Chapter One

He was, regrettably, poor. Having inherited nothing but a pile of debts, an impoverished estate, and an improvident young stepmama along with his title, Aubrey, Viscount Wellstone, was a few pounds and a diamond stickpin away from debtors' prison. He had few practical skills, no calling to the church, and no affinity for the army. He did have a gentleman's education, of course, which meant he was equally as useless in Latin and Greek. So Stony, as he was called by his many friends, turned to the gaming tables.

He was, even more regrettably, a poor gambler.

He lost as often as he won, never getting ahead of his father's debts enough to make the ancestral lands more profitable, or to make sounder investments. Before he turned twenty-six, the diamond stickpin was long gone, following his mother's jewels, his grandfather's art collection, and every bit of property or possession that was not entailed. The Wellstone fortunes were at low ebb, nearly foundering on the shoals of bad speculations, bad management, and sheer bad luck.

Then one night the tide turned. No hidden cache of gold was found behind the walls of Wellstone House in Mayfair, none of his stepmama's suitors was suddenly found suitable, nor had Stony finally resigned himself to that age-old cure for poverty: finding an heiress to wed. Neither had the viscount's skill with the pasteboards miraculously improved. In fact, he lost heavily to Lord Parkhurst that evening at the Middlethorpe ball.

"One more hand," Stony requested as politely as he could without begging, as that middle-aged gentleman rose stiffly to his feet, gathering his winnings. "One more hand to recoup my losses."

Lord Parkhurst shook his head. "I'd like to stay, my boy. Lud knows I'd play all night. But I promised my wife I'd look after her youngest sister. It's the squinty one, but the last of the bunch, thank heaven. I swore I'd make sure the girl has a partner for dinner and all that, so she doesn't look like a wallflower, you know. Not that dancing with her own brother-in-law will make her look like a belle, I swear, but my wife seems to think she'll show to better advantage on a gentleman's arm than perched on one of those spindly gilt chairs."

Everyone knew Parkhurst danced to whatever tune his pretty young wife was calling, so Stony wasted no more time trying to convince the man to stay. He scrawled his initials on an IOU and handed it over. He'd be handing his fob watch to the cents-per-centers in the morning, right before he started packing for Wellstone Park in Norfolk. He shuddered at the thought of his stepmama's tears when he informed her they would have to put the London town house up for rent. He was sincerely fond of Gwen, who was barely ten years his senior, but Lord, her tears would make the leaks in the Park's roofs seem like a trickle. He shuddered again at the thought of Gwen never finding a gentleman to wed, not among the turnip-growers and sheepherders in the shires. He took a long swallow of brandy. At least the Middlethorpes' wine was free. Maybe he'd ought to go fill his pockets with their chef's lobster patties. Heaven knew his pockets were empty of everything else.

"Damn if I wouldn't rather have you take my place," Parkhurst was saying, holding up the voucher, "than take your money."

Stony set down his glass and brushed back from his forehead a blond curl that needed trimming. "My lord?"

Parkhurst cast a longing look at the fresh decks of cards on the green baize-covered tables, the gray, smoke-shrouded room filled with like-minded gentlemen, the maroon-uniformed footmen with their decanters of brandy. Then he looked at the white scrap of paper he held. Stony held his breath.

"Why not?" Parkhurst said, a smile breaking across his lined face as he took his seat again. "My wife did not say I had to do the pretty with the girl myself, just that the chit wasn't to be left sitting alone all night. A handsome young buck like you, Wellstone, could do a lot more for her popularity. Why, if such a top-of-the-trees beau pays her court, the other chaps are bound to sit up and take notice. At least they'll ask for a dance, just to see what had you so interested." He picked up the pack of cards and started shuffling. "The more I think about it, the better the idea sounds."

It sounded too easy to Stony. "I won't marry her, you know."

"Humph. If I thought you had intentions of sniffing after her dowry, I'd have to call you out. What, let the gal run off with a pockets-to-let gamester with nothing but his pretty smile to recommend him? She might have a squint, but the gal's still my sister-in-law."

Stony was not smiling now. He stood to his full six-foot height and looked down his slightly prominent nose at the older man. "If I had wished to repair my fortunes with a wealthy bride, sir, I could have done so any time these past few years."

"Aye, and you'd have picked a female with a bigger dowry and better looks, I am sure. That's why I made you the offer. Everyone knows you ain't shopping at the marriage mart. I'm not saying that trying to repair your fortunes at the tables is any nobler than marrying a girl for her money, but at least you've got principles. And you've never been known as a womanizer, unlike so many other wastrels, trading one bit of muslin for another as fast as you change your waistcoat."

Stony had never been able to afford to keep a mistress, much less a closetful of waistcoats. The occasional willing widow, now, that was another story, one he deemed irrelevant to the current conversation.

"By George," Parkhurst was going on, "my wife would have my head if I handed the girl over to a rake. But you're not one to ruin a gal's reputation, I'd swear, not when you know you'd have to pay the preacher's price. No, you're a gentleman born and bred, one who can show an innocent girl a good time and keep the fortune-hunters and reprobates away without breaking her heart—or my wife's." He took up the slip of paper again and raised his brow in inquiry.

Stony fixed his blue eyes on that debt he could not pay. "One night?"

"That's it. One ball that's almost half over already, and you'll escort the ladies home so I don't have to leave the game in the middle. Agreed?"

Stony nodded. "Agreed."

Parkhurst ripped up the voucher.

Viscount Wellstone turned the female's squint to a sparkle.

A career was born.

A great many gentlemen of the ton, it appeared, would rather entrust their daughters and sisters and second cousins to a confirmed bachelor like Stony than give up their nights with the cards, their cronies, or their amours chéris. Lord Parkhurst confided to a friend or two how his wife's sister had had the time of her life, dancing, laughing, blushing at the viscount's attentions. Lady Middlethorpe and her dowager set noted that the young woman had shown more animation than ever before, catching the eye—slightly crossed, admittedly—of a widowed gentleman of means.

Stony suddenly had more offers and invitations than he could accept. No one was so crass as to mention terms or conditions, naturally, not in that most polite of societies. Oh, no. None of their spoiled sons had to work for a living. None of their ugly duckling daughters had to have paid male companions. No, these were favors, in the spirit of friendship and kindness, to young females finding themselves among strangers. Viscount Wellstone was the best of good fellows; that was all. And in the same spirit of goodwill, Stony found his tailor's bill paid. His account at Tattersall's was settled, his club dues discharged. Vouchers were returned, marked Canceled, and banknotes mysteriously found their way into his pockets. Quantities of wine were delivered to his doorstep, along with a new valet whose salary was paid for the year. A few of his family heirlooms eventually found their way home.

Copyright © 2004 by Barbara Metzger