Page 28 of The Wedding Challenge

Callie laughed. “Careful, Sir Lucien. Someday someone is going to take you up on one of your jests, and then what will you do?”

He cast a laughing sideways glance at her as he murmured, “There is always a trip to the Continent.”

A smile still lingering on her lips, Callie turned to glance out over the audience again. Her eye was caught by movement as the door to one of the boxes opened and two men entered it, casually chatting. One of them was the Earl of Bromwell.

Callie’s heart began to pound, and she quickly glanced away. She kept her face turned firmly from the box, letting some time pass before she made another slow survey of the house.

It was, indeed, her Cavalier of the other night, dressed more sedately in black jacket and breeches, a blindingly white shirtfront and cravat showing between the lapels of his jacket. He had taken off his greatcoat and now sat in one of the chairs, the other man beside him. His arm was on the ledge of the box before him, and he was half turned toward his companion. She could not see his expression. But she remembered well enough how he looked—the smile that started with a crinkling around his eyes and spread to his lips, the gray of his eyes that changed to silver or the dark color of a storm cloud depending on the emotion that touched his face.

Callie turned toward her friends. “Who are those gentlemen in the box to our right—almost in the center of the theater? One has dark hair, and the other is lighter, almost blond.”

Francesca turned to scan the audience. “The box beside Lady Whittington and her daughter?”

Callie turned to check, and this time she found Lord Bromwell and his companion looking straight at her box. Color rushed into her cheeks. The earl smiled faintly and nodded to her.

“Yes,” Callie said in a constrained voice and quickly looked back down at her hands.

“Do you know him?” Francesca asked, astonished.

“Not exactly. I—he was at Lady Pencully’s party.”

“Who wasn’t?” Sir Lucien asked rhetorically as he, too, swiveled his head to gaze at the two men. “I do not recognize the dark one, but the other is Archibald Tilford.” He glanced back at Callie. “He is not anyone for you to consider. Pleasant chap, but he lives on a stipend from his cousin—wait.” Sir Lucien paused, frowning a little, and turned back to look once again at the other box. “Yes, that just might be his cousin. The Earl of Bromwell. If it is, he would definitely be a contender. I have met him only once, a few years back. Yes, that could be he.”

“The Earl of Bromwell…” Francesca said consideringly. “I don’t think—oh.” She stiffened slightly. “Do you mean the brother of Lady Swithington?”

Sir Lucien nodded. “He is rarely in London. He went north to his estate in Yorkshire when he inherited—oh, a good ten years ago. Not long after I left Oxford. The old earl’s pockets were pretty much to let when he died, but they say the son has recovered their fortune. Better than that, actually. I hear the man is positively wallowing in money now.”

“How did he make all this money?” Callie asked.

Sir Lucien gave her a droll look. “My dear, I haven’t the faintest idea. But I do know that the family does not like to discuss it. The whiff of trade, you see.”

“I cannot imagine why people feel they need to hide the fact that one makes money. Sinclair always says that he sees no reason why gentility should have to include poverty.”

“For some, I fear, gentility is one’s only asset,” Sir Lucien replied.

“Alas, not a very marketable one,” Francesca added wryly.

Francesca continued to study the man in the other box. He and his companion were no longer looking in their direction but were once again chatting. From time to time the earl glanced down at the playbill in his hand.

Finally Francesca said in a careful voice, “Do you wish to add him to your list of prospects?”

Callie shrugged, doing her best to look unconcerned, as if her stomach had not turned somersaults when he looked over at her. “I—the other night at the party he seemed…pleasant.”

She looked over at Francesca. There was something in the other woman’s eyes, an expression of—she was not sure what. Uneasiness, perhaps? Francesca glanced at Sir Lucien, then down at her hands.

“What?” Callie asked, straightening. “Do you know aught about this man? Is there some black spot in his past?”

“No. Indeed, I do not know him at all,” Francesca assured her, shifting a little in her seat.

Callie narrowed her eyes, studying her, and Francesca went on, “I know his sister…slightly.”

“You know something bad about her?”

“I—truly, I do not know her well,” Francesca said. “I—she has lived for the past few years in Wales, I believe, at the estate of her aging husband. I have heard, however, that he has recently departed this world, and she is a widow. No doubt, she will now return to London to find another wealthy husband.”

Callie recognized a distinct trace of venom in Francesca’s voice, and she wondered at the cause of it. It was unlike Francesca to display even that much ugly emotion. She was normally one to turn aside a barb when someone else made it, or to couch her own remarks, even disparaging ones, in a light and witty way. But, clearly, she did not like the earl’s sister. Callie would have liked to pursue the matter, but, just as clearly, it was not a topic that Francesca wished to discuss.

“Ah, look, the play is about to start,” Francesca said, turning toward the stage with an air of relief.