densely packed square and disquiet threaded through him. A female on her own would prove an easy target for the many predators prowling the Gardens—thieves, pickpockets...and worse.
He frowned, recalling the way Beatrice had taken fright at Clevedon’s suggestion of a kiss or two. That was not the reaction of a married lady out with her lover. And, now he came to think about it, neither was Clevedon’s suggestion one that Hugo would ever have expected of the man who was now examining that ruby and diamond necklace with a look of pure satisfaction on his face.
‘Care to enlighten me as to who the mysterious Beatrice is, Clevedon?’
Clevedon smiled smugly. ‘My salvation, dear boy. My future wife.’
‘Your wife?’ Hugo’s astonishment was perhaps too overt and Clevedon looked up with suddenly narrowed eyes.
‘Why ever not?’ he said, evenly. ‘A man in my position must marry eventually. The Beauchamp chit is as good as any.’
Hugo racked his brain to come up with a mental picture of Cheriton’s daughter. Their paths rarely crossed; young ladies in their first Season held no appeal for him and he, as a younger son with no prospects, held even less appeal for them. Or for their parents. Lady Olivia Beauchamp. He remembered her now: a true beauty, with a willowy figure and the same black hair and silver-grey eyes as her sire. And utterly innocent. Anger stirred, deep in his gut.
What the hell is Beauchamp about, bringing his sister here and then abandoning her?
‘I never had you down as the marrying kind, Clevedon.’
Hugo had always suspected the other man’s proclivities, but that was a delicate—not to say, illegal—matter and not one he could even mention, although he was aware Clevedon was not the first man to prefer the company of other men and neither would he be the last. He could see now that Clevedon’s suggestion of a kiss in payment for the debt had been an elaborate ruse... Clevedon had known damned well that the Lady Olivia Beauchamp would never consent to walking down those shady pathways with him. He had well and truly hooked her in.
Clevedon shrugged. ‘It is not by choice, dear boy, but I find myself in need of a wife with a wealthy father. And they don’t come much wealthier than Cheriton. Besides, our marriage would be one of pure convenience. My life need not change.’
Distaste mushroomed in Hugo’s gut. Lady Olivia might be a spoilt little rich girl who wanted for nothing—and a foolish chit for taking the risks she had tonight—and yet he could still find sympathy for a young girl who would marry with high hopes only to find her dreams dashed by the indifference and neglect of her husband.
His face must have revealed his feelings because Clevedon laughed out loud.
‘Scruples, my dear Hugo? Surely not.’
Hugo stood up. ‘I don’t approve of playing games with innocents.’
‘Needs must, dear boy. Needs must. It would not be my choice were things different, but her dowry will compensate for the inconvenience. And, of course, there will be the added bonus of marrying into such a powerful family.’
‘You think you can force Cheriton into agreeing to a marriage?’
Clevedon shrugged again. ‘Why not? When a juicy plum like the Catch of the Season drops into one’s lap, it would be remiss not to take advantage. And now, with this,’ he held the sparkling necklace aloft, ‘I have the means to exert a little additional persuasion, shall we say.’
Hugo tried to mask his revulsion at what Clevedon had in store for the girl. Marrying money was one thing. Ruining a girl’s reputation and innocence in order to force a wedding was beyond the pale, particularly when the man had no taste for female flesh.
‘Look here, Alastair. It was her decision to come here, presumably against Cheriton’s orders.’ Clevedon shrugged. ‘If she wants to play with the grown-ups, she must accept the consequences, as must her fool of a brother. He, too, will get his comeuppance very soon, if I’m not mistaken.’
His words resurrected a memory from earlier that evening—Sir Peter Tadlow cajoling Marie Shelton, ‘Please, Marie’, until Marie, with an irritated huff, had flounced out of the supper box and intercepted Beauchamp, Wolfe and their female companion. Tadlow had followed Marie from the box and not returned. Not that that was any loss—Hugo never had taken to the man. But he had wondered at the time why Marie—mercenary to her core—was bothering with Lord Alexander Beauchamp, whose pockets always seemed to be to let, even with a father like the Duke of Cheriton, who was rich as Croesus. Why had she draped herself all over Beauchamp and plied him with punch before enticing him away from the supper box? And where did Tadlow fit in?
‘What was Marie up to, with young Beauchamp?’
Clevedon’s eyes gleamed. ‘What do you think? Use your imagination, Alastair, do. I declare, you are growing dull of late.’
‘Yes. But why?’ Watching young Beauchamp had put Hugo in mind of his younger self—a young man on the path to self-destruction. ‘And where did Tadlow disappear to?’
Clevedon sighed. ‘You are like a dog with a bone, Alastair.’ He slipped the necklace into his pocket. ‘Tadlow,’ he said, with exaggerated patience, ‘was keen to avoid being seen by Beauchamp. He’s got some scheme or other planned.’
‘Scheme?’
Clevedon shrugged. ‘Something about revenge on Cheriton—seems he interfered in some plan Tadlow had to wed Bulbridge to Lady Helena Caldicot. Tadlow’s her uncle on her mother’s side.’
Sir Peter Tadlow and Viscount Bulbridge—and Bulbridge’s cousin, Douglas Randall—were recent additions to Hugo’s circle and he could not like any of them. All three were the sort of dissolute fellows that should serve as a stellar warning to unwary young bucks: Look closely, lads, for here lies your future. An unwary young buck such as he had been at the age of seventeen when he had set out to squeeze every last drop of pleasure from life without regard to the consequences.
Dear God. That was nine years ago!
‘Anyway,’ Clevedon continued, ‘Cheriton stuck his nose in, as is his wont, and put a stop to it so they’re out to bleed him through his son. Tadlow reckons Cheriton owes him. And young Beauchamp can look after himself—it’s no different for him than it is for his silly sister. If they come out to play with the adults, they must be prepared.’ He smiled wolfishly. ‘Now, much as I enjoy your oh-so-charming company, Alastair, old man, I think I shall join the others next door. Coming?’
Hugo could stomach no more tonight.
‘No. I’m off to my club. I’ll say goodnight.’
He left the box and plunged into the crowds, sick with disgust as he wondered why the hell he was still hanging around with Clevedon and his ilk, with their louche, care-for-nothing ways. Hugo might have always been wild and reckless, but he would never deliberately ruin an innocent girl for the sake of money and he would never stoop to using a young man to wreak revenge on his father. It was almost as though a veil had lifted from his eyes and he saw for the first time some of their true characters.
He had only attended tonight because it was Clevedon’s birthday, but he’d already decided it was time to stop socialising with this crowd altogether. In the past year or so he had gradually clawed his way out of the swamp of vices that had held him captive for so long, but he was aware it would be all too easy to slide back into the mire. A few too many drinks, and judgement and common sense were pissed down the gutter along with the alcohol.
Anger at the way the two youngsters had been targeted by Tadlow and Clevedon continued to gnaw at Hugo as he strolled through the hordes gathering to enjoy the fireworks display. Of the two, Clevedon was the most dangerous because he was welcomed almost everywhere in the ton and far more readily than Hugo himself was accepted. Parents fawned over him, eager for a title for their daughters and, if his plan to compromise her succeeded, he was the sort of man Cheriton might very well accept as a