Читать книгу: «The Rake's Redemption», страница 4

Amy was where she said she would be. Emma knew her sister didn’t care much for Mr Kennilworth, but she had used him as an excuse to remain.

Emma stepped into the cool night air with a sense of relief. Nothing would happen during the country dance.

The music filtered to a murmur that failed to muffle the sound of female voices. Several feet away, their backs to her, two women laughed. Emma retreated, not wanting to interrupt them. She heard her name and froze.

‘Did you see Emma Stockton in Charles Hawthorne’s arms? She looked absolutely besotted. No wonder she chides her sister for chasing the man. She wants him herself.’

The second woman giggled. ‘As though he would be interested. He is playing with both of them.’

‘So true.’

Emma felt the blood leave her face before raging back as mortification claimed her. The cool night was suddenly unbearably warm.

She twisted on her heel and sped back into the hot, crowded ballroom. The dance was only half done. What would she do? She felt like the fool she had chided herself for being. Surely she hadn’t looked besotted. She couldn’t stand the man, no matter what her body did. Her mind found him despicable and…and…

How could she have reacted to him so much that others noticed? She had thought she had more self-control.

She paused inside the doors, out of view of the two women, and scanned the room. Amy curtseyed to Mr Kennilworth as the dance ended.

Emma’s nemesis laughed at something Princess Lieven said before she swatted his arm with her closed fan. Very much as Lady Jersey had done. Were all of them susceptible to him?

She looked away.

What was happening to her? She had never felt this way about George Hawthorne. Truth be told, she had felt nothing for him. That was why it had been easy for her to break their engagement. Her only regret was that her action had necessitated Amy marrying for money regardless of anything the girl might feel.

‘Are you feeling all right, Miss Stockton?’

Emma jerked as his rich voice came from just behind her. Her fingers trembled as she twisted around. ‘I am fine. Please go away.’

‘Touchy.’ He stood his ground, his eyes darkening.

Her headache returned with a vengeance. ‘Mr Hawthorne, I am merely watching my wayward sister flirt with the latest object of her attention.’ She tried to keep her unease out of her voice and realised she sounded tired and petulant.

‘She is a handful.’

‘Quite.’

He chuckled. ‘George would sympathise with you.’

She stiffened at the name of her former fiancé. ‘Are you referring to your peccadilloes?’

He wore a rueful expression. ‘What else? I’m sure my past isn’t a secret.’

In spite of her distrust, growing attraction and overall sense of being out of her depth, she replied, ‘I only know what I have seen this Season. You dabble in trade to great profit and do as you please without regard to others. The last is very like Amy.’

‘Yes, Miss Amy and I share a dislike for being dictated to and for wanting our own way. Perhaps the youngest child is like that.’

‘Spoilt.’

He smiled. ‘Exactly. But sometimes we go too far.’

She sensed he spoke about something besides their shared willful disregard for propriety. ‘Such as?’

‘Here you are, Emma,’ Amy’s hard-edged voice intruded, ‘entertaining Mr Hawthorne. Again.’

For the first time in many years, Emma felt as though she was in deeper water than she could navigate. Charles Hawthorne seemed ready to confide something intensely private, a trust she was not sure she wanted. And now Amy’s biting words showed again how hurt she was by the situation between Emma and Mr Hawthorne. There was only one thing to do.

Emma took a deep breath. ‘Amy, dear, it is time we left.’ She took Amy’s arm and started moving even as she said, ‘Good evening, Mr Hawthorne.’

He did nothing to stop them, and Emma found herself ridiculously grateful for his restraint. She knew that if he had tried to delay them, Amy would have allowed it. She propelled her sister to the entry, hoping no one else would intercept them and that Amy would not dig in her heels.

Neither happened.

They reached the front door where a footman retrieved their wraps. Emma released Amy. Already she felt as though she had overreacted.

Things were falling apart. Amy’s headstrong rush into adventure, Charles Hawthorne’s pursuit, Bertram in London and, worse than all of the others combined, her own reaction to Charles Hawthorne.

Amy stepped outside and Emma belatedly followed. Their hired carriage was nowhere. It wasn’t scheduled to pick them up for another two hours.

Amy, blond brows furrowed, turned on Emma. ‘Now what will we do?’

