Lord Wraybourne's Betrothed Read Free Page B

to hide amusement. “How very poetic, Uncle,” he murmured. But he was seeing large dark eyes set in creamy skin and a mass of rich ebony hair hanging in a simple braid down to his betrothed’s waist. That hair already disturbed his sleep.
    “But enough of your business,” declared Mr. Moulton-Scope, ending any hope Lord Wraybourne had of deflecting him. “You’re old enough to make your bed and make the best of it. I want you to go about your artist and donnish friends and see what you can find. Other victims, rumors, other gentlemen who move in those circles.”
    “You suspect a gentleman?”
    His uncle nodded. “The victims can tell us very little. When they recover consciousness they are in the dark. But they all agree that their attacker was clean. Now you know how uncommon that is outside of the upper class, despite the influence of Brummell. Sometimes think he should be honored for that, a title maybe.”
    “I’m afraid the Marquis of Bath is already spoken for. Lord Wash, perhaps?”
    Mr. Moulton-Scrope chuckled. “Aye, that’s a good one. No chance, of course, now he’s fallen out with the Regent. Man’s a fool. Forgot. He’s a friend of yours.”
    Lord Wraybourne did not seem concerned. “I do not insist that all my friends be considered totally admirable.”
    “Just as well when Ashby’s one of them. Boy’s a reprobate!”
    “Lord Randal is nearly thirty, Uncle. He was only a few years behind me at Eton.”
    “Then he’s old enough to know better. Too much time on his hands. He’s the sort who’d be well off at the war. I was surprised to see him escorting Sophie as I arrived. You need to watch him.”
    “Randal?” Lord Wraybourne was astonished. “He’s like a brother. The Kyles and Ashbys have run together for generations. I grant he’s not husband material but he would never let any harm come to Sophie. I trust him implicitly.” There was a firmness in his tone that was a warning. Mr. Moulton-Scrope heeded it and returned to his business.
    “Well. What were we saying? Brummell, Bath, ah yes. Our man is clean. He also reeks of lavender water and has soft hands. Likely a gentleman.”
    “A clerk? A music master?” prompted Lord Wraybourne.
    His uncle shook his head. “There’s something else. He called each woman by name. He whispered so they couldn’t recognize his voice but he knew them. Was nasty in what he said too, though none of them can think of any man with cause to hate her. The point is that they were chosen victims but trapped in an opportune moment—when they took a shortcut by a secluded path or when caught in a sudden fog.”
    “Watched, you mean,” said Lord Wraybourne thoughtfully. “So an employed person is not possible. They have too little free time. An unemployed?”
    “Uses a carriage, my boy. A clean one too. Look at the timing as well. Up for the Little Season playing his nasty games. Home for Christmas. Back again now ready for the Spring Season. It’s a gentleman and we want him.”
    Lord Wraybourne played idly with the Kyle ring, his crest cut into a cabochon ruby. “I do not relish the role of spy. I cannot see why you have come to me for this.”
    “We suspect there may have been more attacks, hushed up to protect the gels’ reputations. You already have the entrée to that group and you have a way with you that gets people to trust you. If, as we suspect, the villain is a gentleman who mixes with these people, who better than you to sniff him out? You have a mind like a mantrap.”
    “Mixing your hunting metaphors, Uncle. I was anticipating being rather busy in the next few weeks. Sophie’s making her debut this Season.”
    “Does that mean Selina’s coming to town? Do her good.”
    “No, my mother won’t come. As you say, she is still mourning my father. Maria is to do the honors.”
    Mr. Moulton-Scrope choked on a piece of bread. “My Maria?” he exclaimed, amazed at the thought of his daughter in this role. “Good God, she needs