Even those select ladies with whom he occasionally dallied discreetly in the capital weren’t above hatching schemes. His last inamorata had tried to convince him of the manifold benefits that would accrue to him should he marry her niece. Said benefits had, of course, included her fair self.
He was beyond being outraged, beyond even being surprised; he was close to turning his back on the entire subject of marriage.
“Mrs. Cartwell, a plea sure to see you, ma’am.” Taking the hand the haughty matron extended, he shook it, bowed to the vision of loveliness sitting beside Mrs. Cartwell, then stepped back and introduced Barnaby. Always interested in people, Barnaby exchanged platitudes with the lovely Miss Cartwell; cravenly grateful, Dillon stood back and let him have the stage.
Mrs. Cartwell was monitoring the exchange between her daughter and Barnaby, the third son of an earl and every bit as eligible as Dillon himself, with absolute concentration. Reduced to the redundant, Dillon’s mind returned to the matter he and Barnaby had retreated to the Twig & Bough to discuss, until they’d been ousted by the invading ladies. They’d chosen the quieter shop catering to the genteel element rather than the club coffee house favored by the racing fraternity for the simple reason that the subject of their discussion would set ears flapping and tongues wagging among the racing set.
Another racing scandal was precisely what he was working to avoid.
This time, he wasn’t engaged on the wrong side of the ledger; this time, he’d been recruited by the angels, to wit the all-powerful Committee of the Jockey Club, to investigate the rumors of race fixing that had started to circulate after the recent spring racing season.