Two women alone, the last thing they could do was walk. Hoping to see a hackney coach, Emma moved to the kerb so the flickering light from the gas lamps lit beside the imposing door cast her shadow onto the cobbles. The crush of coaches filled with guests still arriving filled the street. Carriages would arrive until the morning sun lit the eastern sky as members of the ton moved from one party to another.

‘Let me help,’ Charles Hawthorne’s voice intruded on Emma’s simmering nerves.

‘Did you follow us?’

‘And if I did?’

She glared at him. He was the last thing she needed. He was the source of all her problems, or so it seemed. ‘I have had quite enough of your help to last me a lifetime, thank you.’

His face inscrutable, he looked from one to the other. ‘Is Bertram coming for you?’

Amy’s laugh was brittle. ‘I should think not. He is in some gambling hell losing what little we have left.’

Emma gasped. ‘Amy!’

Amy’s mouth turned mulish. ‘It’s the truth.’

Everything was unravelling. ‘It is none of Mr Hawthorne’s concern.’ She rounded on him. ‘Just as our situation is none of your concern.’

‘Then how will we get home?’ Amy’s pale blond hair was coming undone from the spray of white roses that was her only adornment.

Emma wanted to shout at her, but there was nothing to say. They had no way home unless a hackney carriage appeared out of thin air or their hired coach miraculously materialised.

She darted a glance at the man responsible for this awful situation. He stood watching her, his face unreadable. If he had only left them alone.

She was sure the freckles stood in stark relief on her nose and her cheeks shone like ripe apples. Not an attractive picture—and just the thought of that made her angrier. She ground her teeth, even as she realised this fury was not like her.

Emma took deep calming breaths, refusing to meet his gaze. People milled around them, some looking, others careful not to.

‘We are presenting the polite world with fuel for its wagging tongues,’ he said dryly.

He was right.

‘Emma, we should accept Mr Hawthorne’s offer of help.’

Emma scowled at him. ‘Are you in your brother’s barouche or must we all squeeze into your phaeton?’

He had the grace to look mildly embarrassed, nothing more. ‘I hadn’t anticipated this situation, Miss Stockton.’

‘I imagine you didn’t.’ The tart words were out in a trice. He brought out the absolute worst in her.

‘I am in my phaeton.’

‘Well, that solves it.’ She wondered where her vaunted self-control had gone as she noted the acid in her tone. She should be speaking calmly and rationally, not like a fishwife. ‘We cannot all cram into that vehicle. It would not be at all respectable.’

‘Nor is this bickering in public.’ Amy’s voice cut across them.

‘The pot calling the kettle black,’ Charles murmured.

Emma cast him a sharp look but said nothing. Amy was right. But she could not allow her young sister and herself to pile into his phaeton. They would be much too close.

‘I shall get a sedan chair.’ Charles moved to the street and hailed two down. Turning back to them, he said, ‘I will walk along side until you are safely home.’

‘Sedan chairs are for old dowagers,’ Amy’s disgusted voice rang out.

Emma nearly laughed. It certainly cut across the retort Emma had planned to make. Her fury of minutes before seemed to evaporate and for the first time since her waltz with Charles Hawthorne, she felt as though her mind worked properly.

‘We have no need of those, Mr Hawthorne. We are country girls and quite capable of walking home.’ She looked at the still crowded street. ‘It is just that I don’t believe it would be safe.’

‘Then I shall escort you.’ When she opened her mouth to decline his offer, he added, ‘Or hoist you into my phaeton.’

‘Neither, thank you.’

She was proud her voice was calm and not burdened with fury. Her lapse had been momentary and would not repeat itself.

‘Then how do you propose to get home?’

‘Here is our hired carriage,’ Amy said, moving toward the vehicle. ‘It is early.’

‘Thank goodness.’ The heartfelt words followed on the relief Emma felt.

Charles moved into the street and motioned the coach to stop. Without waiting for the groom perched on the back to dismount, Charles opened the door and handed Amy in. She gave him a radiant smile that put the lie to her former peevishness.

Emma noticed he did not kiss her sister’s hand even though Amy let it linger overlong in his. An unwelcome, piercing relief lanced Emma. She refused to study the sensation—or try to name the cause of it.

Instead, she walked to the carriage door, ignoring Charles Hawthorne’s outstretched hand. She lifted her skirt and put her foot on the carriage step. He took her arm to steady her. Instantly awareness of him flooded her: his smell, the warmth of his hand on her arm. He was a man it was impossible for her to ignore, try as she might.

