Free Whisper To Me of Love by Shirlee Busbee

upon Martin Wetherly and Rufe Stafford, who were part of the circle around the Earl.
    The two men who had found such disfavor with Royce were both gentlemen from the country who had managed to secure respectable fortunes. As with the Earl, there was no obvious reason for them to be held in contempt, and yet there was something about the pair of them that made them not exactly welcome additions to the homes and soirees of the more discerning members of London society. Like the Earl, they could not claim admittance to the inner ranks of the arbitrators of fashion, and unlike the Earl, they had no claim to the nobility and thus were treated with even less tolerance than was shown Lord Devlin and his wife.
    Feeling as he did about Lord Devlin, Royce found nothing strange in the fact that the Earl’s two boon companions were a pair of obvious toadeaters with a particularly grating unctuous manner about them. Watching as they fawned all over the Earl, Royce curled his fine lips in disdain.
    â€œA bit too conspicuous in their eagerness to please m’lord, aren’t they?” inquired a smooth voice to Royce’s left.
    Turning slightly, Royce met the cynical gaze of Allan Newell, an elegantly attired gentleman who did his tailor proud. His coat of blue superfine fit superbly across his shoulders, and his fawn breeches clung snugly to his muscled thighs. Somewhere between the age of forty-five and fifty, Newell was a familiar figure on the London scene. Not precisely a handsome man, yet one with a great deal of charm and presence, he was reputed to be quite wealthy, and though his family had no claim to either title or fame, most hostesses were not displeased to have his name on their invitation lists. Yet, like Wetherly and Stafford, Newell was considered not quite up to snuff by certain high sticklers. Though he was more eminently regarded than the others—not only because of his polished manners but also because his lack of social standing appeared not to bother him—there were certain doors that were closed to him also.
    Since Allan was a sporting crony of George’s, it was only natural that Royce should have met him, and while Royce could find nothing wrong with the man’s behavior, there was something about him that Royce found faintly offensive. Newell seemed to take unnecessary pleasure in ridiculing the foibles of others, and there was a certain deliberate cruelty in some of his comments about the actions of members of the ton. Allan Newell was not someone Royce would have suspected George to befriend, but as it was not any of his business who George had as friends, Royce kept his feelings to himself and treated Newell politely.
    Preferring to keep his opinion of the Earl’s companions to himself, Royce merely shrugged at Newell’s comment and, turning away, said to George, “I thought you said the match was about to begin.”
    â€œOh, it is! It is, my dear fellow. See, the bruisers are entering the ring now.”
    And so it was; the two brawny men, stripped to their breeches, were indeed clambering into the roped-off ring. A murmur of excitement swept through the crowd as the two pugilists met in the center of the ring and curled their ham-like hands into rock-hard fists.
    Pip had taken advantage of the crowd’s focusing on the inhabitants in the ring to edge even nearer to Manchester, but the gentlemen who made up the circle around him were pressed too closely together for her to get into the position she needed in order to carry out her task. Frustrated and annoyed, she waited impatiently for a shift in the crowd, hoping she would be able to sidle right up to the tall American’s side. Deciding that she could do nothing about robbing Manchester for a while, she let her gaze idly skim those nearby. Always looking for the unwary pigeon to pluck, she noticed a fashionably attired gentleman to her right whose attention was fixed intently on the two half-naked figures