Fran Baker Read Free

usual stir as the news of their arrival rippled through the excited belles and their grasping mamas.
    “I had no idea they’d returned to Town,” whispered one turbaned matron to another.
    “My dear Mrs. Baldwin, surely you realized that those two make it a habit to always be where you least expect them,” responded her companion behind her fan.
    Thrilled to have London’s two most sought-after bachelors grace her evening, thus assuring the rating of her ball as a success, Lady Carmichael waited breathlessly for them to reach her. “I am so pleased,” she gushed as the pair came forward, “to have you attend my small gathering.”
    Her small gathering consisted of some two hundred of the Town’s beau monde squeezed into her drawing room, numerous small salons and her columned ballroom. Several people had opted for a few rubbers of whist in the salons, but Stratford and Maret went purposefully into the marbled ballroom. There, beneath the bright glow of hundreds of candles, they were entertained by an orchestra at the far end of the room and surrounded by elegantly dressed guests passing the latest on dits and drinking vast amounts of flowing champagne.
    “I perceive that my instincts were, as usual, correct,” intoned Maret as they stood surveying the scene. “Every fresh miss of the season is here.”
    “Well, to quote the earl, pick one and be done with it,” Colin said impatiently as his dark gaze swept the room.
    “Dear boy, you cannot rush an artist,” Maret protested.
    They moved leisurely through the rooms, nodding to acquaintances and skillfully depressing the attentions of overzealous mamas and social climbers while intently studying and eliminating various damsels from the rank of viscountess. They were seriously regarding a slender fair beauty whom Stratford had termed delectable when that unfortunate miss laughed.
    “I cannot feel that you can possibly wish for a wife whose laugh sounds like a jungle screech,” Maret remarked.
    “No, I must admit, even my dogs bark more gently,” agreed the viscount. As he turned his gaze from the blonde, he suddenly said with a hint of disgust, “Oh, Lord, here comes my cousin Daniel.”
    “What, the preacher-faced one?” Maret asked as he raised his quizzing glass.
    “He’s a good enough fellow, but he’s so damned solemn and pure, he makes Cromwell look like a hardened libertine.”
    The young man coming toward them did indeed look solemn, but there was a friendly shine to his hazel eyes that bespoke a kind nature. Physically, the two cousins were as dissimilar as their modes of life. Daniel was of moderate height rather than tall, and though he was dark like Colin, his face was more oval than square and his eyes did not turn down in the lazy manner of Stratford’s. His nose was narrow where his cousin’s was broad and no one would ever describe his straight lips as sensual. Daniel Baldwin was, moreover, of a calm temperament utterly foreign to Colin Phillips.
    As he reached his cousin, Daniel stretched out a hand. “You did not rusticate long, Colin. Did Grandfather give you a proper set-down? My mother was certain he would.”
    “I fear I must once again disappoint my Aunt Minerva,” Stratford replied. “I believe you are not acquainted with my friend, Jacques Maret? My cousin, Daniel Baldwin.”
    Baldwin bowed correctly, but the friendly light went out of his eyes. Mr. Maret was, in his opinion, a disturbing influence on one whose tendencies were already far too wind. Stratford’s reckless escapades had long been a source of embarrassment to the Baldwin side of the family, whose members were forever counseling the young viscount to more sedate pursuits, thus spurring Stratford on to some of his worst scrapes.
    With a coldness that quite amused Jacques, Daniel turned away from him to inquire of his cousin, “Why did you not stay longer at Hallbrook? I’m certain Grandfather would have liked your company and it would do you no harm to