Better that he did not touch her, but she knew from her previous experiences with him this evening that he was too strong for her to make him release her. He would have this his way just as he had had everything else his way this evening.

‘I am sorry for all the trouble I have caused you tonight,’ he murmured.

Surprise held her immobile as his barely audible words wafted against her neck. He was apologising? She could not believe her ears.

Turning her head, she gazed at him, realising too late that only inches separated their lips. A dip of her head and his mouth would touch hers. Just this once, she wanted to close the distance and let her senses rule her head. Her eyes widened in shock at the realisation.

As though he knew what she wanted, his fingers tightened on her arm and his mouth parted. His eyes were as dark as the sky behind his head. Emma knew it was her imagination only that whispered he would kiss her. Her wanton desire for something she knew was wrong and the illusion caused by unclear lighting. Nothing more. She wouldn’t let it be anything more.

‘You have done more damage than an apology can rectify,’ she finally managed to say, her voice breathy. ‘Let me go.’

He held her a moment longer. She thought he would say something. Her stomach tumbled.

He released her and stepped back. ‘You are right, of course.’

His tone was flat, as though he felt nothing, and she was infinitely glad she had not reacted on her unbidden response to him. It was her need that had prompted her to think he meant to kiss her. He did not care for her.

She hurried into the carriage and sank into the seat opposite Amy. The vehicle lurched forward. Emma fell backwards before righting herself and squaring her shoulders.

‘I saw you.’ Amy’s words were an accusation. ‘You want him.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She closed her eyes, unable to look at Amy when she said the words.

Emma admitted to herself that she lied. It was not that she wanted him in the sense of love and permanence, but for just this small period of time she wanted to feel his arms around her and his lips on hers. So, yes, she did want him.

When she opened her eyes, Amy was a dark silhouette in the unlit interior. Emma hoped she looked the same to her sister because she knew the blush on her face would tell Amy the truth.

She was always honest with Amy no matter how hard it might be at times. She had prided herself on that openness. Now Charles Hawthorne was the cause of her first untruth to her sister. Just another thing to hold against the man. She nearly sobbed in regret.

They did not speak the rest of the drive.

When the coach stopped, Amy bolted from her seat and out of the door. Emma alighted and saw Amy had used the key in her reticule to let herself into the dark house. Now there was a wedge between them when they needed each other the most.

She turned to the coach driver and offered him the money. ‘Thank you.’

‘No need, ma’am. ‘Is Lordship paid me.’ The driver gave her a gap-toothed grin, indicating the amount had been more than adequate.

Emma forced a smile and turned away. She wanted to push her money into the man’s hand if only to prove to herself that she did not need or appreciate Charles Hawthorne’s act of generosity. But that would solve nothing. She had to control herself.

The glow from the single candle Gordon kept burning when she and Amy were out cast a puddle of pale light at her feet. The rest of the street was dark. No one fashionable lived here to be entertaining in the small hours of the morning.

She shivered in the cool air and followed Amy into the house.

Charles stood watching the hackney coach long after it disappeared around the corner. The tip he’d given the driver should ensure Emma Stockton and her sister got home safely and with promptness. It was the least he could do after causing the rift between the sisters.

He turned to look at Princess Lieven’s glittering mansion. It had been an impulsive decision to come here, based solely on boredom. He had wanted to irritate Emma Stockton by offering to escort them, and when that failed, he’d wanted to amuse himself by pursuing her at the ball. He had not realised how it would escalate.

Even he, spoiled and filled with ennui, had been uncomfortable with the argument between the sisters. He had underestimated Amy Stockton’s infatuation with him, something he rarely did. That’s what came of meddling with schoolroom chits.

It was bad enough that he had found himself reacting to Emma Stockton’s nearness. She was a prude and high in the instep, traits he did not care for. Yet, he had nearly kissed her.

It must be the scent of sweet peas she wore. He had always liked them. It could not be her.

Irritated with himself and his behaviour, he pivoted on his heel and strode down the street. A few minutes later, he remembered his tiger and phaeton were at Princess Lieven’s. He stalked back and signaled a footman to call for his carriage.

Chapter Five

H aving slept suitably late to compensate for not getting to bed until six in the morning, Charles sauntered into White’s Club in the early afternoon. He moved towards the bow window where Beau Brummell, Alvanley and others had once sat to watch any female brave enough to walk along St. James.

