said. “Did many people lose a great deal
of money?”
“Several,” he admitted, nodding to another strolling couple.
“Sir Charles Abernathy lost five hundred pounds and is still furious about it.
He confronted Anthony this morning at Tattersall’s, but I wouldn’t mention to
Anthony I told you that. Two or three others lost around a hundred pounds, but
no one as much as Abernathy. Anthony refused to believe his father had cheated
anyone or led them into dangerous investments, and so refused to make
compensations to the investors. They’re not going to be happy when they learn
Anthony has returned and, rest assured, if they don’t already know it,
Abernathy will be sure to tell them.”
Her heart aching, Emily said, “Where was Anthony when his
father died?”
Sir Gregory sighed. “Coming back from their estate in Kent.
As unreasonable as it is, Anthony associates Sir Edgar with his father’s death.
If Sir Edgar had arrived sooner…”
He did not need to finish his sentence. “Poor Anthony,”
Emily murmured. “To come home and find such a tragedy waiting for him.”
“It was almost as bad for Sir Lennox,” Sir Gregory
continued. “His only daughter Miranda was being courted by the Earl of
Stockett’s eldest son. The scandal could have ended the courtship, but at least
that part of the story has a happy ending.”
“Did Sir Lennox’s daughter marry Stockett’s heir?”
“Yes. There they are now.” Sir Gregory pointed toward a
corner where the physician talked with a young couple.
“They look very happy,” Emily said. “I’m glad Anthony has
friends like you and Lord Brandon to support him.”
“And now he has you,” Sir Gregory said. “It should be an
interesting Season.”
“Especially since I’m going to help him find a bride,” Emily
said, hoping to dispel any notion this man might have about her own intentions
toward Anthony.
“Indeed?” Sir Gregory tipped his head toward the dancers
taking their places for another set. “Perhaps he’s already found her.”
Anthony was leading Miss Stanhope out on the floor for a new
dance and wistfulness tugged at Emily’s heart. Like with her, Anthony was wasting
no time.
“Shall we join them?” Sir Gregory asked.
Putting the wistfulness into the deepest part of her heart,
Emily gave him her brightest smile. “Of course.”
Chapter Seven
Anthony Dyson is back in town. The man smacked the
windowpane, rattling the glass in its frame. After all this time, why now ?
It had been a year since the old duke’s death. A death the
man had been sure to make look like suicide. The ensuing scandal with its
accusations of lying and fraud had driven Anthony Dyson and his younger sisters
to the Continent and kept them there. What had brought him back?
And what in the hell had happened to the youth he had seen
running through the garden beyond the French doors just after he shot the old
duke? Dyson had put up struggle, but too much fencing had sprained his right
arm, making it all the easier to slip behind him, force the gun into his right
hand and pull the trigger. But the youth had vanished like summer’s smoke. The
months spent trying to find him—not to mention looking over his own shoulder,
waiting for a summons from the authorities—had been maddening and
nerve-fraying.
Recalling last year’s events, he made a quick mental
calculation, trying to remember if Anthony’s sisters were old enough to make
their come-outs. As daughters of a duke and now sisters of one, they would be
very eligible, indeed when the time came. And even if the stench of scandal
still clung to Dyson, every woman with marriageable daughters would have him in
her matrimonial crosshairs. After all, a duke was a duke.
But would Anthony try proving his persistent claim that his
father’s death wasn’t suicide? Any attempts to prove otherwise would be
taken for the misguided beliefs of a son who still mourned the loss of a
beloved father and discounted as
of money?”
“Several,” he admitted, nodding to another strolling couple.
“Sir Charles Abernathy lost five hundred pounds and is still furious about it.
He confronted Anthony this morning at Tattersall’s, but I wouldn’t mention to
Anthony I told you that. Two or three others lost around a hundred pounds, but
no one as much as Abernathy. Anthony refused to believe his father had cheated
anyone or led them into dangerous investments, and so refused to make
compensations to the investors. They’re not going to be happy when they learn
Anthony has returned and, rest assured, if they don’t already know it,
Abernathy will be sure to tell them.”
Her heart aching, Emily said, “Where was Anthony when his
father died?”
Sir Gregory sighed. “Coming back from their estate in Kent.
As unreasonable as it is, Anthony associates Sir Edgar with his father’s death.
If Sir Edgar had arrived sooner…”
He did not need to finish his sentence. “Poor Anthony,”
Emily murmured. “To come home and find such a tragedy waiting for him.”
“It was almost as bad for Sir Lennox,” Sir Gregory
continued. “His only daughter Miranda was being courted by the Earl of
Stockett’s eldest son. The scandal could have ended the courtship, but at least
that part of the story has a happy ending.”
“Did Sir Lennox’s daughter marry Stockett’s heir?”
“Yes. There they are now.” Sir Gregory pointed toward a
corner where the physician talked with a young couple.
“They look very happy,” Emily said. “I’m glad Anthony has
friends like you and Lord Brandon to support him.”
“And now he has you,” Sir Gregory said. “It should be an
interesting Season.”
“Especially since I’m going to help him find a bride,” Emily
said, hoping to dispel any notion this man might have about her own intentions
toward Anthony.
“Indeed?” Sir Gregory tipped his head toward the dancers
taking their places for another set. “Perhaps he’s already found her.”
Anthony was leading Miss Stanhope out on the floor for a new
dance and wistfulness tugged at Emily’s heart. Like with her, Anthony was wasting
no time.
“Shall we join them?” Sir Gregory asked.
Putting the wistfulness into the deepest part of her heart,
Emily gave him her brightest smile. “Of course.”
Chapter Seven
Anthony Dyson is back in town. The man smacked the
windowpane, rattling the glass in its frame. After all this time, why now ?
It had been a year since the old duke’s death. A death the
man had been sure to make look like suicide. The ensuing scandal with its
accusations of lying and fraud had driven Anthony Dyson and his younger sisters
to the Continent and kept them there. What had brought him back?
And what in the hell had happened to the youth he had seen
running through the garden beyond the French doors just after he shot the old
duke? Dyson had put up struggle, but too much fencing had sprained his right
arm, making it all the easier to slip behind him, force the gun into his right
hand and pull the trigger. But the youth had vanished like summer’s smoke. The
months spent trying to find him—not to mention looking over his own shoulder,
waiting for a summons from the authorities—had been maddening and
nerve-fraying.
Recalling last year’s events, he made a quick mental
calculation, trying to remember if Anthony’s sisters were old enough to make
their come-outs. As daughters of a duke and now sisters of one, they would be
very eligible, indeed when the time came. And even if the stench of scandal
still clung to Dyson, every woman with marriageable daughters would have him in
her matrimonial crosshairs. After all, a duke was a duke.
But would Anthony try proving his persistent claim that his
father’s death wasn’t suicide? Any attempts to prove otherwise would be
taken for the misguided beliefs of a son who still mourned the loss of a
beloved father and discounted as
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