Chapter Ten
Bane
Bane and Drake had not been invited to dinner before the ball.
They had not even known there was a dinner before the ball, until they had encountered Jasper Marple at a coffee shop that morning.
They had been discussing a problem—the contract for the cutlery machine had been sent to Sheffield a fortnight ago, but they’d heard nothing back from Pentworth.
Bane was concerned. What if something had happened to their engineer or his wife? An accident, perhaps. What if he had sold the idea to someone else? Drake, as usual, was more relaxed about the possibilities.
“We can write again,” he said. “Otherwise, short of going back to Sheffield, we cannot know what is going on, and I see no point in worrying about it, when everything is probably as it should be, except that our prospective partner has a bad cold, or a busy schedule, or too much to drink.”
Drake might be right, but since Bane didn’t have his optimistic attitude, he was going to worry whether Drake thought he should or not. And too much drink would be a problem for the project, come to think of it.
Deep in conversation, they didn’t see Marple till he stood over them. “If it isn’t Sanderson and his half-brother.”
“Marple,” Drake acknowledged.
“Lord Marple to you, Sanderson,” Marple sneered.
Bane stood and bowed extravagantly. “Lord Marple,” he said.
Marple’s sneer deepened. He turned his shoulder toward Bane and addressed Drake. “I see your father’s bastard still hides his face around decent people,” he commented.
Drake’s face flushed and he half-stood, but Bane put a hand on his shoulder. “The yapping of an unweaned pup,” he commented.
Marple’s companion snickered, and the young viscount forgot he was ignoring Bane and attempted to loom over him. “What did you call me?”
No doubt the looming trick worked with some, but Bane was half a head taller and considerably more muscular than Marple. He raised an eyebrow. “Did you not hear it?” he lied smoothly. “From outside? It sounded like a pup.”
“It did,” Drake confirmed. “One that still has a great deal to learn.”
“You were talking about me,” Marple insisted.
“Why would you think that?” asked Bane, doing his best imitation of gently puzzled.
The friend snickered again. They had been introduced to him, Bane realized.
His name was Curston and he was the son of a baron who was, unless Bane missed his guess, Lady Marple’s lover, or at least a very close friend who wanted to be a lover.
The younger Curston, who was a year or two older than Marple, had been at the infamous party Colin had held in Frannie’s absence.
“He’s got you there, Marps,” Curston said. “You don’t want to agree you were yapping, do you? Best leave it at that.”
With a fulminating glare at his friend, Marple announced, “We had best be off. We need to dress for Mama’s dinner. All the best people are invited to dinner before the girls’ ball, and Mama has asked me most especially to be there, to greet the important guests.”
The way he watched Bane and Drake for a reaction hinted that the exposition was for them, not for the friend. He’d have been disappointed. Drake said, “Good afternoon, Lord Marple.” To the other gentleman, he inclined his head. “Mr. Curston.”
“We shall see you later then,” said Bane, purely to get a rise out of the arrogant young pup.
Marple grimaced, and said to his friend, “I do not know what Mama was thinking.”
Bane decided he’d teased the young lord enough, and didn’t need Drake’s warning look to keep his mouth shut. The two brothers watched the two aristocrats leave the cafe, and Bane half expected Drake to scold him for being provocative.
Instead, his brother grinned. “The yapping of an unweaned pup. Nicely put. Our poor ladies, with that for a cousin. Of course, it’s his own heritage that makes him so quick to put others down.
He thinks if he attacks the class from which his mother came, others will forget that she was merchant-born. ”
Yes, possibly. Probably, in fact. “You have a point. There are men in the investment club who are as high-born or higher. In Drew’s case, much higher. None of them ever seem to feel the need to make me—or you, either—feel lesser.”
“Yes, and there’s also Wart.” Lord and Lady Wharton had arrived in London last week, and Bane and Drake had called and left a card. In response, the couple had sent them an invitation to dine with them and a few other close friends. It had been a most convivial evening.
“Garry, too,” Drake added. “He’s never behaved as if there was any difference. Not even last time we saw him.”
“A duke’s grandson, and his heir, too, after his father. Blue blood on both sides, going back to the Conqueror, and further I don’t doubt.”
Gareth Versey, the Marquess of Thornstead, had been godson to Marple’s father, and had stayed with the Marples for a couple of weeks most summers.
He was the same age as Bane and Drake, and they had racketed across the countryside together whenever they could escape from their tutors, picking up their friendship each summer as if the intervening months had been a mirage.