He nodded to several acquaintances and angled to where his brother sat near the window reading The Times. Charles sank into the overstuffed leather chair closest to George. His brother was tall and slim with golden brown hair and matching eyes. Their sister took after George.

Charles stretched out his long legs with a sigh of pleasure. ‘What are you doing away from your beautiful bride and bouncing baby Robert?’

Lord George Hawthorne looked up and smiled at his brother. ‘I was reading the paper, quietly minding my own business.’ His gaze shifted to his brother’s coat, and he rolled his eyes. ‘And what are you doing with a sweet pea in your lapel?’

Charles grinned. ‘Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.’

‘Just like old times, huh?’ George set down the paper he wasn’t going to read for awhile. ‘I left Rose and Robert in the company of Juliet. Adam is at Tattersall’s looking at horseflesh. They plan on touring the Continent, and he wants to take his own conveniences.’

‘Oh, Adam.’ Charles scowled as he thought of his disreputable brother-in-law.

‘Still on that note?’ George shook his head. ‘He’s reformed, and he makes her happy.’

Charles’s scowl lightened marginally. ‘True on both counts, but that doesn’t mean I have to like the situation.’

‘What about you and the Stockton chit? Is your behaviour any better?’

Charles bristled. ‘You are no one to be talking about the Stocktons and how we treat the women in that family.’

George paled but he held Charles’s gaze. ‘You are right. I did poorly by Miss Stockton. The only redeeming feature of that incident—which I tell myself—is that I did not love her and she didn’t love me. Ours was to be a marriage of convenience. I am now married for love and happier than I have ever been, and Miss Stockton has the chance to find a man who will value her like I could not have.’ He stared into space for a minute. ‘Love is a powerful emotion. I found just how much it could change me.’ He looked back at Charles. ‘I hope some day you have the experience.’

‘Yes, yes.’

Charles found himself unwilling to talk about Emma Stockton and her finding a suitable marriage partner. Something about the topic made his stomach twist. Nor did he want to talk about finding love. So far, he was not impressed with what love had made his siblings do.

‘As for the sweet pea in my lapel.’ He grinned again. ‘I am performing a test.’

One of George’s golden brows rose.

‘Yes, a test. To see how many sheep there are in the ton.’

‘Sheep in the ton? In other words, how many men will have a sweet pea in their lapel by this evening or tomorrow.’ George shook his head. ‘You are incorrigible.’

Charles made a mocking bow from his sitting position. ‘I try.’

Even as he bantered with George, raised voices caught Charles’s attention. Glancing in the direction of the commotion, he saw a group sitting by a window. One of the men was Bertram Stockton. All Charles’s former ire at his brother-in-law, the injustices done to Miss Emma Stockton and young Green several nights before, and other emotions he could no more describe than he could banish, surfaced.

‘What is that good-for-nothing doing here?’

George looked over his shoulder. ‘You mean Stockton?’

‘Who else?’

‘I imagine the same thing we are. Looking for company and entertainment on an otherwise boring afternoon.’

‘He shouldn’t even be in London.’

George’s eyebrow rose again. ‘And why is that?’

Charles gave him a scathing look. ‘Because the man is in debt—he’s deep in the River Tick and likely going deeper. He will make it impossible for Amy Stockton or Miss Stockton to make suitable marriages because of the family debt they will expect their prospective husbands to pay off.’

‘Ah, that explains your interest and irritation.’ George drawled the words as he put one hand up to cover the smile he couldn’t stop. ‘And what about your past? Aren’t you the pot calling the kettle black?’

Charles sat up straight. ‘My peccadilloes are in the past. And what I did only impacted on me. My losses made no difference to your future or Juliet’s. I hurt no one.’ A muscle in his jaw twitched. ‘I learned the hard way and don’t want to see anyone else in the position I was in several years ago.’

‘I am sorry for that.’

Charles knew George blamed himself for the plight Charles had got himself into. ‘Don’t be. I did it to myself and I am doing my best not to do it again. My business interests pay me well even though trade is not considered respectable by the ton. I do not gamble anymore and I stay within my means. It was a hard lesson to learn.’

‘I know. I didn’t know any other way to help you.’

‘There wasn’t.’

Still, if he let the memories take him, they were painful. He did his best to keep them at bay. Just as he stayed away from gambling dens, knowing how hard it was to resist temptation. The other night had been the first time in three years that he had entered a gaming establishment. But his club was different. More than gaming went on here.

