Unless what he required was her daughter’s company. He gave another brief bow, this time in Celia’s direction. “Yes, indeed. Thank you most sincerely, Lady Celia, for your kindness.”
“Of course.” She curtsied. “Do take care of yourself, sir.”
He nodded once. “I shall.”
The dowager duchess shepherded her daughter away, and Anthony contemplated the bloody cloth in his hand. He should take the duchess’s demeanor as a warning, he thought. No doubt she viewed him just as suspiciously as the rest of society did, always ready and willing to be outraged by his actions, real or rumored.
Lord Carfax, the host, approached then. He apologized for Sir George’s behavior and summoned a servant to help Anthony repair his appearance. Anthony went with the man into a guest room and cleaned his face and hands. His nose was already swelling and his head ached. His clothes were in a sad state; he gave them an obligatory straightening. Hopefully his landlady would be able to scrub out the blood.
His fingers lingered on his re-tied cravat as he stared at his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t know what had possessed him to tell Celia those lies about his valet, a person who didn’t even exist. Perhaps because she just assumed he had one, and he didn’t want her to know he didn’t. Perhaps because he had preferred to make her laugh at him instead of tending him. Her touch had been so gentle as she wiped the blood from his face.
Was he a fool? Most likely. With a sigh he turned from the mirror. The wise thing to do would be to return to the card room, win a tidy pile of money, and forget how she had fussed over him with such tender concern.
And Anthony always tried to do the wise thing.
Chapter Three
Celia didn’t see Anthony Hamilton again for almost a fortnight. Her mother gave her a stern lecture about associating with scandalous people like him and then kept a closer eye on her when they were out. Although she didn’t want to disobey her mother, Celia did want to know if he had recovered. It was easy to hear tales of his public behavior; she heard he returned to the card room after being punched by Sir George Howard and played piquet until dawn, still speckled with his own blood. But that told her nothing of his health, and finally she was forced to turn to her brother.
“Hamilton? He’s fine,” said David carelessly. His eyes were following his wife, Vivian, around the room as she danced with Lord Milbury. David made no effort to hide his devotion to his new wife, nor how protective he was of her. Vivian had been raised in the rookeries and made her way as a pickpocket before she met David, in a vaguely shocking way no one had seen fit to explain to Celia. David was always ready to step in if he perceived any slight to her. Celia thought it quite lovely of him, actually, even if it made him aggravatingly distracted at times.
“No, truly, David.” Celia poked his arm. “He was hurt.”
“What? Oh, yes. But he’s fine.”
“Are you certain?”
David finally tore his eyes away from Vivian for a moment. “Yes, Celia, I’m certain. It was a glancing blow.”
“It might have broken his nose!”
Her brother waved one hand, making a face. “It was one punch. Hamilton’s suffered a lot worse in his time. Don’t worry.”
“But I haven’t seen him since then.”
That got his attention. “Have you been looking for him?”
She flushed. “No. I just wanted to know he was well.”
“He is.” Her brother’s eyes narrowed. “Your mother would have an apoplexy if—”
“Then don’t tell her,” Celia snapped. “He did nothing, I did nothing. I just wanted to know, and now that you’ve told me, I am satisfied.”
David continued to look suspicious, but he didn’t press her. “Excellent.”
Celia shook her head and walked away from her infuriating brother, back across the room toward her friends. Why was she not allowed to ask after the health of an acquaintance, she fumed. Surely not even Anthony was so wicked that it was wrong to wish him well.
“Good evening, Lady Celia.” The voice made her start. Celia whirled around to see the man himself, bowing in front of her.
“Good evening, Mr. Hamilton,” she said with surprised pleasure. “I am so glad to see you again!” His eyebrows shot up. Celia gave an embarrassed little laugh, realizing how odd that must sound. “That is, I am so glad to see you are well.”
“I am very well, thank you.” He looked at her with a strange expression. “I hope you are well.”
“Oh, yes, but when last I saw you, you were covered in blood.”
“Ah, yes, that. A night’s discomfort.” His mouth quirked. “Surely you weren’t worried?”
“Of course I was! You might have had a broken nose. I didn’t see you anywhere after that, and David only said you were fine.” She huffed. “Do gentlemen go about beating each other regularly? David was sure it was a common enough occurrence that you barely noticed.”
His half-grin had faded. “I am flattered you would inquire after my health.”
There was something in his voice that caught her attention, but when she looked, his face was inscrutable. Celia sighed and shook her head. “And I had no idea what ‘fine’ meant. David might be on death’s doorstep and still he would insist he was fine.”
“No, I am well. Quite well, in fact.” He sounded somehow distracted, as he stared at her. “I wished to thank you for your kindness that night.”
“It was the least I could do,” she exclaimed. “I fear I was no real help to you at all. I’m afraid I haven’t much experience at nursing.”
“I could not imagine a better nurse.” He gave a slight smile. “Although I should hate to appear to such a disadvantage in your eyes again. It was not the best way to renew our acquaintance.”
She laughed ruefully. “No. But you were so gallant the previous night, when Lord Euston…Well, we have neither of us been at our best, perhaps.”
“And yet I can see no fault in you.”
“That is because you haven’t seen me for several years,” she scoffed. “A few more meetings, and you shall find me as tiresome as when I was a child.”
“I never found you tiresome.” He said it simply, calmly. Celia paused, contrite.
“No, you were always so kind to me. Kinder than David, especially! And I shall never forget it.” She caught sight of her mother advancing on them with fire in her eyes. “But I must go. Good evening, Mr. Hamilton.” She bobbed a quick curtsy.
“Good evening, Lady Celia.” He bowed, and she hurried to intercept her mother and explain before Mama worked herself into a state.
Anthony didn’t watch her go. There was nothing to be gained by antagonizing the dowager duchess. But his heart still pounded, and his hand trembled as he took a glass from a nearby servant and downed half the wine in one gulp.
She had been pleased to see him. And she had worried about him. Anthony took a deep breath, held it a moment as he contemplated that thought with unbounded and unwarranted pleasure, and swallowed the rest of his wine.
Anthony was a seasoned gambler. He held a bad hand now, and he knew it. There was no way he could bluff his way out of it; the scandal sheets had made his every misdeed public, and even given him credit for some misdeeds not his own. In fact, the best thing to do with a hand this bad was to bow out at once. Perhaps he could wait a year. A year was a long time, and he could mend his ways and get his life in order before attempting it….
But she was dancing