Free The Golden Season by Connie Brockway Page B

a member here, though he’s mostly absent of late.” He placed his finger alongside his nose and leaned forward. “Dunners.” He straightened. “Still there’s plenty of sport to be had.”
    “So I’ve heard,” Ned replied.
    Borton’s neat features pressed together in consternation. “Forgot about that. Damn foolish thing for your nephew to play against Smyth. Regular Captain Sharp, that one. Nothing untoward, of course. Simply a veteran of more nights of ruinous play than most men twice his age. Heard several of the members tried to talk the lad into quitting the table. No luck.”
    “I’ve no doubt of that. Sense is not my family’s long suit, I am afraid.”
    “I feel responsible in part. I should have been watching out for those two. They were like brothers to me until . . . and it weren’t their fault Mary . . .” He broke off and colored. “Anyway, knew something like this would happen. Bound to. Never seen such cocksureness as that pair display. And all of it unwarranted.”
    “Yes. That’s very much as I felt upon renewing my acquaintance with them. Still, they are my nephews. Is Smyth here?”
    Borton glanced at him. “Haven’t seen him.”
    “Don’t worry, Borton. I have only come to repay Harry’s debt.”
    “Oh? Good.”
    “Tell me what you know of Smyth.”
    Borton lifted a shoulder. “Other than that he gambles often and deeply, is swimming in lard and likes that state very well, has kept the same mistress for years, and is a terrible snob who ain’t got the blood to back up his conceit?”
    Ned smiled. “Yes. Other than that.”
    “Well, one of this spring’s choicest bits of tattle is that his grandsire is ailing and has promised to name Smyth his heir if Smyth marries before the old fellow turns his toes up. Because the old fella’s fortune ain’t entailed. And a mighty fortune it is. Though Smyth is wealthy, he would be one of England’s wealthiest if he wed in time.”
    “You said he didn’t need the money.”
    “He don’t need it to live, but he needs it to live as he’d like,” Borton said. “If he could secure that sort of wealth then everyone would have to forget his family was in trade but four generations back. He is accepted, but he is not acclaimed and he wants that very much.”
    “Good Lord, Borton, you are a virtual font. It makes me wonder what you might know about me,” Ned said.
    Borton remained unperturbed. “Nothing to your discredit, which in itself ought to make me suspicious.”
    Ned laughed. “Oh, I have my sins, I assure you.”
    “Can’t imagine what they are. You were always so different from the rest of your family. Me old da used to say that the Locktons were born backward, the youngest having the most sense and the oldest having no . . . Oh. My. I’ve stepped in it again, haven’t I?” Borton flushed.
    “Think nothing of it.”
    “Here. Let me send someone to look around for Smyth.” A flick of his fingers brought a footman hurrying over. “See if you can locate Mr. Smyth. I suggest you start in all the rooms with largish mirrors. He’s bound to be in front of one.”
    The footman did not dare smile as he ran to do Borton’s bidding, but Ned grinned. “Fond of his reflection, is he?”
    “Damn dandy. Don’t know why he ain’t a member at White’s except he’d have too much competition and he might not have been accepted. But now that Brummell looks to be about to sconce the reckoning and head for the Continent, there’ll a vacancy in the bow window.”
    “Perhaps you ought to apply,” Ned suggested innocently.
    Borton laughed. “Me? Oh, no. True, I enjoy my valet’s services, but with the dandies it ain’t just about the dress, you know. It’s their languor, their ennui , and their ability to make something momentous out of the trivial. Last Season two of them almost came to blows at Lady Devonshire’s fete over which legume produces the vilest flatulence. No, I’m no dandy. Just well dressed.” He preened a