‘I am merely out to make enough money to do the things that are important to me.’

‘And those things are…’

Charles waved a hand to indicate White’s. ‘Belonging here. Good horseflesh. My estate…’

‘And women.’ George’s voice held a hint of exasperation.

Charles’s eyes flashed. ‘You are certainly on your high horse today. I shouldn’t think what I do is any concern of yours.’

George smiled gently. ‘Everything someone in my family does is of concern to me. I care for you.’

‘I am not duelling and I am not breaking any laws.’ Charles felt as though he were in the witness box defending himself to a judge. ‘Nor am I going to mend my current ways.’ He sighed. ‘I have made the only major change I intend to.’

George nodded. ‘And I know it was hard for you. I admire your strength. But think how hard it was for you and maybe you will find a little compassion in your heart for Bertram Stockton.’

‘I didn’t lose my family’s fortune and force my sister to put herself on the Marriage Mart to save us from ruin.’

‘True. Even when you lost everything, I was able to cover your debts. Today you are more careful with money than I am even if you are still reckless with women.’ He paused to consider. ‘But then, women encourage you shamelessly.’

Tired of the subject and more than a little defensive, Charles stood. ‘I am going to go and see what is going on.’

‘It really isn’t any of your business,’ George said reasonably.

Charles looked down at him, his black brows a V of ire. ‘Someone must stop the man from gambling away what he doesn’t have.’

‘That someone isn’t you,’ George said pointedly. ‘And you don’t know if they are gaming.’

Charles stared at his brother, knowing George was right. His impulsiveness and tendency to fight for the underdog—or in this case, underlady—had nearly put him into a position that was untenable for him and for the Stockton ladies. It was not as though he was engaged to either one of them or owed them more than common courtesy and manners required. No matter that baiting Miss Emma Stockton seemed to occupy more of his thoughts than it should.

He sat back down with a thud, his usual gracefulness gone. ‘You are right.’ Charles beckoned for one of the waiters. ‘A bottle of port.’

‘A little early isn’t it?’

‘No.’

As though the waiter’s movement had started a chain reaction, Bertram Stockton broke off whatever he was saying to the man beside him and looked at Charles. Their eyes met. Charles looked away without acknowledging the other man, giving Stockton the cut direct. He was being unreasonable, but couldn’t help his anger over the burden Emma Stockton bore. She was an underdog.

The port arrived at that instant and Charles sniffed the cork, approved the wine and then accepted the glass poured by the waiter. He took a long swallow, wishing he could wash away the bad taste left in his mouth from Stockton’s presence, and knowing he couldn’t. So he watched the man who was to blame for Emma Stockton’s situation.

Charles finished his wine and poured another glass. He didn’t even like Emma Stockton. He merely enjoyed irritating her and even that was to stop. He had no wish to further compromise either her or her younger sister. Nor did he want to be responsible for another rift between the sisters.

Perhaps it was time to stop provoking Miss Stockton.

Bertram Stockton said something to the man he was with and turned and headed toward Charles. Charles’s eyes narrowed to slits as he watched Stockton approach. The man had nerve after receiving a direct cut.

‘Charles Hawthorne.’

Charles gazed up at the man who had a paler version of Emma Stockton’s red hair and hazel eyes instead of Miss Stockton’s striking grey ones. He was in no mood to be polite.

‘I don’t believe we have anything to discuss.’ Charles’s tone would have chilled every bottle of wine White’s had.

Stockton turned an unbecoming shade of red. ‘I am not here to discuss anything with you.’

‘Good,’ Charles drawled. ‘Go away.’

‘Gentlemen,’ George interjected, ‘it is time my brother and I left.’ He stood. ‘Good to see you, Stockton.’

Stockton turned his attention to the man who had all but jilted his oldest sister. ‘I can’t say the same, Hawthorne.’ He turned back to Charles. ‘As for you. Leave my sister alone.’

Charles stood. His height and lean physique gave him the advantage over the other man. ‘And what if I don’t?’ He insolently took another sip of port.

‘Then we will meet on the field of honour.’

Charles nearly spewed the wine at Stockton’s absurdity. ‘You jest. From what I hear, you can’t fence and you can’t fire a pistol from ten feet and hit the target, let alone fight with your fists. What field of honour do you propose we meet on?’

