Harry groaned and put a hand to his brow. “Sorry—sorry.” His expression openly apologetic, he extended his hand to Alfred, who was now measuring his length on the rug. “I didn’t mean to hit you.” Harry’s jaw hardened. “But you’d be well advised to mute your comments on the subject of Mrs Babbacombe.”
Alfred made no move to take his hand, or get up. “Oh?” He was clearly intrigued.
Disgusted with himself, Harry waved him up. “It was just instinctive. I won’t hit you again.”
“Ah, well.” Alfred sat up and gingerly felt his left cheekbone. “I know you didn’t mean to hit me—nothing’s broken, so you must’ve pulled the punch. Very grateful you did, mind—but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just remain here until you tell me what this is all about—just in case, with my usual babble, I inadvertently trigger any more of your instincts.”
Harry grimaced. Hands on hips, he looked down at Alfred. “I think someone’s been using us.” He gestured about him. “The Asterley Place house-parties.”
Unexpected intelligence seeped into Alfred’s eyes. “How?”
Harry compressed his lips, then stated, “Lucinda Babbacombe should never have been invited. She’s a thoroughly virtuous female—take it from me.”
Alfred’s brows rose. “I see.” Then he frowned. “No, I don’t.”
“What I want to know is who suggested you invite her?”
Alfred sat up and draped his arms over his knees. He blinked up at Harry. “You know, I don’t think I like being used. It was a chap named Joliffe—brushed up against him a couple of times at some hell or other but he’s generally about town—Ernest, Earle, something like that. Ran across him on Wednesday night at that hell in Sussex Place. He happened to mention that Mrs Babbacombe was looking for a little entertainment and he’d promised he’d mention her to me.”
Harry was frowning. “Joliffe?” He shook his head. “Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.”
Alfred snorted. “Wouldn’t exactly call it a pleasure. Bit of a loose fish.”
Harry’s gaze abruptly focused. “You took the word of a loose fish on the subject of a lady’s reputation?”
“Of course not.” Alfred hurriedly leaned back out of reach, his expression distinctly injured. “I checked—you know I always do.”
“Who with?” Harry asked. “Em?”
“Em? Your aunt Em?” Alfred blinked. “What’s she got to do with it? Old tartar she is—was. Used to pinch my cheeks every time she came visiting.”
Harry snorted. “She’ll do more than pinch your cheeks if she finds out what you invited her protégée to.”
“Her protégée?” Alfred looked horrified.
“You obviously didn’t check too hard,” Harry growled, swinging away to pace once more.
Alfred squirmed. “Well, you see, time was tight. We had this vacancy; Lady Callan’s husband came back from Vienna sooner than she’d expected.”
Harry humphed. “So who did you check with?”
“The lady’s cousin or something by marriage. Mortimer Babbacombe.”
Harry frowned and stopped pacing. The name came floating back to him from his first memories of Lucinda. “Mortimer Babbacombe?”
Alfred shrugged. “Innocuous sort, a bit weak, but can’t say I’ve heard anything against him—other than that he’s a friend of Joliffe’s.”
Harry prowled over to stand directly before Alfred. “Let me get this straight—Joliffe suggested Mrs Babbacombe was looking for an invitation to the entertainment here and Mortimer Babbacombe confirmed she liked living life on the racy side?”
“Well, not in so many words. Couldn’t expect him to come right out and say such a thing of a female relative, what? But you know how it goes—I made the suggestions and gave him plenty of time to deny them. He didn’t. Seemed clear enough to me.”
Harry grimaced. Then nodded. “All right.” He looked down at Alfred. “But she’s leaving.”
“When?” Alfred struggled to his feet.
“Now. As soon as possible. Furthermore, she’s never been here.”
Alfred shrugged. “Naturally. None of the ladies are here.”