Crew shrugged. ‘Perhaps he fears a genuine attachment. It’s all very well for a woman to take a lover to her bed, but it is extremely bad taste to fall in love with him. People have been known to do abysmally stupid things in the name of love.’
‘Too true. So, who is the poor boy Lord Yew is going to flay?’
‘His full name is Peregrine Tipton Rand.’
‘Good Lord. Peregrine Tipton?’
‘A trifle whimsical, I admit, but he’s a country lad visiting London for the first time. Apparently, his father owns a farm in Devon. Rand’s the oldest of four brothers and sisters but he hasn’t shown much interest in taking over from his father. Seems he’s more interested in books than in bovines, so when the mother died, the father shipped him up here to stay with his godfather in the hopes of the boy acquiring some town polish. Unfortunately, all he acquired was an affection for Lady Yew.’
Barrington frowned. ‘How did a country boy come to be introduced to a marchioness?’
‘Through the auspices of Lord Hayle, Viscount Hayle.’
‘Hayle?’ Barrington’s eyebrows rose in surprise. The beautiful Lady Annabelle’s brother? ‘I wouldn’t have thought the Earl of Cambermere’s heir the type to associate with a country gentleman of no consequence.’
‘I dare say you’re right, but as it happens, he has no choice.
Rand is staying with the family. Cambermere is the man reputed to be his godfather.’
‘Reputed?’
‘There are those who say the lad bears a stronger resemblance to the earl than might be expected.’
‘Ah, I see.’ Barrington rapped his fingers on the desk. ‘Wrong side of the blanket.’
‘Possible, though no one’s come right out and said it.’
‘Of course not. Cambermere’s a powerful man. If he did father an illegitimate child years ago and now chooses to have the boy come live with him, no one’s going to tell him he can’t. Especially given that his own wife died last year.’
‘But there are other children living in the house,’ Crew pointed out. ‘Legitimate children who won’t take kindly to their father foisting one of his by-blows on them.’
Especially the son and heir, Barrington reflected grimly. Viscount Hayle was not the kind of man to suffer such a slight to his family name. If he came to suspect the true nature of Rand’s paternity, he could make things very difficult for all concerned. So difficult, in fact, that Rand might hightail it back to the country, and that was something Barrington had to avoid. He needed to find out as much as possible about the young man before news of his liaison with Lady Yew went public—because there was no doubt in Barrington’s mind that it would. The marchioness wasn’t known for being discreet. Her list of lovers was a popular topic of conversation at parties, and the fact that this time, her husband had chosen to make an example of the young man would definitely make for scintillating conversation over wine and cards.
‘You’ve gone quiet,’ Crew said. ‘Mulling over how best to break the news to dear Peregrine’s unsuspecting family?’
‘As a matter of fact, I was.’ Barrington got to his feet and walked slowly towards the long window. ‘I met Lady Annabelle Durst at Lady Montby’s reception the other week.’
‘Ah, the beautiful Anna,’ Crew murmured appreciatively. ‘Truly one of society’s diamonds. I cannot imagine why she’s still single.’
Barrington snorted. ‘Likely because she’s too busy trying to prevent silly young women from ruining themselves.’
‘An admirable undertaking, though knowing how many silly young women there are in London, I don’t imagine it leaves much time for looking after her own future.’
‘Virtually none,’ Barrington said, his thoughts returning to the lady whose existence he had first learned about during an investigation he’d undertaken the previous year. It had not involved Lady Annabelle directly, but had focused instead on the uncle of one of the girls she had been trying to help. As a result of that investigation, however, Barrington had become familiar with her name and with her propensity for helping naïve young girls navigate their way through the choppy waters of first love.
Always from a distance, of course. Given his own self-imposed boundaries, Barrington knew better than to risk getting too close to her, but he was strongly aware of her appeal and smart enough to know that she could be dangerous for that reason alone. He’d met a lot of women in his life, but there was something about Lady Annabelle Durst that set her apart from all the rest. Something rare. Something precious. Something indefinable …
‘Well, if you’re going to sit there all afternoon and stare into space, I’m leaving.’ Crew drained his glass and set it on the desk. ‘I am expected for tea with Lady Yew and her daughter; if you have nothing more to tell me, I may as well be on my way.’
‘Fine. But while you’re sipping tea and whispering endearments
in Lady Rebecca’s ear, see if you can find out anything else about her mother’s relationship with Rand,’ Barrington said. ‘The more I know about the situation, the better off I’ll be when it comes time to confront him with it.’
Crew unhurriedly rose. ‘I’ll ask, but, given the extent of the marquess’s displeasure, I doubt you’ll hear Rebecca or her mother mention the name Peregrine Rand with favour again.’
Anna was reading Shakespeare when the door to the drawing room opened. Leaving Hamlet on the page, she looked up to see their butler standing in the doorway. ‘Yes, Milford?’
‘Excuse me, my lady, but a gentleman has called and is asking to see Mr Rand.’
Anna glanced at the clock on the mantel. Half past eight. Somewhat late for a social call. ‘Did you tell him Mr Rand was from home?’
‘I did, but he said it was a matter of some urgency and wondered if you knew what time he might be home.’
‘Lord knows, I certainly don’t.’ With a sigh, Anna set her book aside. ‘Did the gentleman leave his card?’
Milford bowed and silently proffered the tray. Anna took the card and read the name. Sir Barrington Parker. How strange. She knew the man by reputation rather than by sight. A wealthy baronet with an impressive home, he was, by all accounts, a cultured, educated and exceedingly charming man who was also reputed to be one of London’s finest swordsmen. The story went that he’d spent several years in Paris training under a legendary French master; when his father’s death had compelled him to return to England, Sir Barrington had been besieged by the pinks of society asking him to teach them his skills. With very few exceptions, he had refused every request.
Why, then, would he be here now, asking after a man with whom he was unlikely to have even the slightest acquaintance? ‘Ask him to come in, Milford. Then inform my father that we have a visitor.’
The butler bowed. ‘Very good, my lady.’
The wait was not long. Moments later, the door opened again and Milford announced, ‘Sir Barrington Parker.’
Anna rose as the butler withdrew, but the moment the baronet arrived she stopped dead, totally unprepared for the sight of the man standing in her doorway. ‘You!’
‘Good evening, Lady Annabelle.’ Sir Barrington Parker strolled into the room, as impeccably turned out as he had been the night of Lady Montby’s reception. His dark jacket fit superbly across a pair of broad shoulders, his buff-coloured breeches outlined strong, muscular thighs and his cravat was simply yet elegantly tied. ‘I told you an occasion would present itself whereby our