"Does that mean you do not wish to introduce me to your friends and family?"
Ross's eyes narrowed at the barb lurking in the other man's deep voice. "You know better than that, Mikahl. I owe you a considerable debt, and if you are fool enough to wish to enter what is called 'society,' I will do what I can to assist. Winning superficial social acceptance requires only money and an introduction, and you will have both. Just bear in mind that no matter what you do, you will always be seen as an outsider."
"No society totally accepts a man not born into it," Peregrine agreed. "However, I do not seek to be clasped to the provincial bosoms of the British aristocracy. It will be enough to be tolerated as an exotic and amusing pet."
"Heaven help anyone who thinks you are domesticated," Ross said, amused. "But I can't imagine why you wish to waste your time on people who think Paris is the edge of the world."
"To see if I can do it, perhaps?" Peregrine tilted his head back and drained his goblet. "In truth, society as such does not interest me. But while I am in England, I intend to," he paused, seeking the right phrase, "to settle an old score."
"Whoever he is, I shouldn't like to be in his position," Ross murmured. "Is he anyone I might know?"
"Quite possibly."
Peregrine visibly weighed whether to say more, a catlike gleam in his vivid green eyes. In spite of his fluent English and a breadth of knowledge that a Cambridge scholar could envy, his expressions and gestures subtly marked him as foreign. Ross suspected that he would never truly understand how the other man's mind worked; it was one reason that Peregrine was such a stimulating companion.
At length Peregrine said, "Given the tangled relationships of the British upper classes, the man I am interested in might be your third cousin or godmother's son or some such. If so, I will not burden you with any more knowledge, but I ask that you not interfere in my quest for justice."
Unwilling to commit himself without knowing more, Ross asked, "What is the man's name?"
"Charles Weldon. The Honorable"—there was a slight, ironic emphasis on the title—"Charles Weldon. I imagine you have heard of him, even if you are not personally acquainted. He is one of London's most prominent businessmen."
Ross frowned. "I do know him. Recently he was made a baronet, so he is now Sir Charles Weldon. Strange that you should say that about cousins. We are not related, but oddly enough, he has just proposed marriage to one of my cousins, and she intends to accept him." He finished his brandy, his frown deepening. "My favorite cousin, as it happens."
"I did not know that he was to take another wife." Peregrine poured more brandy for both of them, then sank back in his seat, one leg folded beneath him with un-British fluidity. "I gather that you do not approve. Do you know anything to Weldon's discredit?"
"No, he is widely respected. As the younger brother of Lord Batsford, he moves in the highest circles of society, even though he has made his fortune through trade and finance." Ross considered a moment, then said slowly, "Weldon has always been perfectly affable on the occasions when we have met. I can't explain why I find him disquieting. Perhaps he is too affable."
"Is your cousin in love with him?"
Ross shook his head. "I doubt it. He is easily twenty years older than Sara, and she is not of a romantic disposition."
Peregrine gave a faint smile. "Since the lady's heart is not engaged, will you object if her betrothal comes to naught?"
Ross thought of the uneasy feeling Weldon gave him, and the dark whispers that sometimes touched the man's name, hints too vague to be called rumors. "Can you assure me that Weldon deserves the doom that is hovering over him?"
"I promise you that he has earned anything I might do, and a good deal more," Peregrine said, his voice soft and dangerous.
Ross believed him. Peregrine might be an enigma whose mind worked in mysterious oriental ways, but Ross had always found him to be honorable. "To be honest, I'd welcome an end to Sara's betrothal, as long as she is not injured by your actions."
"I have no desire to injure the innocent." Peregrine leaned back against the embroidered-silk cushions. "Tell me more about your cousin."
"She is Lady Sara St. James, the only daughter of the Duke of Haddonfield. Our mothers were twin sisters, two Scottish beauties of modest birth. When they came to London, they had no fortune but their faces." Ross sipped more brandy, savoring the complex flavor. "It was fortune enough. They were called the 'Magnificent Montgomerys' and both became duchesses, setting a matrimonial standard that every ambitious mother in Britain has tried to match ever since, without success."