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Chapter Two

Sebastian

Three weeks later

S ebastian gripped the sides of the dressing table and stared hard into the mirror of his bedchamber in St. James’s.

His brown hair was carefully coiffed, as always.

He wore a neat suit of blue superfine, shirt points starched into oblivion, and a fashionable knot at his throat—for a well-tied cravat covered a multitude of sins.

By all accounts, he looked like someone capable of providing.

The world responded to the appearance of wealth.

“Drake!” A fist banged on the bedchamber door. “Stop staring in the mirror and come down.”

“Never!” Sebastian called back.

The door opened slightly, revealing Frederick Yorke, whose face screwed up. “Gads, you really are staring in the mirror. I was only joking.”

Sebastian offered a roguish half-smile to his friend and fellow lodger. “Can you blame me?”

“Quite easily.” Yorke opened the door more widely and leaned his shoulder against the frame.

He was handsome, with light brown hair, a square jaw, and a lively sense of humor.

“But if you need further incentive, every minute you spend admiring yourself is a minute lost with the young women at the ball.”

“Ah.” Sebastian gave himself another look in the mirror, smoothed the hair at his temples with his hands, then stood straight. “It would be wrong of me to deprive them, wouldn’t it?”

Yorke rolled his eyes good-naturedly and led the way downstairs, where their friend Benedict Fairchild was waiting in the entry hall, hat and gloves on.

Fairchild was the last of the three lodgers who shared the St. James’s townhouse that belonged to Fairchild’s ailing uncle.

He was shorter and stockier than either of his housemates and generally followed Yorke’s lead in everything from fashion to politics.

The two of them had political ambitions, while Sebastian’s ambition was…

whatever would saddle him with as much money as possible.

He was determined to take a step forward in that plan tonight.

He had spent the last three weeks reflecting upon what had gone wrong with Miss Fernside and had come to a firm conclusion. He had been too impatient to charm Miss Fernside the way women wished to be courted. More subtlety and artfulness would be required for his next attempt.

“You are wiser than we, Drake,” Fairchild said after he and Yorke had unburdened themselves of their most recent political woes.

“I am, aren’t I?” Sebastian agreed. “What has brought you to this vital realization?”

“You are not obliged to wade into the murky and thankless waters of politics.”

Sebastian chuckled and peered through the chaise’s side window, thinking of the letter in his dressing table. “I have no shortage of murky waters to wade through, I assure you.”

“Do you?” Yorke asked curiously.

“The waters of being the firstborn and inheritor of an estate,” Fairchild teased.

Sebastian did not respond immediately, tugging at the base of his gloves as he considered what to say. Fairchild and Yorke might be his closest friends, but he had not acquainted them with the particulars of his situation. He could use their intimate knowledge of the ton , though. “I must marry.”

The two men stared at him, one of Yorke’s brows cocking.

“Let me rephrase,” Sebastian said. “I must marry money . A great deal of it, preferably.”

“Why?” Yorke asked.

“I shan’t bore you with the details, but I assure you, it is a necessity.”

Yorke sat back against the squabs, looking at him curiously. “What I heard is true, then.”

“You cannot possibly expect me to confirm without more information, Yorke.”

“I heard,” he said significantly, “that you asked Miss Fernside to marry you after knowing her but a week. I heard that you were swiftly rebuffed. And I heard that you were blackballed from White’s because of it.” There was a pause. “Is any of it true?”

Sebastian took a moment to seriously consider the allegations against him. “All of it.”

A laugh burst from Yorke just as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of Lord Markston’s estate on the outskirts of London. “And here I have been defending you! Though, I confess, I had been wondering how you came to be a member of Blackstone’s.”

“Haskett,” Sebastian replied as they stepped out of the carriage and onto the pavement. “He is Miss Fernside’s uncle, and I am certain it was he who blackballed me from White’s.”

Being offered membership into Lord Blackstone’s club of misfit gentlemen had been a questionable balm to Sebastian’s spirits after having been barred from the domain of London’s elite. He had hoped to make valuable connections at White’s that would aid him in his quest. But alas.

Blackstone’s would have to do.

Lord Blackstone was a viscount, at least, but he was also an oddity. The man collected an inordinate amount of taxidermy, with which he littered his club, then surrounded himself with gentlemen who had been blackballed like himself. Dead animals and dead reputations—those seemed to be his domain.

Lord Markston’s house towered over the three of them, a beacon of wealth and grandeur, with its creamy stone facade, imposing columns, and pristine windows alight.

They were not destined to see whether the interior matched the exterior, however, as guests were being shepherded around the house and toward the back.

Markston had certainly spared no expense to make the grounds magnificent, however.

An expansive manicured lawn spread out before them, a ballroom floor at its center.

Gauzy silks were draped around the edges while small lanterns had been strung above, making the polished wood gleam.

Liveried servants balanced glinting silver platters on their hands, offering champagne and delicate pastries to anyone needing something to revive them after spirited dancing.

Small, tented alcoves created the outer boundary of the lawn, with plush seating beneath for those who wished to observe without participating—or perhaps pretend they were not waiting for an invitation to dance.

“Well, gentlemen,” Sebastian said as they admired the scene. “Why not put all of that political knowledge to use and tell me where I should focus my attention this evening?”

“You wish for us to point out the heiresses?” Yorke said with a hint of amusement.

Sebastian gave a little bow. “If you please.”

“Marriage is a life sentence, Drake,” Fairchild said. “Are you certain you wish for money to be the primary factor determining your wife’s identity?”

