‘Gentlemen?’ their host prompted in that dry and amused drawl that was so typical of him, one dark brow raised mockingly over eyes of midnight blue as he placed the letter he had been reading down upon the table top.
Dominic Vaughn was the first to recover his senses. ‘Surely you are not serious, Gabe?’
That mocking dark brow was joined by its twin. ‘Am I not?’
‘Well, of course not.’ Osbourne finally rallied to the occasion. ‘You are Westbourne!’
‘For the past six months, yes.’ The new Earl of Westbourne acknowledged drily. ‘It is one of the previous Earl’s daughters for whom I have offered.’
‘Copeland?’
Westbourne gave a haughty inclination of his dark head. ‘Just so.’
‘I—but why would you do such a thing?’ Dominic made no effort to hide his disgust at the idea of one of their number willingly sacrificing himself to the parson’s mousetrap.
The three men were all aged eight and twenty, and had been to school together before serving in Wellington’s army for five years. They had fought together, drunk together, eaten together, wenched together, shared the same accommodations on many occasions—and one thing they had all agreed on long ago was the lack of a need to settle on one piece of succulent fruit when the whole of the basket was available for the tasting. Gabriel’s announcement smacked of a betrayal of that tacit pact.
Westbourne shrugged his wide shoulders beneath the elegance of his dark-blue superfine. ‘It seemed like the correct thing to do.’
The correct thing to do! When had Gabriel ever bothered himself with acting correctly? Banished to the Continent in disgrace by his own family and society eight years ago, Lord Gabriel Faulkner had lived his life since that time by his own rules, and to hell with what was correct!
Having inherited the extremely respected title of the Earl of Westbourne put a slightly different slant on things, of course, and meant that London society—the marriage-minded mamas especially—would no doubt welcome the scandalous Gabriel back into the ton with open arms. But even so …
‘You are jesting, of course, Gabriel.’ Osbourne felt no hesitation in voicing his own scepticism concerning their friend’s announcement.
‘I am afraid I am not,’ Westbourne stated firmly. ‘My unexpected inheritance of the title and estates has left the future of Copeland’s three daughters to my own tender mercies.’ His top lip curled back in self-derision. ‘No doubt Copeland expected to see his three daughters safely married off before he met his Maker. Unfortunately, this was not the case, and as such, the three young women have become my wards.’
‘Are you saying that you have been guardian to the three Copeland chits for the past six months and not said a word?’ Osborne sounded as if he could barely believe it.
Westbourne gave a cool inclination of his arrogant head. ‘A little like leaving the door open for the fox to enter the henhouse, is it not?’
It was indeed, Dominic mused wryly; Gabriel’s reputation with the ladies was legendary. As was his ruthlessness when it came to bringing an end to those relationships when they became in the least irksome to him. ‘Why have you never mentioned this before, Gabriel?’
The other man shrugged. ‘I am mentioning it now.’
‘Incredible!’ Osborne was still at a loss for words.
Gabriel gave a hard, humourless grin. ‘Almost as incredible as my having inherited the title at all, really.’
It was certainly the case that it would not have occurred if the years of battle against Napoleon’s armies had not killed off Copeland’s two nephews, the only other possible inheritors of the title. As it was, because Copeland only had daughters and no sons, the disgraced Lord Gabriel Faulkner had inherited the title of Earl of Westbourne from a man who was merely a second cousin or some such flimsy connection.
‘Obviously, the fact that I am now the young ladies’ guardian rendered the situation slightly unusual, and so I had my lawyer put forward an offer of marriage on my behalf,’ Westbourne explained.
‘To which daughter?’ Dominic tried to recall whether or not he had ever seen or met any of the Copeland sisters during his occasional forays into society this past two Seasons, but drew a complete blank. He did not consider it a good omen that none of the young women appeared to be attractive enough to spark even a flicker of memory.
Westbourne’s sculptured mouth twisted wryly. ‘Never having met any of the young ladies, I did not feel it necessary to state a preference.’
‘You did not!’ Dominic stared at the other man in horror. ‘Gabriel, you cannot mean to say that you have offered marriage to any one of the Copeland chits?’
Westbourne gave a cool smile. ‘That is exactly what I have done.’
‘I say, Gabe!’ Osbourne looked as horrified as Dominic felt. ‘Taking a bit of a risk, don’t you think? What if they decide to give you the fat and ugly one? The one that no other man would want?’
‘I do not see that as being a problem when Harriet Copeland was their mother.’ Westbourne waved that objection aside.
All three men had been but nineteen when Lady Harriet Copeland, the Countess of Westbourne, having left her husband and daughters, had tragically met her death at the hands of her jealous lover only months later. The woman’s beauty was legendary.
Dominic grimaced. ‘They may decide to give you the one that takes after her father.’ Copeland had been a short and rotund man in his sixties when he died, and with little charm to recommend him, either—was it any wonder that a woman as beautiful as Harriet Copeland had left him for a younger man?
‘What if they do?’ Westbourne relaxed back in his chair, his dark hair curling fashionably upon his nape and brow. ‘In order to provide the necessary heir, the Earl of Westbourne must needs take a wife. Any wife. Any one of the Copeland sisters is capable of providing that heir regardless of her appearance, surely?’ He shrugged those elegantly wide shoulders.
‘But what about—I mean, if she is fat and ugly, surely you will never be able to rise to the occasion in order to provide this necessary heir?’ Osbourne visibly winced at the unpleasantness of the image he had just portrayed.
‘What do you say to that, Gabe?’ Dominic chuckled.
‘I say that it no longer matters whether or not I would be able to perform in my marriage bed.’ Westbourne picked up the letter he had set aside earlier to peruse its contents once again with an apparent air of calm. ‘It would appear that my reputation has preceded me, gentlemen.’ His voice had become steely.
Dominic frowned. ‘Explain, Gabriel.’
That sculptured mouth tightened. ‘The letter I received from my lawyer this morning states that all three of the Copeland sisters—yes, even the fat and ugly one, Nate …’ he gave a mocking little bow in Osbourne’s direction ‘… have rejected any idea of marriage to the disreputable Lord Gabriel Faulkner.’
Dominic had known Gabriel long enough to realise that his calm attitude was a sham, and that the cold glitter in those midnight-blue eyes and the harsh set of his jaw were a clearer indication of his friend’s current mood. Beneath that veneer of casual uninterest he was coldly, dangerously angry.
A fact born out by his next statement. ‘In the circumstances, gentlemen, I have decided that I will shortly be following the two of you to England.’
‘The ladies of Venice will all fall into a decline at your going,’ Osbourne predicted drily.
‘Perhaps,’ Gabriel allowed