Every word had been meant to insult, and the mottled red on Stockton’s face gave Charles a modicum of satisfaction. When George put his hand on Charles’s shoulder and squeezed hard, Charles didn’t need the reminder that his behaviour was irrational, not to mention rude to the point of being inexcusable. He already knew that. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

On one level, Charles sensed the attention of every man within sight. Still, he focused on the man in front of him as time seemed to stand still while he waited for Stockton’s response.

Stockton was tall and thin, with a dusting of freckles across his nose and cheeks. He looked like a youth even though Charles knew him to be at least George’s age. His clothes were of the latest style. His Hessians gleamed in the watery sunlight coming through the nearby window. A quizzing glass hung from his waistcoat pocket and his gloves were pristine. His shirt points were high enough to make it impossible for him to turn his head. A dandy.

Stockton took one of those immaculate gloves from his hand, the gesture not as smooth as Charles knew the man would have liked. The fine kid-leather stuck as though Stockton’s palm sweated.

A tiny cruel smile formed on Charles’s perfect mouth. Anticipation tightened his gut. He refused to think about the emotion or wonder why he felt it. He just waited.

A quick swipe and Stockton’s white glove slapped Charles’s jaw. The impact made a sound like that of a shot, and though it wasn’t loud, Charles was sure every man in the room heard it.

‘That is for introducing my sisters to Harriette Wilson. The entire town is talking about them.’

Fury leached the colour from Charles’s face. Stockton was right, he shouldn’t have introduced the women to the courtesan and particularly not in Rotten Row. Still, a challenge was a challenge.

‘Pistols,’ Charles stated without hesitation.

As the one challenged, it was his right to choose the weapon. He would have preferred fists for the sheer pleasure of the physical exertion, but that was more ungentlemanly than even he was prepared to go. Nor was it considered a duel, and this was a duel.

‘Send your second ’round.’ Stockton’s voice was flat, his face so pale the freckles stood out like splotches. ‘Do not see my sister from this point on.’

Charles’s smile widened, showing white, predatory teeth in a slash. ‘I shall do as I please, when I please, Stockton. Best you learn that now.’

Stockton pivoted on the heel of his boot and strode off, not sparing a glance for anyone else. Charles wondered that the man left what appeared to be a game of chance, a pastime Stockton preferred before all others.

‘The fox is in with the hens now,’ George said dryly. ‘I’ve seen you do some harebrained things before, but this takes the wager. Whatever got into you?’

Charles shrugged and swallowed down the remainder of the port in one long gulp that made his Adam’s apple move above the perfect crease of his cravat. ‘The man irritates me. Always has.’

George frowned. ‘You don’t even know the man above a passing acquaintance.’

Charles looked sideways at his brother as he carefully set the empty glass on the table. ‘I know about the man. That is enough.’

George shook his head. ‘Don’t you mean, you know his sister?’

Charles glanced around, saw all the attention still on them and motioned with his hand. ‘White’s isn’t the place to discuss this.’

George moved to the door. ‘This wasn’t the place for any of this.’

They collected their beaver hats, canes and top coats from the servant and exited onto St. James Street. Charles set his hat at an angle and swung his ebony cane with its silver tip. Now that it was done, he felt a fierce gladness. There was no going back from a duel of honour.

‘It isn’t your place.’ George’s sober voice intruded on Charles’s thoughts. ‘Stockton had the right of it. You have been paying a too marked attention toward Amy Stockton. She’s barely out of the schoolroom. It isn’t like you to pursue someone of her innocence. Nor is it proper. And that is just for starters. I won’t mention the introduction which is indeed the latest crim con.’

Heat rose in Charles’s cheeks. ‘Was it right for you to pursue Rose when you were engaged to Miss Stockton?’

‘No.’

‘Then leave off, George. Stockton is a cad who has wagered his family fortune until there is nothing left. Emma Stockton became engaged to you in hopes you’d bail her family out of debt. When you put her in the untenable position of having to call off the engagement because of your far from respectable behaviour, you put paid to that plan. Now she is considered the spinster on the shelf and Miss Amy is the fatted calf set on the Marriage Mart as the sacrifice for her father and brother’s vices.’

George’s voice cut sarcastically through Charles’s tirade. ‘And you have appointed yourself seducer and knight in shining armour all in one package? You’re overdoing it.’