“Last time we saw him, when he came down for Lord Marple’s funeral, he had no more ‘side’ than when he was a boy.”
Perhaps they should look Thornstead up now they were in London.
Though it had been five years since they last saw him, for Lord Marple died a few months after their father.
At the time, he had still been a viscount, a courtesy title as the heir’s heir.
And he was preparing to be married—an arranged marriage, about which he was philosophical.
“Grandfather is on his last legs,” he had said, “so I shall be heir to Dellborough soon enough. It’s best I get on with making the next generation. ”
Perhaps Lady Thornstead would not be pleased to meet her husband’s commoner friends. Perhaps Thornstead had grown more aware of his exalted status now his father was the duke and he, himself, had moved up to the courtesy title of marquess, rather than viscount.
Apparently, Drake had no such reservations. “We should visit him, Bane. I imagine he has children by now, do you not think so?”
“We could try,” Bane said. “Don’t be surprised if he no longer wishes for the connection, Drake.”
As it turned out, there was no need for Bane’s reservations.
Later that evening, they arrived at the assembly hall Lady Marple had hired for her ball. They made their way through the Marple receiving line, offering compliments to Lady Marple and all five of her charges—thoroughly deserved.
Miss Olivia Wintergreen took Bane’s breath away in another of the rich jewel colors she’d taken to wearing—this one a sort of reddy-purple, like the pansies his mother had grown in their garden when he was a little child.
The gown clung to her curves as she moved and made her eyes look even more silver than usual.
The courtesies observed, they gave their names to the butler at the ballroom door, were announced, and went in to find a place along the wall where they could observe the crowd and still watch the entrance for those in the receiving line—or, more specifically, the Wintergreen sisters—to enter the ballroom.
But they’d been there for no more than a minute when a tall blond gentleman hurried up, a pretty dark-haired lady on his arm.
“It is you,” said the man, holding out a hand to Bane.
“I knew it must be. I didn’t see you come in, but Jenna said you had a hood on.
Jenna, my love, this is Mr. Wolfbane Sanderson, and here is Mr. Mandrake Sanderson. ”
“Lady Thornstead,” Bane said, bowing. It had to be their old friend. The eyes were the same, though the chin was firmer and the shoulders broader.
“Lady Thornstead,” said Drake. “You lucky dog, Garry.”
Lady Thornstead’s eyes twinkled, and Thornstead’s smile at his lady was fond. “I know it, old friend. But how wonderful to see you here! Are you visiting London?”
Drake explained that they’d moved to the big city. “We were just talking about calling on you, Garry.”
“We last met your husband when he came to our village for Lord Marple’s funeral, Lady Thornstead,” Bane explained, “before he was married.”
“He has spoken to me of the friends he made when he visited Marplestead as a child. You lived nearby, I believe, Mr. Sanderson. In Marpleton, was it not? You gentlemen must call. Would you care to join us for dinner on this coming Friday? Would that suit you, Gareth?”
“That would be delightful,” Thornstead said.
Drake agreed. “Tell us when to be there, and Bane and I would love to join you, Lady Thornstead.”
“And what are you doing in London?” Thornstead wanted to know.
“Lady Thornstead,” said a familiar voice. “Garry, Bane, Drake. Well met.” It was Drew Winderfield, elegantly dressed as ever.
“Good evening, Lord Andrew.” Lady Thornstead shifted in a graceful move that was not quite a curtsey.
“Drew,” said Bane and Drake, and Thornstead gave a cheerful wave.
Lady Thornstead cast a quick glance at Bane and Drake, perhaps wondering how Drew came to know the two commoners, but she did not ask.
Thornstead did, with cheerful ease. “Bane and Drake are old friends of mine, Drew. How did you three come to know one another?”
“We are members of the same investment club,” Drew explained. “Smart fellows, your old friends. I was sent across the ballroom by my stepmother, Bane and Drake—I’ve been talking about you, and she and Father would like to meet you.”
“We shall come too,” Thornstead decided. “My parents are talking to yours, and I’d like them to meet Bane and Drake, as well. Heaven knows they heard enough about them when I was a boy!” He offered his arm to Lady Thornstead and led the way across the ballroom.
Heavens. Thornstead’s parents were the Duke of Dellborough and his duchess. Thornstead had married because his grandfather was dying, though he had lived for a further three or four years, until the spring of last year!