His gaze passed over her at first, but then she straightened from speaking with an old lady seated on a sofa and turned to a large gentleman….
Malcolm recognized them both, or at least he thought he did. The lady moved and he was sure of her, but the man? He hadn’t seen him as clearly; no matter how he racked his memory, he couldn’t be certain of him.
But of her he assuredly was.
Doing his best to merge with the wall, he studied the couple; they were directly across the room, but the intervening guests provided a sufficient screen—he could observe without fear of being noticed.
Then the musicians in the adjoining salon struck up a waltz. The gentleman turned to the lady and spoke; with a smile—she really was remarkably attractive if a trifle long in the tooth—she gave him her hand. Excusing themselves to the old biddy on the sofa, they headed for the dance floor.
Malcolm didn’t follow; fixing his gaze on the old lady, he was surprised to find he knew her. Edith Balmain. She’d been a friend of his parents and had spoken kindly to him some months before when she’d encountered him in Bond Street.
There’d been an easy familiarity in the way the other lady had interacted with Edith; a relative or connection was Malcolm’s educated guess.
Smiling faintly, he moved away from the wall and crossed the room. He paused to glance in at the dancers on the way and saw his pair revolving as if there were no others on the floor. They made a handsome couple, but to Malcolm’s sharp eyes there was more to it than that; he’d take an oath they were lovers—that the unknown gentleman was her paramour.
Filing the observation away, he continued his progress, deftly avoiding two young ladies to approach the sofa, and Edith Balmain.
“Good evening, Mrs. Balmain.” He bowed easily before her, an eager, innocent light in his eyes. “Malcolm Sinclair, ma’am.”
She had sharp blue eyes; they regarded him with interest. “Malcolm—how nice to see you again, my boy. Are you well?”
“Indeed.” He let his gaze sweep the room. “I’ve just started going about a trifle—finding my legs in this arena, so to speak.”
“I’m sure the hostesses will be delighted to welcome you. Your mother was a favorite of many, you know.”
He knew very little about his mother; the comment made him pause,
but the waltz wouldn’t last forever.
Edith’s blue gaze was searching his face. “As I recall you’re finished with your studies, is that correct?”
“Yes—I came down last year, but I’ve been traveling with friends until a few months ago.” He drew a quick verbal sketch of his travels; time was running short. He ended with a restless glance around, followed by an ingenuous, “Are you here alone, ma’am?”
She smiled, understanding perfectly—or so she thought. “No, no—I’m here with my niece, Miss Malleson. She’s dancing at present but will no doubt return shortly.”
“Oh!” Malcolm turned his head to look toward the dance floor. “Was she the lady who was with you a few minutes ago? With some gentleman?”
Edith smiled. “Yes, that was she. Deverell—Viscount Paignton—was with her.”
“Deverell?” Malcolm frowned as if trying to place the name. “I don’t believe I recognize him.”
Edith waved, dismissing his effort. “You won’t. Deverell spent the last ten years of the war in France, behind enemy lines. He was last on the town, or indeed anywhere in the ton, when he was your age and you were in the schoolroom.” Tilting her head, Edith studied him. “If you wish, I’ll introduce you.”
There was a twinkle in her eyes that made it easy for Malcolm to, with suitably labored tact, disclaim all need to be introduced to either Miss Malleson or her escort. Edith accepted his reluctance readily, assuming he was nervous or shy or both.
Employing the most boyish version of his ready charm, Malcolm took his leave of her as the last chords of the waltz sounded. Quitting her vicinity, he retreated in good order and immediately left the house—before she could think to point him out to Miss Malleson and Paignton.
For the moment, he’d learned all he needed to know about them; they didn’t need to know about him.
It wasn’t Phoebe Malleson who bothered Malcolm but the gentleman in whose arms she’d been whirling, the gentleman who’d looked at her as if she were his all. The gentleman who had spent the last ten years of the war behind enemy lines. Malcolm was exceedingly glad he’d learned that little tidbit; he’d gnawed at it through the night and brought it like a well-picked bone, along with his other observations, to deposit before “his master” at the earliest opportunity.
“Phoebe Malleson, you say?” Eyes narrowing, Henry set down the book he’d been reading. “She’s Martindale’s daughter—his heiress. He became a recluse after his wife died. The girl goes around with her aunts—she has a round dozen of them—but as I heard it not one of them could get her wed, heiress or no.”
Malcolm, in his customary seat before the desk, murmured, “I found her with one of her aunts, Mrs. Edith Balmain. I don’t know about Miss Malleson not being weddable—she had a gentleman dancing attendance on her.” He went on to describe Paignton, watching for Henry’s reaction—which was dismissive.
“Never mind him—have Miss Malleson seized and brought here.” Henry’s eyes gleamed coldly. “It shouldn’t take much persuasion to get her to tell me who the leader of this other gang is. No doubt he’ll prove to be some disreputable lover.” He snorted contemptuously. “Women, ladies or not, they’re all the same. Serves Martindale right, allowing her to roam with only females to watch over her.”
Malcolm had to bite back an acid comment. Had to work to pitch his voice to its usual diffident note. “You don’t think Paignton might be the man?”