Carola Dunn Read Free

and such.”
    “ Tempus fugit , Burkle, which in the vernacular is how time flies! Let me have it, there’s a good fellow. I’ll give you something on account today, I swear it.”
    “Paid in full, sir, or no letter.”
    “You’re a hard man, Burkle. Still, I expect the letter can wait. Lady Luck’s bound to smile on me soon.”
    “It’s been redirected three times, Mr Courtenay,” said Burkle sourly.
    Miles was unsurprised. He removed from lodging to lodging often, with the rise and fall in his fortunes, though he’d never yet done a moonlight flit. Perhaps it was time to seek out cheaper rooms, which meant Burkle must be paid. Besides, a real letter sent by the post was a rarity. Most of the communications he received were brief notes from friends, appointing a meeting place; scented love-letters from the more literate of his chères-amies ; or invitations from those ladies of the ton who had not yet consigned him to outer darkness.
    “All right, Burkle,” he said with a sigh, “come up and I’ll settle the score. This month’s, at least. As you pointed out yourself, October’s rent is not due until tomorrow.” He continued up the stairs, the landlord lumbering after him.
    His purse lighter by eleven guineas, his conscience by a debt paid, he slit open the seal of the letter. Holding it in one hand and tugging off his neckcloth with the other, he moved to the window to read it.
    “Confound it!” He raced out to the landing and shouted down the stairs, “Burkle, is today really the thirtieth?”
    The landlord’s injured face turned up to him. “Have I ever lied to you, Mr Courtenay?”
    “Hot water! At once, if not sooner!”
    Washed, shaved, and dressed for driving in a brown coat, buckskin breeches, and top-boots, Miles hurried towards St James’s. The caped greatcoat over one arm and portmanteau in the opposite hand were scarcely suitable burdens for a gentleman, but few if any of the Polite World were yet about. He ran up the steps of Lord Haverford’s mansion and beat a tattoo on the door.
    As the porter opened the door, the butler was crossing the marble-floored hall with a steaming coffee-pot.
    “Bristow!” Miles cried, entering without ceremony. “Is Lord Thorpe at home?”
    “I shall enquire in a moment, sir,” said the butler, unmoved, and proceeded on his stately way towards the breakfast parlour.
    “It’s urgent. Wake him if necessary.” He set down his portmanteau on the floor, tossed his overcoat on a chair, handed hat and gloves to the porter, and ran his hand through his hair.
    From the breakfast parlour came Lady Haverford’s stentorian tones. “Tell Mr Courtenay to come here,” she commanded.
    Bristow reappeared, sans coffee-pot. “Her ladyship requests the pleasure of your company, sir.”
    With a groan, Miles complied, saying over his shoulder, “For heaven’s sake, tell Thorpe I need him.”
    The Marchioness of Haverford, who happened to be his godmother, possessed a figure as imposing as her voice. Dressed in eau de Nil figured silk, she sat at breakfast with her youngest daughter, a pretty young lady in pink jaconet muslin who blushed as she caught Miles’s eye. She it was who had likened him to a pirate.
    He made his bows. “I beg your pardon for intruding, ma’am. I did not expect any of the family to be down.”
    “Lottie has fittings this morning. Well, Miles, what brings you bellowing for Gerald at this unlikely hour? Have you breakfasted?”
    “As a matter of fact, no.” He was ravenous, he realized, and it would be crackbrained to set off for Dorset on an empty stomach.
    “Sit down, dear boy, and Bristow shall bring you a beefsteak. Lottie, pour coffee for Mr Courtenay.”
    “Yes, Mama.” Lady Charlotte blushed again as she handed him the cup. Miles wondered what tales she had been told about him. Though Lady Haverford had a kindness for her girlhood friend’s orphaned son, she’d have left her daughter in no doubt of the ineligibility of a