Page 58 of Master Wolf
Marguerite wore another of her daringly low-cut gowns, this one a midnight blue affair. Her impressive décolletage was complemented by a breathtaking diamond necklace that encircled her pale throat.
“You look lovely,” Drew said when she entered the drawing room.
“More importantly, I look wealthy,” she replied. “We want our guests to see that.”
Their guests arrived promptly, Begg’s eyes nearly popping out of his head when he saw Marguerite. Even Bainbridge—who struck Drew as something of a dry stick—couldn’t stop himself looking, then looking again.
Dinner was delicious and plentiful, and Marguerite made sure that both wine and conversation flowed. She sat beside Begg and made it her business to flirt with him outrageously, while being sure to also give plenty of attention to Bainbridge and Drew.
Once dinner was over and the gentlemen had all declined her admittedly unenthusiastic offer to leave them alone to their port, Marguerite led the party through to the music room. She manoeuvred Begg to sit beside her at the pianoforte on a too-small bench that required her to press herself up against him and began to monopolise his attention, playing ditties and telling him outrageous stories. Begg was soon laughing uproariously and trying not to look as though he was staring down her gown.
Drew and Bainbridge had little choice but to sit on the chairs on the other side of the room, conveniently out of earshot.
Drew replenished the brandy glass Bainbridge had brought through from the dining room and watched him sink half the spirit in one gulp. Smiling, he filled the glass again.
“Damned fine brandy,” Bainbridge said. “It’s not easy to get the French stuff these days.”
“That’s true,” Drew said. “But my wife has some useful connections in that regard.”
They both glanced at Marguerite who was simpering up at Begg quite revoltingly. Begg was lapping it up, his meaty face flushed with pleasure.
“Your wife is very beautiful,” Bainbridge said.
“She is,” Drew agreed. “Very.” He waited a moment, then sighed and added, “Though she is also very exhausting.” Bainbridge’s brows went up at that admission and Drew chuckled softly before adding in a confiding tone, “She is a passionate woman. It is not easy to satisfy her, I admit, but I do my best. I am certainly too tired to even look at another woman!”
Bainbridge cleared his throat uncomfortably, lifting his hand to cover his mouth—and Drew saw his chance.
Fixing his gaze on Bainbridge’s hand, he said urgently, “Good God, is that—” Then he checked himself and, lowering his voice, continued, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Bainbridge, but if I am not mistaken, your ring bears the symbol of the Order of the White Ravens.”
Bainbridge’s eyes widened with palpable shock and he dropped his hand, his fingers curling into a loose fist by his side. “What makes you say that?”
Drew shook his head, frowning. “I apologise. I should not have spoken—certainly not so bluntly. But it was a shock. I haven’t seen that symbol in years.”
“What do you know of it?” Bainbridge demanded.
By way of answer, Drew turned the narrow gold band on his own hand, revealing the signet of Cruikshank’s identical ring, which he’d been wearing with the crest concealed, turned to the underside of his finger.
Bainbridge startled at the sight and, visibly pale, said, “Where did you get that? You are not—”
“A member of the Order?” Drew said. “No, but I have been hoping to find someone who is for a long time.”
“How did you learn of the Order?” Bainbridge whispered, glancing around to check that the others were not listening to their conversation.
Drew did the same, making it clear he too saw this conversation as secret. Quietly he said, “My uncle—my mother’s brother—was a member. He never spoke of it, but he had diaries. I believe he meant to destroy them before his death, but he passed away quite suddenly and never got the chance. I was his heir, though I only came upon the diaries some years after his passing.”
“He should not have been keeping—” Bainbridge began to hiss furiously, then broke off, pressing his lips tightly together.
“Yes, I know,” Drew said. “The diaries said as much. But I can assure you, I have never shown them to another. I have always hoped that one day—”
Bainbridge, who was frowning, spoke over him. “What was his name?”
“Robert Frobisher,” Drew said, without hesitation. “Youngest son of Sir William Frobisher.”
Most of the details Drew had just given regarding Mr. Frobisher were perfectly true—other than the fact that the he was no uncle of Drew’s. Marguerite had acquired the scattered and very dull remains of his rather self-regarding diaries a good twenty years before, which, to her disappointment, had done little to shed light on the activities of the Order. At least they were proving to be of some use now. A light had certainly dawned in Bainbridge’s eyes—the name of the dead man was clearly familiar to him.
“Why did you say you’ve been hoping to find another member of the Order?” Bainbridge asked sharply. “To what end?”
Drew met his shrewd gaze and said firmly, “Because I want to join. I understand there will be formalities, and that I may have to show my commitment. But I am well able to do so—I am willing to give both my time and my money. And I can assure you, Mr. Bainbridge, I have great deal of both of those commodities.”