolled towards the desk and picked up a glass in his long, slender fingers. ‘I happened to be in the lady’s house on the occasion of the young man’s last visit and saw them acting very lover-like towards one another.’

      ‘How convenient. Were you there in hopes of seeing the lovely Lady Rebecca or to question the mother?’

      ‘Most definitely the former.’ Crew raised the glass to his nose and sniffed appreciatively. ‘Unlike our young Romeo, I have no interest in romancing ladies over the age of thirty. The bloom has long since gone from that rose.’

      ‘But with maturity comes experience,’ Barrington said, reaching for his own glass. ‘A gently reared miss of nineteen will know nothing of that.’

      ‘Fortunately, I am more than willing to teach her all she needs to know.’ Crew swallowed a mouthful of brandy, pausing a moment to savour its flavour before sinking into a chair and resting his booted feet on the edge of the desk. ‘However, returning to the matter at hand, the gentleman in question is not our typical Lothario. I’ve never heard his name mentioned in association with lady or ladybird; in truth, I’d never heard of him until his arrival in London just over a month ago. So the fact he has chosen to dally with a marquess’s wife is somewhat unusual.’

      ‘Are you sure they are lovers?’

      Crew shrugged. ‘Lady Rebecca confided her belief that they are. She told me she’s seen the gentleman enter her mother’s private quarters on more than one occasion, and, as I was leaving, I saw them myself going upstairs together hand in hand.’

      ‘Damning evidence indeed,’ Barrington said. ‘And reckless behaviour for a man newly arrived in London. Does he suffer from a case of misplaced affection or unbridled lust?’

      ‘Knowing the marchioness, I suspect the