A Most Indecent Gentleman. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.

      Chapter One

      One visual sweep of the ballroom was enough to confirm Cassandra Burroughs’s initial suspicion, but she looked twice just to be sure. She only needed one, as long as he was the right one. In this case, the right one was Jocelyn Eisley, heir to an earldom. That was the reason every woman in the ballroom was looking for him. But not her. She was looking because he was the key to her uncle’s revenge. First, she had to find him.

      Cass ran through the checklist in her mind; broad-shouldered, blond, taller than most, full-bodied in a muscular robust way familiar to those who are acquainted with the well-built Englishman in his prime. She’d never met Eisley before, but surely she’d recognize a man in possession of such a stunning array of attributes on sight. He shouldn’t be hard to spot, especially against the rather dismal backdrop of men on display in Lady Martin-Burke’s ballroom. Unless, of course, such a man didn’t exist or her uncle had exaggerated his physical attributes.

      The latter would be most disappointing. The thought of a man meeting Eisley’s purported description was a rather exciting one. Men were usually predictable creatures; flatter them and they’d do anything for you. Even the newest of debutantes knew that much. Eisley might prove to be refreshingly different. Hopefully, not too different though. She had a job to do, after all. It would be a bonus if Eisley turned out to be the stuff of dreams in the interim.

      Not that it mattered. Cass immediately dismissed the thought as disloyal. Having an affinity for the so-far-elusive Eisley was definitely an inappropriate attachment of her emotions. Whether she liked it or not, she owed her loyalty at present to her uncle. It was her uncle who had called her up to town for the Little Season and who was paying for her expenses, wardrobe included. Otherwise, she’d still be languishing in the Dorset countryside, a casualty of her own headstrong nature and the quirk of fate that saw her father born the second son of a baron and not the first. She was twenty-one. She would soon be on the shelf and there just weren’t that many men to pick from in Dorset. Although all it seemed London had on Dorset at the moment was quantity, her uncle had given her a second chance.

      In return, she was to ferret out Eisley’s supposed secrets, of which her uncle was sure there were many. Her uncle had given her an agenda: to determine Eisley’s association with the scandalous and currently absent Nicholas D’Arcy and by extension, the truth behind the rumored existence of the League of Discreet Gentlemen, an organization reportedly dedicated to the fulfillment of a woman’s pleasure. Last spring, her uncle had been cuckolded in his own home by D’Arcy, and D’Arcy hadn’t been seen in London since, although news of his sudden marriage to a fabulously wealthy Sussex heiress had circulated through the ton at the end of the Season.

      That had been in August. Now it was November, the Little Season; one last chance for parliament and society to gather before Christmas holidays drove everyone to their country estates. Her uncle was certain with society in town, the league would be busy and visible, thus the need for her presence. She was to be Eisley’s enticement.

      If Eisley wasn’t in the ballroom, he might be in the card rooms, where he could potentially stay for a very long while. If so, she’d miss him entirely unless she went to him. Card rooms were not terribly ladylike venues, but she didn’t have a choice. It was either search him out or report back empty-handed to her uncle.

      The card rooms were not hard to find. Lady Martin-Burke had set them up in a pair of adjoining rooms down the hall from the ballroom. The corridor was dark, perhaps to discourage young misses from wandering down it to the dens of gentlemen’s iniquity, but one could hardly overlook them, dark hall or not. The rooms announced themselves in a spill of masculine laughter that filled the dim hallway. Cass hurried toward the sounds, careful to keep out of sight of the door. It wouldn’t do to be spotted.

      She knew very well she was only one scandal away from being sent home to Dorset in eternal shame. Her uncle had made it clear she was to be discreet in her dealings with Eisley. Her uncle would not tolerate any “funny business,” as he called it, the way her father had. In his opinion, it had been years of tolerance that had led to her current situation. It was politely hoped among her family that her liveliness would fit better in London where living was generally faster and there were more entertainments to provide outlets for all that vivacity. She’d been far too “lively” of a girl for the bucolic life of Dorset. Less politely put, her family