Who had not?
She was one of the most perfect jewels of the ton.
The young lady had only been presented a few weeks ago before the queen. Instantly, she had been received with great admiration. And he did keep an ear out for such news. News to him was information, and information was sometimes more valuable than gold.
Perfection.
That was the word that was often used when one spoke of Lady Elizabeth, whether in jovial conversation at his club, or in print in the gossip rags where they regaled all with the latest on dits of the social season.
And he did pay attention to the gossips. Gossip was the place in which much of the truth waited to be mined.
And here, the masked men were speaking of her perfection… but it was not awe that filled their tones.
For the first time, Tom regretted having a masked ball. Their faces were hidden from him, and he wished to memorize every plane of every visage, so he knew which bones to break.
Generally, Tom enjoyed having masked events.
Such revels allowed people to be themselves even more, sometimes shedding layers of pretense. But sometimes he had visitors come in who were not typically members. They came in with others… and when he found who those others were, they would likely lose their membership.
Certainly, Tom would not have admitted these four gentlemen who were now clucking away at how entirely snobbish the young lady was and how she deserved to be taken down a peg or two.
One of the gentlemen sneered, “She thinks she’s so far above us with the way she moves through the room, her perfect posture, her arched eyebrows, and that careful curl of her pink lip. It’s enough to make me wish to knock her into next week.”
“Come, come now,” one of the men drawled. “We do not hit ladies. That is not necessary to discipline them. There are other ways to make a mare submit to the bit.”
Another one of the gentlemen laughed heartily. “Indeed, indeed, a good ride will often make sure that the lady is in line.”
A third gentleman snorted before he gulped his brandy. “Indeed,” he declared enthusiastically. “Force her into the seat and she will immediately obey. After all, she’d be too terrified that one will ride her into the ground. Thoroughly broken fillies are the best.”
Tom winced.
He understood exactly what the men were talking about.
Dominance. As if somehow that was better than knocking her into next week. He’d seen men who knocked their women into next week and it was not something that was limited to the poor people in the East End, though the upper classes would have the middle and poor classes believe so.
Oh, no. Lords were as capable of lashing out as the lads who roamed the streets barely surviving.
It was tempting to dash into the room and knocktheirheads. But such an immediately gratifying action would not ultimately stop their behavior, and he wanted to know what exactly it was that they were planning.
And so, he forced himself to stay silent, glancing through the crack in the doorway.
One of them let out another sloppy laugh, “She should be put in her place. But who has the will and strength to do it, I ask you all?”
“Oh, I say I do sense a dare or a wager imminent,” one of the gentlemen snickered.
“A wager?” The first man echoed, with relish.
“Oh yes. Let’s!” One of the group announced, tittering. “How marvelous. This season has been terribly boring. We must do something to excite ourselves.”
There was a pause before the first man to have spoken intoned, “Then I say that the first of us, the first gentleman to ruin Lady Elizabeth shall be declared rake of the Season! And of course, we shall each put in one hundred guineas, and whoever takes her and ruins her shall win the pot.”
Rake of the Season? One hundred guineas? Was her life, her future, worth such trifles? For to them one hundred guineas wouldn’t cover their wine bill.
Anger began to boil through him at their casual cruelty.
“I think we should make it steeper,” cut in one of the others.
“How can we make it steeper,” scoffed the first lord.