- Chapter 2 -

Candlelight flickered over velvet game tables and deep mahogany floors of a gentlemen's' club in St James Street, London. Billiard balls cracked against each other, and men's voices rose in unison.

Four men sat at a circular card table near the center of the room. They were focused intently on the game and nervously eyeing the pile of chips and bills in the midst of them. One man played his hand, causing mutterings from two; then the next played and the group groaned and cursed, one man slamming the table with a fist in anger as the victor raked in his winnings. The more finely dressed of the four scraped back his chair, crystal-blue eyes flashing in irritation. Grumbling his congrats to the winner, he stood and left the establishment.

Setting a felt hat over ash-blond hair, Brandon Routley stepped smartly down the narrow stairs to the main floor, and out onto the busy, dusty St James Street. He dodged the groping fingers of a particularly busty woman promising him a blissful hour and hailed a passing coach. Though she wasn't unattractive, the idea of paid services made his stomach roil.  Stepping into the cab of the coach he knocked for the driver to set off, casually giving an address.

Buildings and parks passed by, then the awful eyesore of a palace, grand and gaudy. Routley's lip curled. No doubt filled to its highest tower with damned pretentious snobs. He frowned fiercely as he tugged at his black leather day-gloves irritably. A moan escaped from him, brought forth by aching temples and heavy head, pain spiking with every jolt his mode of transportation provided;. His current condition was testament to the level of inebriation he had subjected himself to the night before. So much for never touching another bottle he smirked at himself. Looking out the window once more, he watched a woman across the road ascending into a carriage loaded with luggage. He recognized her, in that moment, from a recent debutant ball he'd attended.

Miss Bradshaw, one of many; one of the multitude of false ladies who looked down on those they deemed lesser than themselves - who clawed their way into the hearts of wealthy men, wielding flowery words and sultry stares. He loathed them – with a passion – and was surrounded by them.

If he, as a wealthy and eligible bachelor, must be subject to their scheming manipulation then he would scheme and manipulate in return. He would ruin them before they could ruin others with their prejudice and greed. He hated the wealth that made him eligible. If only he had nothing, then he could have everything.

'Everything', in his mind, took the form of a brilliant carefree smile below dark twinkling eyes, and silken ribbons of mahogany hair floating in a warm summer breeze. He sighed, speeding the memory from his mind, and set his head heavily against the back wall of the carriage. The carriage soon stopped in front of his London townhouse.

Upon entering and handing off his hat, gloves, and cane to his footman, he shuffled through the few calling cards and invitations that had accumulated in his short absence. A dinner party tonight at the Florence's townhouse. That might be a good chance to try his luck with the young Widow Gerrard. Her elderly old husband of seven years had died not six months past, and she had recently come out of mourning. A mite early mind you, and she was already actively seeking her next rich husband; however, being nine-and-twenty, with quickly aging features, suitors weren't exactly falling at her feet this time.

Returning the missives unceremoniously to their tray, he called for his valet to lay out an evening suit.

☆☆☆

Brandon greatly preferred these private events over public ones. Never would he understand the appeal of a 'crush', which was so popular in London these days. Although he supposed in a terrace you can hardly have much else, what with the small rooms and numerous narrow stairs. No matter how fashionable and cost efficient terrace townhouses were, he praised his own good taste in securing a large private townhouse instead.

He sat in the elaborately furnished parlor of a 'large' terrace apartment now; playing whist with a small group that had gathered together after dinner. Lady Gerrard to his left and Miss Faust – a tenacious flirt, who was thoroughly enjoying her first season – to his right. He glanced over his cards to observe the exchange between Lady Gerrard and the man across from him. If their flirtation kept up, he'd be looking for a new target tonight. The lady to his right played her hand with a confident giggle, and he obliged her with a groan of despair, before playing his own excellent hand and winning the game.

"Mr. Routley you sly thing!" She tapped him playfully with her fan. Damnation, he hated it when women did that. "You fooled us all!"

"It is called a poker face, one can hide many a thought behind it." He winked, causing her to flutter her fan nearly as rapidly as her lashes.

"Whatever do you mean sir!? I demand to know."

"My dear Miss Faust." He chided in jest "It would not be conversation for public audience."

Both the ladies blushed with pleasure and tittered, the man wooing Lady Gerrard glared.

Routley ignored him, and gathered and shuffled the cards. "Another game?" He asked the ladies with a charming smile.

Before they could reply, the older gentleman cut in. "Lady Gerrard, I'm sure you'd like a break from such tedious games, allow me to accompany you to the pianoforte. We'd love to hear you play again, is it not the truth Mr Routley?" The lady in question gazed at Routley pleadingly as she took the gentleman's hand.

