Lord Harry's Folly by Catherine Coulter (good romance books to read TXT) 📗

that hadn’t mattered then, nor did it now. He’d been silent and he’d been there.

Jason pumped his hand in welcome, but forbore to clap him on his gaunt shoulders. Jason’s mood lifted. He studied his fingernails, then said in that bored lazy drawl he knew his uncle couldn’t abide, “Don’t tell me, Uncle, that the Tories have taken to meeting in this frivolous place? Have votes become that hard for you to collect?”

His uncle wasn’t to be drawn, which was disappointing, but one still had to try. Jason smiled at his uncle even as Lord Melberry said, “At least you do read the newspaper, my boy. I don’t suppose the article has aught to do with politics.” Lord Melberry removed his bony hand from his nephew’s strong clasp, grunted in vague disapproval at his surroundings, and flipping up his black coattails, sat down in one of White’s plush leather armchairs, across from his nephew.

“Nary a bit,” the marquess replied cheerfully. “What with Bonaparte no longer pulling our English tails, the only news worth reading is the gossip about the Regent.” He gazed with some amusement at his uncle, wondering as he had many times before, whatever possessed his delightful, flighty aunt, Lady Corinna Melberry, to wed herself to this dour, single-mindedly political gentleman.

Lord Melberry looked about the reading room. Although it was a sober enough place, he knew that most of White’s members were drawn just beyond the great double doors to the glittering gaming salon.

“You’re looking well, Nephew,” he said finally, slewing his eyes back to the marquess. “It’s a relief. You looked like bloody hell before you left for Italy.”

“Thank you, Uncle. I’m pleased you noticed, though surprised that you did. As you can see, though, I’m back to my old habits. Why are you here? Ah, I see. To track down the fox, one must go ahunting to his lair.”

“And you don’t look any the worse for all those months in Italy,” Lord Melberry continued, refusing to be baited. Nor was he quite ready to spring the purpose of his mission on his unsuspecting nephew. “I suppose all that interminable sun and heat must occasionally lift a man’s spirits.”

“As you see, Uncle,” the marquess said. “I trust my aunt is well?”

“Have you ever known your aunt to be otherwise?” Lord Melberry said in a sour voice. “Damnation, here I, a serious man, a man committed to England and her future, I must be plagued with gout. Whereas your aunt, who never concerns herself with anything but worthless amusements, bearing children and the like, is ever the very picture of enduring health.”

“Perhaps all the gods who decide such things for we pathetic mortals aren’t Tories, Uncle.”

“You jest, boy, and it doesn’t suit you. It suits your aunt, but not you.”

“Ah, well, Uncle, I can but be myself. Now what is it I can do for you?”

The marquess thought of his engagement with the Earl of March and Lord Alvaney to arrange a boxing match near to London without the magistrates getting wind of it and wondered if he even cared to go. It seemed a waste of time. His uncle was still silent and Jason raised an eyebrow at him. His uncle was dithering? Surely not. Jason said, “I know that you must be much occupied, sir, what with the Whigs and Tories stabbing political knives in each other’s backs. Come, Uncle, why would you search out such a fribble as myself? Not, of course, that I’m not excessively flattered.”

“The Cavanders were always a flighty bunch,” Lord Melberry said without much heat. It had been several years now since he had ceased his most pressing efforts to bring his nephew into the Tory fold. As all his arguments had met unerringly with a smile of amused indifference, he had eventually admitted defeat. “If you must know, my boy, I am here to execute a favor for your aunt.”

“Oh, God, please tell me she hasn’t brought out another tongue-tied young miss for my perusal.”

“Hardly, Jason, since your own wife hasn’t yet been dead a year.” He wished instantly that he hadn’t been so blunt, for he saw a strange bitter gleam in his nephew’s dark eyes.

“Forgive my lack of tact, Jason, but these things happen and a man must get on with life.”

That was true, Jason thought, staring at his uncle.

“Now attend me, Nephew. Your aunt asked me to encourage you in the strongest fashion possible to get you to come to one of her soirees.”

“What? My poor aunt finds that she suddenly has thirteen sitting down to dinner?”

“It must be so. She was wringing her hands until she recalled that you’d come home. I trust you are not otherwise engaged for tonight, Jason?”

The marquess had planned to escort Melissande to Covent Garden this evening. But then again, he quite liked his good-natured aunt and wanted to see her. A mistress was one thing, but a beloved aunt was another. “I should be delighted, sir. What time does my aunt require my presence?”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea. Come when you’re hungry. Now, lad, if you’ll excuse me, I have much to do this afternoon.” The tone of his voice left no doubt in Jason’s mind that his uncle considered this commission on behalf of his beloved to be a shocking waste of his valuable time.

He rose and cordially shook his uncle’s thin hand. A smile touched his lips as he watched his uncle grunt a stiff greeting to a gentleman who had the misfortune to offer a polite “how d’ye do.”

“He may be your uncle, your grace,” Mr. Denby said a few moments later, “but I swear that politics does naught to a man but make him act like his trousers are too tight in the crotch.”

Jason Cavander laughed. “Be relieved, Denby, that he isn’t your relative, though he isn’t so bad.”

Jason strode downstairs, deciding how many guineas he would wager with Alvaney over the new prizefighter he was backing.

While the marquess was attempting to set a wager with