A Date with Dishonour. Mary Brendan

      ‘And how are you to explain away the fact you’ve not got two thousand pounds or even two hundred to offer any fellow?’ Elise had jumped to her feet and marched over to Beatrice. Her eyes widened as she scanned the notice. ‘You’re mad! Utterly insane!’ Her tawny gaze sprang to her sister’s profile. ‘Have you any idea what sort of villains or perverts you might entice to our door?’

      ‘I’m not daft enough to give out our direction. Of course, any fellow who replies to the box number will be advised we are to meet somewhere.’ Bea avoided her sister’s angry stare and carelessly twirled a pearly ringlet about a finger in order to prove she was quite relaxed about what she’d done.

      Elise could tell Beatrice wasn’t as insouciant as she’d like to appear. ‘And how does Lady Lonesome think such hardened fortune hunters will react when they find out she’s lied and has nothing to offer?’

      That comment prompted Bea to rise from her chair and peer at her face in the mantelpiece mirror. ‘I wouldn’t say I’ve nothing to offer.’ She cocked her head. ‘When he sees me he might forget about the money...’ She smiled, proudly tilting her chin.

      Elise allowed Bea her conceit. Her sister might be what society classed as past her prime, but still she was lovely to look at. Her eyes were cornflower blue, lushly fringed with long inky lashes, and her pale blonde curls always sat in perfect array about her heart-shaped face, whereas Elise’s own darker blonde mop tended to resist any maid’s attempts to style it. Of course...now there were no maids, and only Mr and Mrs Francis, their faithful old retainers, remained with the Dewey family and acted as general staff to the best of their ability.

      ‘If only Mama had taken me to live with her in London, I’d be married now.’ Beatrice sighed. ‘Some fellow would have offered for me. I wouldn’t care who he was...he could be old and ugly so long as he had enough standing to let me live a little before I die.’

      ‘But she didn’t take you,’ Elise returned shortly. ‘Mama didn’t want us. She wanted her lover, and now she is dead,’ she concluded, a catch to her voice. ‘Papa has his faults, but at least he didn’t abandon us.’

      ‘I wish he had,’ Beatrice hissed, spinning away from her reflection. ‘I didn’t want to be dragged to the sticks to moulder away and expire as a spinster. I’d rather have thrown myself on some rich fellow’s mercy.’

      ‘I don’t think you mean that,’ Elise replied, annoyed by her sister’s hint that she’d rather be a gentleman’s mistress than endure boredom.

      Beatrice blushed, but her lips slanted mutinously, letting Elise know that she wasn’t about to take back her outrageous comment.

      ‘You’d better hope Papa doesn’t find out what you’re doing or saying!’ Elise warned, her vivid eyes widening in emphasis. ‘If he gets to know you’ve put in print he’s a cruel guardian, and that you’re touting yourself about, you really will end in a convent.’ Mr Dewey’s pet threat when exasperated by his daughters’ behaviour was to send them to take vows.

      ‘Even that might be better than living here,’ Bea declared theatrically.

      ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Elise swept up the gazette and with no further ado tossed it on to the flickering fire that had burned very low in the grate for want of fuel to nourish it.

      Bea gawped at the blackening paper for no more than a few seconds before plunging downwards to try and retrieve it.

      ‘Don’t be so daft.’ Elise pulled her sister back from the hearth as Bea sucked a scorched digit. ‘At least we’ll get some benefit from it if it burns for a while and keeps us warm.’

      * * *

      ‘You’ll get every penny I owe you.’

      ‘Oh, yes, indeed I will.’ James Whittiker stalked about the card table his low-lidded eyes on the pot of money at its centre. ‘I’ll take it out of your hide else, Kendrick.’ It was an unconvincing threat. Despite being in his mid-twenties James Whittiker was overweight and unfit, whereas Hugh Kendrick was a fine figure of a man, known to regularly attend the gymnasium. Unless Whittiker intended setting someone else on his debtor he would come off worst in a scrap. The assembly knew it and a few rumbles of mirth increased the redness veining Whittiker’s cheeks.

      ‘What I want to know is, when will you hand over what you owe?’ James flicked a finger at the stake money. ‘Is there any chance some of that will be yours? If so, I’ll just hover in the vicinity and relieve you of it in a while, shall I?’ His sarcasm drew another ripple of amusement; those who had been observing the play knew that Hugh was losing.

      ‘You sound desperate, James.’ Alex Blackthorne discarded a card on to the baize. He stretched his booted feet out under the table and settled his powerful shoulders against the chair back. ‘Having a spot of trouble selling Grantham Place, are you?’ He raised lazy brown eyes to a pink, jowly face. ‘My offer is still on the table.’

      ‘Take it back. I’ve no use for such a derisory sum,’ James sneered.

      ‘It’s the best of the six you’ve had,’ Alex answered evenly. ‘That should tell you something about your expectations where the estate is concerned.’

      ‘It tells me you’re a cheat and a fraudster, just like your father before you.’ Immediately Whittiker regretted having let seething frustration make him recklessly incautious. He glanced about to see a score or more pairs of eyes had swivelled his way, some viciously amused.

      The clientele of White’s Club were used to overhearing heated exchanges between its members; they were also used to the possible outcome if traded insults escalated and led to a dawn meeting in a misty glade. Several gentlemen no longer patronised this establishment, or any other, because they had fled abroad to escape arrest. They were the fortunate ones; other duellists no longer drew breath following an unsuccessful fight to protect their honour.

      James knew that if Alex Blackthorne now got to his feet and challenged him to name his seconds a grovelling apology was his only option. The viscount was an excellent shot and his fencing skill had been likened to that of a professional. James wasn’t prepared to risk being killed or maimed because of a moment of madness. He stabbed a poisonous stare at Hugh Kendrick. It was his fault. The viscount had only chipped in that comment about Grantham to take pressure off his blasted impecunious friend.

      Alex was aware of the fomenting excitement in the room. Gentlemen reacted to a hint of a duel like a pack of hyenas scenting a carcase. He sensed several had already quit their tables to stealthily, determinedly, approach and gather behind his chair. Ancient Lord Brentley had seemed to be snoozing behind a newspaper on a sagging sofa. Now he was on his feet in a sprightly shove and ambling over.

      Alex folded his hand and skimmed the cards over the baize before leisurely getting to his feet. He approached Whittiker and laid a large hand on one of his fat shoulders. The fellow’s nervous quivering was quite tangible through wool. ‘I don’t think you meant to say that, did you, James?’

      Whittiker licked his parched lips. The viscount was giving him a way out, but to take it would brand him ever more as a coward prepared to dishonour his family name to save his skin.

      From his superior height Alex inclined his dark head to listen for Whittiker’s response. The hushed atmosphere within the room seemed to extend into eternity.

      Abruptly the sound of shattering glass splintered the silence. A steward had speeded into the room carrying a tray of decanters and crashed into a table whilst craning his neck to see what had made the club members congregate close to the fireplace.

      ‘I apologise, Blackthorne; mouth ran away with me,’ Whittiker muttered, using the ensuing confusion to drown out his words.

      Alex was aware of the fellow’s insincerity. Whittiker hadn’t even met his eyes whilst speaking. Nevertheless, he gave his shoulder a pat before turning away.

      Aware of a score or more pairs of despising eyes on him, James shoved through the throng of gentlemen