“You are welcome to put that poser to them this evening.”
“Don’t tempt me, Ferrin. I might.”
Ferrin merely grunted softly.
Wellsley cocked his head toward the ballroom. “You find all of this tiresome.” It was not a question.
“It is obvious, then. Bother that. You will warn me, will you not, if some member of my family wanders in this direction? They will take exception to my ennui, and I cannot watch the doorway easily from here.”
“Indeed. You will get a crick in your neck.”
Ferrin laid the flat of his hand against his nape and massaged the corded muscles. “I already possess the crick. I am hoping not to break the thing.”
“Poor Ferrin. Your family is such a trial to you.”
“Can you doubt it?”
Wellsley regarded his friend a moment longer before he spoke. The eyes that held his study were glacial, yet there was a hint of something that might have been amusement. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “sometimes I can. It occurs on occasion that you could be naught but a fraud.”
“Careful. I will not hesitate to run you through.” Ferrin’s hand dropped to his cutlass. “My sword trumps your unprimed popper.”
Heads turned in their direction as Wellsley gave a bark of laughter. “Just so.” He continued to shuffle the cards. “How did you know Bennet had a heart remaining in his hand?”
“Because he told his cousin.”
“Told William? Are you quite certain, Ferrin? I didn’t hear such an exchange.”
“Because while you were contemplating my scowl, Bennet was tapping his cards on the table. One for hearts. Two for diamonds. Three for—”
“I get the gist of it.”
“See? Perfectly discernible to even the meanest intelligence when one is not preoccupied.”
“Did you just insult me?”
Now there was no mistaking the amusement in Ferrin’s ice-blue glance. “If you are uncertain, then there is no harm done.”
Grinning, Wellsley handed over the cards. “Do not be so sure. I am of a mind to get a little of my own back.”
“By all means. You must do as you see fit.” Ferrin began to deal the cards, setting up two dummy hands just to keep things interesting. When he was done, he fanned open his cards and examined them.
“What is to be done about the Allworthy cousins?” asked Wellsley.
“What do you mean, what is to be done?”
“They are cardsharps, Ferrin.”
“They are dullards, and they are not so deep in the pockets that they can do much damage at the clubs.”
“I am not sure the amount of the wagering matters. I was thinking that someone less forgiving than you will surely call the pair of them out. Do you want that on your conscience?”
Ferrin was uncertain how the consequence of the cousins’ cheating had become his concern. “What would you have me do? Spread the tale of what was done here so they will become pariahs in the card rooms?”
“That would do nicely, yes. Save them from themselves.”
“At considerable damage to their reputations. One or the other of them will call me out, and we shall be precisely at the juncture you are bent on avoiding, save I will be the one facing a pistol at twenty paces. If that is your plan for revenge, you are deuced good at it. I will choose my words more carefully when I am speaking of the meanest intelligence.”
“Thank you, but I have some other revenge in mind for that slight. One with a more certain outcome than you and one of the Allworthys in a field at dawn.” He held up his hand when Ferrin looked as if he intended to object that there would be any doubt about that outcome. “There is always doubt, Ferrin. Your opponent might turn too soon. Your pistol might misfire. Allworthy—whichever cousin throws the glove—might be on the side of the angels that day. When I cast about for revenge, I want complete assurance that there can be but one end.”
“I believe you make me afraid, Wellsley.”
Wellsley threw down a card in the manner a man might toss the gauntlet. “Good.”
Chuckling, Ferrin turned over a card from one of the dummy decks, then laid his own card. “How many shepherdesses do you think are here tonight?”
“I counted six, one of them your sister Imogene. Will she be put out, do you think, that her costume is not at all original?”
“She is the only one carrying a crook with a blue bow. In her mind it is enough to set her apart from the rest of the flock. Besides, she is married and not set on making the same impression upon the guests as Wynetta. It is Netta’s debut, after all. Or nearly so. She made her come out at the Calumet affair a few weeks ago.”
“I danced a set with her, remember?”
Ferrin did not, but he didn’t say so. “Good of you. She was frantic she would go unnoticed.”
“Not possible. Your sister is quite lovely, a diamond really, though I suppose that’s escaped your notice.”
“Hardly. I admit that it surprises that you find her so.”
“I will not inquire what that means. It’s bound to be an uncomfortable conversation.”
Ferrin nodded. This evening his sister was Cleopatra. A black wig covered her cornsilk-colored hair, and she’d darkened her brows and lined her eyes. The effect was as dramatic as she was. Never shy about holding court whether she had admirers or only her family around her, Netta was immediately taken with her role as queen. It did not matter in the least if they were young bucks in togas, Corinthians wearing armor, or gentleman courtiers from two centuries past, she gathered them to her like children to a bake-shop window. Early in the evening he’d stood with his stepfather and watched her effortlessly charm her company. In contrast to Sir Geoffrey, who nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other, Ferrin was all admiration. The success of this sister, his stepsister really, meant that she would be off the marriage mart quickly and that he would have to suffer but a handful more of these occasions. Ian and Imogene, his stepfather’s twins, were both married four years ago at twenty. If Wynetta accepted a proposal this Season, then it was left only to Restell, another stepbrother, to succumb to leg-shackling. Unfortunately, Restell was not as interested in the state of marriage as he was in the state of his affairs. For reasons that Ferrin could not entirely comprehend, Restell was determined to pattern his own life after Ferrin’s, or rather what he imagined Ferrin’s life to be. As Ferrin was still unmarried at two and thirty, it occurred to him that Restell would require rescue and intervention for years to come if he was not to bankrupt the family with his gaming or be at the center of a scandal with his paramours.
Ferrin wondered if settling his stepfather’s four offspring in good marriages was merely preparation for what lay ahead. At twelve and eight, his half-sisters Hannah and Portia were already twice the handful that Wynetta had ever been—or was likely to be. For all that Netta could have trod the boards at Drury Lane with her penchant for dramatic sighs and asides, she still was possessed of a keen mind and a sensible disposition. Hannah and Portia were not. His youngest sisters were intelligent, he supposed, but hadn’t sense enough between them to find shelter in a rainstorm.
The fault for that lay at his own dear mother’s feet. Sir Geoffrey Gardner had always impressed as practical,