"By all means, Lady Gerrard, I long for the sound of your proficient fingers on the keys once again." He said soothingly. Satisfied with his compliment, she allowed herself to be led to the instrument; though not before glaring at Miss Faust who reciprocated with a brilliant,  victorious smile!  He forced himself not to roll his eyes.

The young lady placed a gloved hand on his arm. "We cannot very well play just the two of us, what do you suggest we do now? Shall we explore the house? What fun that would be, what say you?" She giggled.

Explore the house indeed; what fun she says. It appears a target has landed in my lap. "You head upstairs and wait for me on the landing, I'll follow in a moment."

She bit her lip and nodded, standing and subtly exiting the room with an obvious sway to her hips. Promiscuous little rich girl, mayhap after tonight she'll wish she'd maintained a character of more respectability. He marched over to the evening's host. "Do excuse me Mr Florence sir, but Miss Faust has brought it to my attention she is feeling unwell and has gone upstairs. I am going to follow as she said she felt faint. Perhaps someone could fetch her some water?"

"Ah, how unfortunate, poor girl. I will inform Mrs Faust immediately...and will have refreshments fetched for her. I do hope it's nothing serious."

"She intreated me to tell no one, but I thought her parents should be informed, for her health you understand..."

"Of course you would deign not to follow her wishes...under the circumstances. Thank you Routley."

Brandon thanked him and exited the room, quickly ascending the stairs up which Miss Faust had disappeared moments before. She waited on the first landing. He didn't believe he had much time to create a believable scenario, so he made quick work of setting the mood with pretty looks and words until he heard footsteps fast approaching. Miss Faust had been all too eager to comply with his subtle coaxing, and now had him firmly pressed against a wall with her arms wrapped around his neck. She didn't seem to hear the sound of approaching footsteps, and she played beautifully into his hands by pulling him down towards her lips just as company arrived.

He barely had time to plaster his hands against the wall and let out a cry of "Miss Faust" in a well-practiced tone of judgment and surprise, before their lips met. He could see their hosts shocked faces as they realized the dim scene before them, and nearly failed at holding back his laughter. Quickly grasping his attacker's shoulders he gently shoved her away, saying again "Miss Faust! What do you mean by this?? Was your illness deceit??" He looked into her eyes with the expression of a deeply wounded man "I was saving that kiss for the woman I would some day call my wife! How could you do such a thing!?" He then looked dramatically towards the three who had discovered them. "Why Mr. Florence, Mrs Florence, I am ashamed you had to see such a thing transpire after you so kindly brought her libations! It appears she was not ill after all, but planning an entrapment. Mrs Faust my deepest apologies! If I had known what your daughter was planning I wouldn't have followed...I take the blame entirely!!"

Miss Faust, having overcome her initial shock, and now having a full understanding of Brandon Routley's sceme, let out an exclamation of rage that caused him to nearly jump out of his skin, and caused gasps from the onlookers. "What?!? You mangy cur!! You contrived this scheme! You flirted and insinuated and..and..!"

"Miss Faust I had no intention of using you! You said you were ill, I was worried for your health! I even had our dear hosts bring you water and.."

Her face grew red as a beet as he spoke and sparks flew from her eyes. "I never said I was ill! I shan't take the blame!" She interrupted, spitting mad "I said we should come up here for a bit of fun not because I was..." She clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Young lady!" Her mother exploded then. "You said what??" Young Miss Faust went pale.

☆☆☆

"What an evening!" Routley cackled to himself on the bumpy carriage ride home. "It couldn't have gone better!" The carriage halted before his townhouse and he hopped out, practically bouncing into the house.

"A letter for you sir." His butler held out the item, after taking his master's coat and hat.

It was cheerfully plucked from the butler's hands and Brandon glanced at the senders address. He grumbled with annoyance "Ah, 'tis from mother." Slouching into his study in a sudden ill humor, he threw himself deep into a chair and ripped through the seal impatiently. "Blah blah blah...great, she wants me to come home. Ugh! whatever for??....ah, here we are, it appears she's ill again, shocking that is. Maybe if the old witch made a habit of going outside she wouldn't catch a fever every time she stuck her head out the door!" He sulked in his chair, scrunching the letter in a hand, and dreading the trip home.

Maybe he could visit the Ritewoods while there, he'd always enjoyed their lively company. He wondered if they'd forgiven him enough to welcome him once more. Knowing their good nature it is likely they have, he thought. He had to acknowledge some lingering feelings of guilt.

He wondered if someone else would welcome him as well. Wondered if he could risk visiting her. Wondered if she was well, if her eyes still shone with unprejudiced joy and hair still gleamed in the sun like molten chocolate. He rubbed his temples to relieve the sudden ache that bloomed there and called for his valet to pack his trunks.