The Bridal Quest. Candace Camp

of the other guests and slightly shielded by a potted palm, and therefore she had been able to pass the last fifteen minutes or so without being pulled into conversation with anyone. She had found the spot shortly after Lord Radbourne strolled off with Irene Wyngate.

      She had been rather surprised when the earl had managed to maneuver Irene into a stroll about the room, and unless she was very much mistaken, she thought that Radbourne had led Lady Irene out onto the terrace. The earl, she thought, must be a great deal more determined or clever than most men, for Irene rarely allowed a man to persuade her to do anything. Of course, few men were brave enough to try. Her sharp tongue and dislike of flirtation were well-known among the ton. It was something out of the way for a man to even try to woo her.

      Of course, Francesca had to admit, the stern expression on the Earl of Radbourne’s face scarcely made him look like a man who was wooing. Perhaps that was the reason Irene had gone along with him. Francesca wondered if it was possible that the earl might succeed where other men had failed.

      Her curiosity had been aroused when Radbourne had suggested to her that she include Lady Irene on her list of possible matches. To begin with, she wondered how he even knew her. Until Gideon had been found by Rochford and returned to the bosom of his family, he had not moved in the same circles as Irene, and after he came home, it sounded as though he had more or less been secluded with the family at their country estate. Where and when had he seen Irene?

      More than that, she wondered why he was interested in her. Irene was not unattractive. Indeed, in Francesca’s opinion, Irene was one of the most intriguing-looking women in London. Her large eyes were a clear light brown, almost a golden color, and they were nicely accented by long lashes and nicely arched brows of a slightly darker shade than her hair. Her features were clean-cut, if a trifle strong, and her thickly curling dark blond hair gave her a leonine look that was slightly exotic. She was not the typical beauty, perhaps, but she was appealing—or would be if she did not make such an effort to dispel any interest in her looks.

      She usually wore her hair pulled ruthlessly back and pinned into a severe knot, thereby negating the most beautiful aspect of her looks. Her clothes were likewise severe; though of good cut and material, they were plain to the point of dullness. She allowed nothing to soften her looks—or for that matter, her personality.

      “Hiding?” A dry male voice said from behind Francesca, and she turned her head, startled.

      She smiled. Sir Lucien Talbot stood there, his handsome face set in its usual wry lines, his eyebrows arched in amused question.

      “Or are we spying?” he went on, moving up beside her and peering out across the ballroom. “May I join you?”

      “Of course,” Francesca replied, smiling back at him.

      Sir Lucien was her oldest and dearest friend, and the only one who knew the dire state of her finances. As one whose pockets were frequently to let himself, he had long ago recognized that Francesca was living on the edge of financial disaster. He had even, especially in the early days right after her husband’s death, taken a few of her items to pawn or sell for her, as a lady could scarcely be seen doing such a thing. Though Francesca had never told him that the projects she had taken on over the past few years were chosen for the monetary benefit she received in one form or another, she thought that Sir Lucien at least suspected she was not shepherding difficult girls through the marriage mart that was a London Season simply for the fun of it.

      “I am waiting for Irene Wyngate to come back into the ballroom. She went out onto the terrace a few minutes ago with the Earl of Radbourne.”

      “Irene Wyngate?” Sir Lucien asked, his eyebrows vaulting up again in a genuine expression of surprise. “You are putting her forward as a candidate for the position of countess?”

      Francesca had told Lucien yesterday about Lady Odelia’s scheme to marry off the newfound heir to the earldom, as well as of her own part in the matter. Sir Lucien, as one of the best-known arbiters of good taste and fashion, had on more than one occasion in the past been quite useful to Francesca in putting forward one of her “girls.”

      “Lord Radbourne specifically asked me to include her,” Francesca told him now. “I agreed to introduce them tonight. As soon as I did, he whisked her off.”

      “Out to the terrace?” her friend asked, his voice assuming a lower, more suggestive tone. “Well, well…I never would have imagined it of the Iron Maiden.”

      “Pray, do not use that silly appellation. I cannot imagine why men have to come up with such odious nicknames.”

      “My dear girl, because it suits her, and you know it.” He shrugged.

      “Well, I hate to think what I am known as,” Francesca went on.

      “Why, my love, you are referred to only as ‘The Venus,’ what else?” he replied with a grin.

      Francesca chuckled. “Flatterer.”

      He was silent for a moment, scanning the room with her. Then he said, “Why do you suppose he singled her out?”

      “I don’t know. I wonder how he even knew who she was. I suppose he must have seen her somewhere and been struck by her. She is quite attractive in her own way.”

      “She could be stunning if she made a bit of effort,” Sir Lucien agreed. “I suppose he could have enough eye for beauty to see that.” He paused, then went on drily, “Do you suppose his infatuation will outlast a stroll on the terrace with her?”

      “I don’t know. That is why I am looking for them. I do hope he does not cry off immediately. The more I thought about the matter, the more I realized that Lady Irene would be an excellent match for him.”

      “Indeed?”

      Francesca nodded. “Obviously he is for some reason already interested in her. And she would suit Lady Odelia’s requirements. Her lineage is excellent on both her mother’s and her father’s sides.”

      “Old Lord Wyngate was something of a rogue,” Sir Lucien objected.

      “Yes, but his scandalous behavior has never reflected badly on Lady Irene, or her mother and brother,” Francesca pointed out. “And certainly she has the strength of will to make the man presentable, if any woman can.”

      “And the wit to hide the faults she cannot change,” Sir Lucien added.

      “Yes. And, most importantly, Irene can hold her own with Lady Odelia. She will not allow the old woman to ride roughshod over her.”

      “As we all know she will try to do.”

      “Naturally,” Francesca agreed. “And I think, from what I have seen of him, it might require some strength of character to deal with the earl himself, as well.”

      “Really?” Sir Lucien turned toward her, intrigued. “I assumed he was, well…” He shrugged.

      “Under Lady O’s thumb?”

      Sir Lucien nodded.

      “I think not. When he came into the room, he seemed…a trifle rough around the edges, I suppose, but not intimidated in the slightest. In fact, when I looked at Lady Odelia, it occurred to me that perhaps she was a little wary of him.”

      “Well, well…That would be a first,” Sir Lucien mused.

      “I thought as much myself. He seemed to be going along with her plan but not obeying her, if you see what I mean. Oh, wait.” Francesca straightened, reaching up to grasp Sir Lucien’s sleeve. “There she is. Oh, dear. She does not look at all pleased.”

      Lucien looked in the direction of her gaze and saw Irene. She had just entered through the open doors onto the terrace, and she was now striding through the crowd of people, her back ramrod straight. She did not glance to either side as she walked. Her jaw was set, her face flushed, and there was a furious light in her eyes. He noticed that people stepped out of her way as she approached.

      “I would not say it went well,” he murmured