A Lady's Guide to Improper Behavior Read Online Free PDF Page B

devil he was even considering attending the damned party. Hopefully Gibbs would turn out to be less resourceful than he generally seemed to be, and no invitation would be forthcoming.
    If he did attend, however, Theresa Weller was not going to have the last word. He wouldn’t even watch her dance. In fact, he would make a point of not watching her dance, and of making certain she knew that he wasn’t watching.
    For a time he attempted to return to sleep, but the memory of the dream provided very little incentive to succumb. Finally he sat up again, threw a shirt on over his head, then grabbed his cane and left the bed chamber for the main sitting room of the Adventurers’ Club. The back wall was lined with books and maps. Most of them were Sommerset’s taste, but in his favor at least the duke was well traveled and an avid collector.
    Settling for a silly and highly erroneous history of the Indian Sikh, no doubt written by an accountant who’d never left the protection of Fort William, he lit a candle and sat close by the fireplace. As Gibbs had said, no one else was about—which was pleasant for a change. The club never closed its doors, and he wasn’t the only member who didn’t sleep well.
    He glanced toward the door in the far corner. It led into Ainsley House proper, Sommerset’s London residence. Whatever had possessed the duke to create a very exclusive club in his front rooms, Bartholomew at least was grateful for it. Here no one gave a damn who was rude or who wasn’t, and no chits teased him about dancing.
    “The Sikh Mystery ?”
    His eyes shot open, his fingers instinctively reaching for the rapier hidden inside his cane. Sommerset sat in the chair opposite, eyeing him. Judging by the light pouring in through the set of generous-sized east-facing windows, he’d missed daybreak by at least an hour. “Damnation,” he muttered, lifting the book from across his chest.
    “I purchased that book for a laugh,” the duke continued, taking a swallow of steaming tea from a delicate china cup. “Glad to see it’s served a purpose other than for kindling.”
    “A cure for sleeplessness, yes.” Bartholomew motioned at the tea. “Is there more of that?”
    “Mmm-hmm.” Sommerset gestured, and Gibbs appeared a moment later, carrying another cup and saucer. “Thank you, Gibbs.”
    “I live to serve, Your Grace.”
    The duke lifted an eyebrow as the servant vanished again into the shadows. “I would say he’s become high in the instep, but he might well have been serious just then.” He took another swallow of tea. “That reminds me. Here.” Producing a folded note card from one pocket of his coat, Sommerset handed it over.
    Bartholomew opened it. Embossed and complete with a small blue ribbon dangling from the bottomedge, it was an invitation to the Haramund soiree. “This has my name on it,” he said aloud, then sent a glance around the large room.
    “It’s just you and me in here for the moment,” Sommerset commented, following his gaze. “And it’s not a crime to attend a party.”
    “But this is addressed to me.”
    “I am a duke, you know. If I can’t perform a miracle here and there I might as well be a butler in expensive clothes.” He brushed at the sleeve of his well-tailored brown coat. “And butlers don’t get to dance with attractive women.”
    “I don’t dance,” Bartholomew returned, considering that he’d twice in the space of one day had to inform people of that fact. It should have been damned obvious. Fleetingly he wondered if Gibbs had mentioned the circumstances under which he’d made the request for the invitation, but then he decided that he didn’t care. It wasn’t the first night he’d awakened screaming. And Sommerset, he’d observed, tended to be very well informed. “Thank you for this.”
    “You’re welcome. And I presume you’ve put a stop to your family asking after your whereabouts?”
    “Yes. If they want to reach me, they’re to leave word at