Tony stood.
Christian glanced his way. “Are you still glorying in solitary state?”
“Yes, thank heaven—the mater’s fixed in Devon.” Tony resettled his coat with a graceful shrug. “I have, however, been summoned by my godmother to a soirée at Amery House. I’ll have to put in an appearance.” He looked around the table. “Anyone going that way?”
Gervase, Jack, and Deverell shook their heads; they’d decided to retire to the club’s library and spend the rest of the evening in companionable silence.
Tony bade them farewell; grinning, they wished him luck. Together with Christian and Charles, he went downstairs and into the street. They parted on the pavement; Christian and Charles made for Kensington and Holland House, while Tony headed for Mayfair
Reluctance dragged at him; he ignored it. Any experienced commander knew there were some forces it was wise never to waste energy opposing. Such as godmothers. French godmothers especially.
“Good evening, Mrs. Carrington. A pleasure to meet you again.”
Alicia Carrington smiled easily and gave Lord Marshalsea her hand. “My lord. I daresay you recall my sister, Miss Pevensey?”
As his lordship’s gaze was riveted on Adriana, standing a few steps away, Alicia’s question was largely rhetorical. His lordship, however, had clearly decided that gaining Alicia’s support was crucial to securing Adriana’s hand; while acknowledging Adriana, he remained by Alicia’s side and made conversation in a distant, distracted fashion.
That last, something Alicia viewed with amusement, was due to his lordship’s absorption with Adriana, talking animatedly with a coterie of admirers all vying for her favor. Adriana was an English rose gowned in pink silk a shade darker than that generally worn by young ladies, the better to exploit her luxuriant dark curls. Those sheened in the chandeliers’ glow, creating the perfect frame for her bewitching features, her large brown eyes set under finely arched black brows, her peaches-and-cream complexion and lush, rosebud lips.
As for Adriana’s figure, deliberately understated in the demure gown that hinted at rather than defined, it enticed. Even gowned in sackcloth, Alicia’s sister was a package guaranteed to capture gentlemen’s eyes, which was the reason they were here in London, in the very heart of the ton.
Masquerading.
At least, Alicia was; Adriana was who she purported to be.
While making the appropriate responses to Lord Marshalsea, Alicia monitored all those who paid court to her younger sister. Everything to date had gone exactly as they, sitting in the tiny parlor of their small house in Little Compton, in rural Warwickshire, which along with the surrounding few acres were all they—she, Adriana, and their three brothers—jointly owned, had planned, yet not even in their admittedly unfettered imaginations had they envisioned that events, people, and opportunities would fall out so well.
Their plan, desperate and reckless though it was, might just succeed. Succeed in securing a future for their three brothers—David, Harry, and Matthew—and for Adriana. For herself, Alicia hadn’t thought that far; time enough to turn her mind to her own life once she’d seen her siblings safe.
Lord Marshalsea grew increasingly restless; taking pity on him, Alicia eased him into Adriana’s circle, then stepped back, effacing herself as a good chaperone should. She eavesdropped, listening as Adriana handled the gentlemen surrounding her with her customary confidence. Although neither she nor Adriana had had any previous experience of the ton, of the ways of society’s elite, since their appearance in town and their introduction to those exalted circles some weeks ago, they’d managed without the slightest hiccup.
Eighteen months of intensive research and their own sound common sense had stood them in good stead. Having three much younger brothers whom they’d largely reared had eradicated any tendency to panic; both jointly and individually, they’d risen to every challenge and triumphed.
Alicia was proud of them both, and increasingly hopeful of an excellent outcome to their scheme.
“Mrs. Carrington—your servant, ma’am.”
The drawled words jolted her from the rosy future. Concealing her dismay, calmly turning, lips curving, she gave her hand to the gentleman bowing before her. “Mr. Ruskin. How pleasant to meet you here.”
“The pleasure, I assure you, dear lady, is all mine.”
Straightening, Ruskin delivered the comment with an intent look and a smile that sent a warning slithering down her spine. He was a largish man, half a head taller than she and heavily built; he dressed well and had the manners of a gentleman, yet there was something about him that, even hampered by inexperience, she recognized as less than savory.
For some ungodly reason, Ruskin had from their first meeting fixed his eye on her. If she could understand why, she’d do something to deflect it; her ever-fertile imagination painted him a snake, with her as his mesmerized prey. She’d pretended ignorance of the tenor of his attentions, had tried to be discouraging. When he’d shocked her by obliquely suggesting a carte blanche, she’d pretended not to understand; when he’d later alluded to marriage, she’d feigned deafness and spoken of something else. To no avail; he still sought her out, increasingly pointedly.
Thus far she’d avoided any declaration, thereby avoiding having outright to refuse it. Given her masquerade, she didn’t want to risk an overt dismissal, didn’t want to draw any attention her way; the most she dared do was behave coolly.
Ruskin’s pale gaze had been traveling her face; it rose to trap hers. “If you would grant me the favor of a few minutes in private, my dear, I would be grateful.”
He still held her fingers; keeping her expression noncommittal, she eased her hand free and used it to gesture to Adriana. “I’m afraid, sir, that with my sister in my care, I really cannot—”
“Ah.” Ruskin sent a glance Adriana’s way, a comprehensive survey taking in the besotted lordlings and gentlemen gathered around her, and Miss Tiverton, whom Adriana had taken under her wing, thereby earning Lady Hertford’s undying gratitude. “What I have to say will, I daresay, have some impact on your sister.”
Looking back at Alicia, Ruskin met her eyes; his smile remained easy, a gentleman confident of his ground. “However, your concern is… understandable.”
His gaze lifted; he scanned the room, filled with the fashionable. Lady Amery’s soirée had attracted the cream of the ton; they were present in force, talking, exchanging the latest on-dits, exclaiming over the latest juicy scandal.
“Perhaps we could repair to the side of the room?” Ruskin brought his gaze back to her face. “With this noise, no one will hear us; we’ll be able to talk, and you’ll be able to keep your ravishingly lovely young sister safe… and in view.”
Steel rang beneath his words; Alicia dismissed any thought of refusing him. Inclining her head, feigning serene indifference, she laid her fingers on his sleeve and allowed him to steer her through the crowd.
What unwelcome challenge was she about to face?
Behind her calm facade, her heart beat faster; her lungs felt tight. Had she imagined the threat in his tone?
An alcove behind a chaise filled with dowagers provided a small oasis of relative privacy. As Ruskin had said, she could still see Adriana and her court clearly. If they kept their voices low, not even the dowagers, heads close swapping scandal, would overhear.
Ruskin stood beside her, calmly looking out over the crowd. “I would suggest, my dear, that you hear me out—hear all I have to say—before making any reply.”
She glanced briefly at him, then stiffly inclined her head. Lifting her fingers from his sleeve, she gripped her fan.