A Wicked Gentleman by Jane Feather

with Viscountess Dagenham.
    They both played lamentably, and he quickly identified the one who interested him. He seemed even more inexpert than his friend. There was no physical resemblance between this young man, who he reckoned must be in his very early twenties, and the viscountess, but that was hardly surprising since her title would have derived from her late husband.
    After a while he tired of watching him lose hand after hand, the IOUs mounting beside the banker. He moved to the sideboard to refill his glass from the array of decanters. Petersham came up beside him.
    â€œTired of the play already, Harry?”
    â€œMy heart’s not in it this morning,” Harry responded, leaning back against the sideboard and surveying the room over the lip of his glass. “Who’s the cub playing at Elliot’s table?”
    Nick’s gaze followed his. “Which one?”
    â€œThe one in that absurd canary yellow waistcoat.”
    Nick frowned. “Dagenham, I think. He was only put up for the club about four days ago. If you ask me, the fellow who put him up was doing him no favors. Coltrain, I believe it was, the man with Dagenham is the marquess’s son. Doesn’t look as if either of the young fools knows what he’s doing, but Coltrain’s heir at least has good family credit. I only hope Dagenham’s father has deep pockets. I doubt Markby will bail him out.”
    â€œMarkby?”
    â€œMmm. Dagenham’s a member of the junior branch of the family. You’re probably not familiar with them. They none of them come up to town much, in fact I’m surprised this one’s here. From what I hear, Markby holds the family purse strings mighty tight…rules the entire clan with a rod of iron. His son, Viscount Dagenham, died at sea…may even have been at Trafalgar…”
    Nick frowned in thought. “Aye, that’s it. It was Trafalgar.” He beamed triumphantly. “Anyway, the present heir’s no more than a babe in arms.”
    The child of Viscountess Dagenham, Harry reflected, absently stroking his mouth with two fingers. That explained the presence of children in Cavendish Square.
    The hazard table was breaking up, and he watched as the banker stuffed IOUs into his coat pocket. Young Dagenham was watching the banker too, with a fixed expression akin to the desperation a rabbit might feel as the shadow of the hawk’s wings darkened the ground ahead of him. Then he turned and walked away towards the salon.
    Harry followed him. The young man stood at the sideboard filling a glass. He drained the contents in one, then refilled it. Harry strolled across to him.
    â€œDrowning your losses, eh?” he observed with a light laugh. “That’s one tried-and-true way to oblivion.” He refilled his own glass and smiled at the young man. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” He held out his hand. “Bonham, at your service.”
    â€œDagenham…Nigel Dagenham,” the youth said, taking the extended hand. His smile was forced and did nothing to alleviate the strain around his eyes. “Your servant, sir.”
    â€œI haven’t seen you here before,” Harry observed, glancing idly around the room.
    â€œNo, sir, I’m newly put up,” Nigel said, wondering what it was about this gentleman that made him feel very young and unsophisticated. There could be nothing wrong with his waistcoat, the color was all the rage he’d been told, and the snowy folds of his starched cravat tied high enough to support his chin were beyond reproach. And yet there was a subdued elegance to Bonham’s green coat, plain waistcoat, and doeskin britches that made Nigel feel almost like a country bumpkin.
    â€œWell, I look forward to furthering our acquaintance,” Harry said, nodded pleasantly and strolled off to where a group of his own friends were gathered. What a stupid thing to say. He had no interest in