“Miss Potts is a prime candidate,” Yorke offered with an air of innocence. “Only look at her.” He nodded toward one of the alcoves, where a woman who must have been sixty if she was a day sat with a small white dog cradled in her arms. “Never married. Inherited her father’s enormous fortune. ”

“Loves dancing,” Fairchild added. “But only with her dog in her arms. A very endearing trait, you must admit.”

The dog in question yapped at an innocent passerby.

“I have no liking for animals,” Sebastian said. He was already obliged to look at more than his fair share at Blackstone’s. At least those were silent.

“No liking for them yet .” Yorke cocked a brow. “I feel certain the beast would win your affection if you only gave him a chance.”

“After all,” Fairchild added, “what is a dislike for animals when the Potts fortune is ripe for the plucking?”

He and Yorke shared a chuckle.

“I take your point,” Sebastian said with his own acknowledging smile. “I suppose wealth is not the only requirement, but it is certainly foremost.”

“Let us have the other requirements, then,” Yorke said. “Preferably over a drink.”

Sebastian followed Yorke toward the nearest footman holding a platter and let his gaze run over the array of ball guests. What did he wish for in his heiress? He supposed he could sacrifice his dignity and marry someone like Miss Potts if needed. But was it necessary?

London had plenty of heiresses.

If Sebastian had not been in such dire need of wealth, he would have approached courtship very differently, indeed. He would have found a woman with a kind but keen eye, one with wit and a ready laugh.

But he was in dire need of wealth, and his own selfish wishes had no place in a decision that would affect far more than himself.

“Would Miss Dillamond meet your requirements?” Fairchild took champagne from a platter and offered it to Drake. “She is dancing now—the one with the yellow feather in her hair. I made her acquaintance just last week. This is her first Season.”

Yorke accepted a glass from Fairchild. “Seventeen. Fresh from the schoolroom. ”

“Impressionable,” Fairchild added.

Sebastian pulled a face. “I have no desire to prey on the innocent.” He took a sip of champagne. “Someone with a bit more experience, if you please. But without one foot in the grave,” he hurried to add, anticipating the direction of their minds.

“A widow, perhaps?” Yorke nudged Fairchild. “What wealthy widows do we know of?”

They surveyed the scene, shoulder to shoulder, offering up options, only for Sebastian to dismiss them for reasons that sounded increasingly spurious, even to him.

Fairchild’s comment about marriage being a life sentence had niggled its way into his mind.

He might gain access to his wife’s money almost instantly upon marriage, but there was nothing instantaneous about the lifetime he would spend with her afterward.

Yorke snapped. “That’s the ticket!”

“A perfect fit,” Fairchild agreed.

“What, now?” Sebastian asked, less hopeful than their excitement suggested he be.

“Mrs. Lawrence.” Yorke leaned toward him and spoke more softly. “See her over there? I had forgotten about her, for she rarely comes to Town.”

“Only here playing chaperone to a relative, I believe,” Fairchild said.

Sebastian tried and failed to locate Mrs. Lawrence amongst those near the entrance, for he hadn’t the slightest idea who she was or what to look for. “Where is she?”

“Just coming in,” Yorke said. “Pink gown. Her companion is wearing virginal white, of course.”

Sebastian searched for the two women described, fully prepared to find a squat, middle-aged woman guiding her wide-eyed charge with tight-lipped vigilance.

Perhaps that was why it took longer than it should have for his gaze to lock on Mrs. Lawrence.

Petite she was, but squat she was not. Nor was she middle-aged. At first, he felt certain she was near his own eight-and-twenty years, but after watching her for a moment, he realized it was the confidence with which she held herself that gave the impression.

Her mouth was not pulled into tight-lipped vigilance, either. In fact, she whispered something to her charge, then drew away with a laugh that made Sebastian’s stomach somersault.

She was captivating—honey-colored hair that gleamed under the lights, rosy lips to match her gown, and eyes that glittered with amusement.

He refocused himself on the goal at hand. Beauty was not one of his requirements, but he certainly would not object to it. “What is her situation?”

“Husband died several years ago,” Fairchild said. “Lawrence was obscenely wealthy, and he left everything to her, for he doted on her. She has been living very high indeed in her widowhood.”

Sebastian’s eyes locked on her, watching her progress through the crowd as she took a drink from the nearest servant and led her charge toward one of the alcoves, the smile still on her face. “Came from money of her own, I assume?”

He could not take his eyes away from her. For all her youth, there was a confidence borne of experience in her bearing—or perhaps it was wealth that granted such a thing.

“No,” Yorke said. “Everyone was surprised when Lawrence chose her for a bride, weren’t they, Fairchild? Positively showered her with attention and gifts, they say. Bowled over by her beauty, no doubt.”

Sebastian let this sink in, his heart beating at a quicker pace than usual. A striking young widow who had only come by her wealth through marriage? She had sought a fortune, just as he was. Could a more perfect candidate exist?

“What do you say, Drake?” Yorke asked. “Will she do?”

He watched Mrs. Lawrence and her ward take seats in an empty alcove. “Will you introduce me?”

“Happy to,” Yorke replied genially, “if I were acquainted with her. ”

Sebastian pulled his eyes away from her and looked at Yorke to see whether he was teasing. He was not. “Where, pray, does all this knowledge of her come from?”

Yorke put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “When women discuss people, they call it gossip. When men do it, it’s called politics.”

Sebastian pondered his predicament. Mrs. Lawrence’s acquaintances must overlap with his somehow , but he did not have the time to devote to discovering precisely where. If she did not often come to Town, there was no saying how long she would remain. Time was of the essence.

“Well, then”—he tossed off his glass—“I shall have to arrange an opportunity myself, shan’t I?”