Lucinda was inexpressibly grateful for that piece of advice—her supposed fatigue was accepted without a blink; as the evening wore on, she began to suspect that her earnest court were no more enamoured of dancing in such cramped surrounds than she.
Immovable, repressively silent, Harry remained by her side throughout the long evening. Lucinda greeted the supper waltz with a certain measure of relief. “I understand Mr Amberly, Mr Satterly and Lord Ruthven are particular friends of yours?”
Harry glanced fleetingly down at her. “Of a sorts,” he reluctantly conceded.
“I would never have guessed.” Lucinda met his sharp glance with wide eyes. Harry studied her innocent expression, then humphed and drew her closer.
At the end of the waltz, he led her directly to the supper room. Before she could gather her wits, Lucinda found herself installed at a secluded table for two, shaded from much of the room by two potted palms. A glass of champagne and a plate piled high with delicacies appeared before her; Harry lounged gracefully in the seat opposite.
His eyes on hers, he took a bite of a lobster patty. “Did you notice Lady Waldron’s wig?”
Lucinda giggled. “It nearly fell off.” She took a sip of champagne, her eyes sparkling. “Mr Anstey had to catch it and jiggle it back into place.”
To Lucinda’s delight, Harry spent the entire half-hour regaling her with anecdotes, on dits and the occasional dry observation. It was the first time she had had him to herself in such a mood; she gave herself up to enjoying the interlude.
Only when it ended and he led her back to the ballroom did it occur to her to wonder what had brought it on.
Or, more specifically, why he had put himself out to so captivate her.
“Still here, Ruthven?” Harry’s drawl hauled her back to the present. He was eyeing his friend with a certain, challenging gleam in his eye. “Nothing else here to interest you?”
“Nothing, I fear.” Lord Ruthven put his hand over his heart and quizzed Lucinda. “Nothing as compares with the joys of conversing with Mrs Babbacombe.”
Lucinda had to laugh. Harry, of course, did not. His drawl very much in evidence, he took charge of the conversation. As the languid, distinctly bored accents fell on her ear, Lucinda realised that he never, normally, drawled at her. Nor Em. When he spoke to them, his accents were clipped. Apparently, he reserved the fashionable affectation for those he kept at a distance.
With Harry holding the reins, the conversation predictably remained in stultifyingly correct vein. Lucinda, smothering a yawn, considered an option that might, conceivably, assist her cause while at the same time rescuing her poor court.
“It’s getting rather warm, don’t you find it so?” she murmured, her hand heavy on Harry’s arm.
He glanced down at her, then lifted his brows. “Indeed. I suspect it’s time we left.”
As he lifted his head to locate Em and Heather, Lucinda allowed herself one, very small, very frustrated snort. She had intended him to take her onto the terrace. Peering through the crowd, she saw Em deep in discussion with a dowager; Heather was engaged with a party of her friends. “Ah…perhaps I could manage for another half-hour if I had a glass of water?”
Mr Satterly immediately offered to procure one and ploughed into the crowd.
Harry looked down at her, a faint question in his eyes. “Are you sure?”
Lucinda’s smile was weak. “Positive.”
He continued to behave with dogged correctness—which, Lucinda belatedly realised, as the crowds gradually thinned and she became aware of the curious, speculative glances cast their way, was not, in his case, the same as behaving circumspectly.
The observation brought a frown to her eyes.
It had deepened by the time they were safely in Em’s carriage, rolling home through the now quiet streets. From her position opposite, Lucinda studied Harry’s face, lit by the moonlight and the intermittent flares of the streetlamps.
His eyes were closed, sealed away behind their heavy lids. His features were not so much relaxed as wiped clean of expression, his lips compressed into a firm, straight line. Seen thus, it was a face that kept its secrets, the face of a man who was essentially private, who revealed his emotions rarely if ever.
Lucinda felt her heart catch; a dull ache blossomed within.
The ton was his milieu—he knew every nuance of behaviour, how every little gesture would be interpreted. He was at home here, in the crowded ballrooms, as she was not. As at Lester Hall, here, he was in control.
Lucinda shifted in her seat. Propping her chin in her palm, she stared at the sleeping houses, a frown drawing down her fine brows.
Free of her scrutiny, Harry opened his eyes. He studied her profile, clear in the moonlight. His lips curved in the slightest of smiles. Pressing his head back against the squabs, he closed his eyes.
AT THAT MOMENT, in Mortimer Babbacombe’s lodgings in Great Portland Street, a meeting was getting underway.
“Well—did you learn anything to the point?” Joliffe, no longer the nattily attired gentleman who had first befriended Mortimer, snarled the question the instant Brawn ambled through the door. Heavy-eyed from lack of sleep, his colour high from the liquor he had consumed to calm his nerves, Joliffe fixed his most junior accomplice with a dangerous stare.