Birds of a Feather Read Free Page B

Lord Peter Barnhard, whose vast wealth had failed to dispossess Sedge of the most lavish suite in Albany or of London’s most desirable courtesan. Or young Lord Braxton, who craved wealth and the power to ostracize those he didn’t like. Or any number of sprigs who dreamed of leading fashion rather than following it.
    Did any of these aspiring arbiters understand the responsibility attached to the position? Bestowing his favor on the wrong person could expose Society to predation. Yet withholding his favor could harm innocents. Every day he had to assess others, often with little information at his disposal. Questioning his judgment kept him awake more nights than he cared to count.
    Perhaps that was why his assumed ennui had become all too real. The shallow concerns of a jaded society now seemed trite rather than diverting. Even wielding his enormous credit to deter greenlings from trouble no longer brought satisfaction.
    “Stop that!”
    The command cut through the usual street sounds, pulling him from his reverie. A woman dashed in front of a carriage, oblivious to its approach.
    “Look out!” he shouted, sprinting forward. Stupid wench! Didn’t anyone think before acting these days? Only two months ago, Randolph and Elizabeth had each courted death by refusing to consider the consequences of their actions.
    As did you, reminded his conscience.
    “Move out of the street!” She had frozen at his first warning and now stiffened, turning his way rather than toward the carriage. He lunged, jerking her to safety and slamming her against his chest hard enough to drive the air from their lungs.
    Nice body, noted his mind even as his eyes took in her appearance. Well-worn half-boots. A threadbare cloak over a serviceable gown. Spectacles perched on the tip of a pert nose. Plain bonnet hugging her head. Obviously a servant, for she lacked an escort. But her features were refined, so she was probably a governess or companion.
    “Not at all the thing to walk about in a fog,” he drawled once he managed to inhale. His heart pounded from the aftermath of fear. Pain stabbed his left arm, which remained weak from a break suffered during his own recent lapse in judgment.
    “Tha … dog … boys … I don’t—”
    He’d overestimated her position. Her voice was cultured, but shock had reduced her to incoherence. Such a woman would make a poor governess. Too bad. Lack-wits had never attracted him.
    Nor would they now, he decided, setting her firmly aside. The unflattering garments hid a wealth of curves that were stirring interest in his nether regions.
    “Are you blind or merely stupid?” he snapped to cover his reaction.
    “What—”
    “Pay attention! You could have been killed.”
    “D-dog.” A finger directed his attention across the street.
    Two boys shifted their eyes from the departing carriage to the woman who had nearly died. Discerning their sport was easy. Hands pinned a whimpering dog to the ground.
    Raising his quizzing glass, he adopted his most disapproving frown. “Well, well, if it isn’t Tom Pratchard. Up to no good again?” This son of a Jermyn Street tobacconist had a penchant for mischief. He must speak to Pratchard himself this time. The lad’s mother had done nothing to curb his tendencies. He didn’t recognize Tom’s redheaded companion, though learning the boy’s identity would not be difficult. But that was for later. The moment he stepped off the curb, they fled. He turned his gaze to the dog.
    “And Maximillian. I might have known you would be here. What have you done now?” Squatting at the animal’s side, he checked him for injuries. Max licked weakly at his gloves. But aside from one shallow cut, he seemed intact.
    By following him, the woman had successfully traversed the street. She crouched in the gutter, making incoherent noises. Either she was more addled than he’d thought or fright had affected her wits.
    Max took in her concern, wiggling with pleasure when she scratched