Lord Wraybourne's Betrothed Read Free Page A

disquieting satisfaction. Lord Wraybourne wondered if he would have been wiser to have been noncommittal.
    But Mr. Moulton-Scrope pressed on. “There’s someone loose on the town attacking young women. Young ladies I should say, I suppose. Overwhelms ’em, takes ’em somewhere, has his way, and dumps ’em. Nasty business.”
    “Very! How is it I have heard nothing of it?”
    “Well, it isn’t a matter the families would want in the broadsheets. In fact, I suspect there may be more victims than the three we know of. It’s only because of contacts with the families and rumors that those are known. And all in confidence.”
    “Are you saying these are women of our class?” Lord Wraybourne was astonished.
    Mr. Moulton-Scrope shook his head. “No, no. Our young gels don’t go about unescorted. No, these are more of the middling class. They do an occasional errand alone. In fact, one victim is a music teacher and goes about her appointments every day. But still ladies. They do not deserve to be so attacked.”
    “I doubt any woman does, not even those who offer themselves for money. But forgive me, Uncle. I do not see how this can affect me.”
    Mr. Moulton-Scrope watched his nephew withdraw himself while remaining quite pleasant on the surface. It was a nasty habit. It must be the way his lids shielded those deceptively lazy eyes. It was because he knew Lord Wraybourne was never lazy and had a powerful and perceptive brain that he was seeking his aid.
    “You did say you would help,” he reminded.
    His nephew sighed. “I knew I would regret that.”
    “The two previous victims of which we have knowledge were attacked before Christmas. We thought we’d seen the last of it but now there’s another. And the devil of it is, the latest victim is the daughter of one of Prinny’s favorite musicians. Believe me, royalty do not like to think of violent assault in any way connected to them. Orders have come down that the miscreant must be found.”
    “What of Fielding’s Runners? Is this not their kind of work?”
    “Hah. They are thief catchers! This is too delicate a business. For the sake of the young ladies there must be no talk.”
    “Then what will be done if the man is caught? A trial will reveal all.”
    A disconcerting hardness was seen in the older man’s eyes. “The letter of the law is not always the way to spell justice.”
    “You alarm me, Uncle.”
    “Nothing ever alarms you. You’re a damned cool fish, David, but you’re one of the cleverest men I know. You also like to mix with the artist set. Your mother is always complaining you’d rather spend time with a bunch of philosophers than searching for a bride.”
    “Quite true.”
    Mr. Moulton-Scrope was distracted for a moment. “Should apply yourself, my boy. Past thirty. Need to set up your nursery. Besides, it might get Selina from drooping around Bath mourning your father. It’s been two years.”
    Lord Wraybourne took up Sophie’s paper and pointed to the social notices with one long, perfectly manicured finger.
    His uncle choked. “The Sandiford heiress. Well done, my boy. Well done indeed! I didn’t know she was on the Town.”
    “She’s not. I met her in Gloucestershire.”
    “Do the Sandifords entertain then? I thought it was against their principles or something. I met them once at a devilish dull do. Something to do with succoring ex-slaves. Couldn’t help feeling that if I was a blackie I’d think twice before accepting succor from such as they.”
    “Lady Sandiford has a stern view of life,” agreed Lord Wraybourne with a slight smile.
    “What about the daughter? You know what they say about daughters ending up like their mothers.”
    “Are you trying to make me cry off?” Lord Wraybourne asked in mock fright. “And abandon all that money?”
    “Ha! Laugh if you like, my boy. Sermons are damned uncomfortable bedfellows even if they’re printed with gold leaf.”
    Lord Wraybourne’s lids drooped even lower, as if