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What had his mother’s caveat been, following her joy at his admission that he’d decided to find himself a wife?
    “Just so long as it’s not a Brightwell.” Lady Fenton’s elegant nose had wrinkled with disgust. “They came back from exile last year, trying to insinuate their way into society. Like pretty, common dandelions dressing themselves up as exotic tulips.”
    The recollection of his mother’s aversion was dampening, but of course no reason not to make up to a beautiful girl this evening. He would discover the truth for himself, and act accordingly.
    Unable to drag his eyes away, he watched as the beautiful Brightwells, one so fair, the other so dark, were led into a cotillion. “If you’re trying to warn me off, Bramley,” he said, coolly, “you’ve not succeeded.”
    “I was thinking of your poor mama,” Bramley assured him. “Mine had heart palpitations after I paid court to Miss Brightwell. When I learnt more of the young woman’s—er—colourful history, and her willingness to meet me halfway in the hopes she’d gain a wedding band, I’m afraid I shared Mama’s disgust.”
    “Why does Quamby invite them if they are so beyond the pale?” Fenton’s bored drawl masked the tumult in his breast.
    Bramley had clearly been awaiting an opportunity to elaborate. Adjusting a cufflink below his coat sleeve with exaggerated care, he said, “It’s been suggested by some that the lovely Miss Brightwell made it into this world before the church register was signed—”
    “Good God, Bramley, that can be verified easily enough without your evil assertions!”
    “I have heard it said that Miss Brightwell enjoys her status purely on account of a little bribery and doctoring of dates in the church register.”
    Fenton grappled with the ramifications of this. The stain of illegitimacy would be an all but impossible hurdle for a young woman to overcome—if what Bramley said was true.
    Reason returned. Miss Brightwell’s presence here this evening was proof she was accepted into society and that was good enough for him.
    “The Beauty of Blackfriars, as the mother was known in the trade, was an engaging little Ladybird Lord Brightwell whisked off to France with him from some house of ill-repute. You know our good baron’s proclivities for spice and scandal.” Bramley’s nostrils flared. Slanting a look at Fenton, he added, “It’s not just the uncertainty of Miss Brightwell’s origins, my friend, which need to be investigated if you are serious about paying her attention, for there are other toes you must beware treading upon…”
    Fenton curbed the desire for a more forceful response to the smug manner in which Bramley delivered his cautions, as if he were the arbiter of what was morally acceptable.
    “Miss Brightwell is very adept at playing the untutored innocent. Just ask Lord Bickling, whom she provided with some much-appreciated nocturnal diversion during his wife’s confinement last year.”
    Bramley lied. And yet…
    Fenton watched the Brightwell sisters perform their figures on the dance floor with as much grace as any duke’s daughter. Could she be such an actress? He imagined the dark-haired beauty pretending the same ecstasy she’d shown with him in the ferry as she writhed beneath the fat and leering Bramley and the philandering Lord Bickling.
    Fenton’s heart pounded. If Bramley was spouting evil tales with no foundation, he should stop him now—but what if they were true? Was that why his mother had taken so against the Brightwell females? Because they pretended one thing while being quite another?
    “Rumour also has it that Lord Slyther has just offered her a carte blanche .”
    “Lord Slyther! That fat old toad?”
    Bramley inclined his head. “You sound sceptical, but I speak the truth. Gout has him laid up in bed this evening, but if you wish to keep Miss Brightwell in your sights you’ll discover she’s prepared to trade her favours for a little pecuniary respite.