Jane's keen eyes narrowed on Letty's deceptively guileless profile. "You don't trust her with the truth?"
Geoff's answer was succinct and heartfelt. "No."
"Hmm," said Jane.
Geoff didn't notice. His attention was arrested by something else entirely. Or, rather, someone else entirely. A newcomer had joined the little party around his wife, bowing in a way better fitted to Versailles than Cuffe Street.
"This was just what tonight needed," muttered Geoff.
"She seems to be occupied for the moment," commented Jane.
Geoff looked abruptly down at her, only belatedly remembering to leer. "I forgot. You haven't been in London for some time, have you?"
"We," sniffed Miss Gwen, "have been rather occupied elsewhere." Her tone managed to imply that everyone else's time had been lamentably misspent.
"Last month," Geoff explained tersely, one eye still on the little group around his wife, "Miles asked me to look into the background of one Lord Vaughn, who had recently returned to London after ten years on the Continent. Miles thought he might be the Black Tulip."
"Which he wasn't," interjected Miss Gwen, with a superior look that conveyed exactly what she thought of Miles's deductive abilities.
"Which he wasn't," confirmed Geoff. "However, his behavior was still deuced odd. According to Miles, in the course of events, Vaughn admitted to an earlier association with the marquise. An association," he quickly added, before the gleam in Miss Gwen's eye could translate into speech, "of a romantic nature."
"And?" Miss Gwen flicked at the tassels on Geoff's boots with the point of her parasol.
"Miles and Henrietta entrusted the marquise into the custody of Lord Vaughn." Geoff met Jane's eyes, still and watchful behind the fringe of her fan. "Within the hour, she had escaped."
"With Lord Vaughn's connivance?" inquired Jane.
"That remains unclear." Geoff's lips twisted into a wry smile. "He, of course, claims not."
"Is there a point to this recitation?" demanded Miss Gwen. "Or are you merely trying to enliven a dull hour?"
"That," said Geoff grimly, indicating the man bending solicitously over his unpredictable little wife, "is Lord Vaughn."
Chapter Ten
"Lord Vaughn!"
Mrs. Lanergan flapped the fringes of her shawl in the direction of a man who stood a few yards away. Unmoved by Mrs. Lanergan's cry, he carried on his aloof perusal of the assemblage, contriving to project disdain without uttering a single word.
With a complete want of propriety that put even Letty's mother to shame, Mrs. Lanergan caroled, "Lord Vau-aughn!"
Looking distinctly pained, the man slowly pivoted on one silver-buckled shoe, and trained his quizzing glass in the direction of the unseemly hullabaloo. A study in shadow, the strict adherence to dark evening garb that looked distinguished on Brummell bestowed upon Lord Vaughn an otherworldly air, like an enchanter newly descended from his tower. Subtle silver threads lent luster to the otherwise drab fabric of his frock coat and edged the lace at throat and cuffs, mirroring the shading of silver along the sides of his dark hair. The only color to enliven his ensemble was a single ruby, set precisely into the center of his elaborately tied cravat, that smoldered like the fire at the heart of a dragon's cave.
"Ah," he drawled, allowing the quizzing glass to dangle from fine-boned fingers. "Our estimable hostess."
Lord Vaughn made a courtly leg, his silver rings flashing in the light as his hands gracefully inscribed the air in an obeisance that smacked of mockery.
Mrs. Lanergan preened. "Why, Lord Vaughn, how gallant you are!"
"How could I be otherwise to the one who has gathered together such an…entertaining company?" Lord Vaughn trailed his quizzing glass in a lazy circle that began with the shrill girl at the pianoforte, passed over two inebriated soldiers arguing about whose horse was faster, and landed upon the floral tribute perched haphazardly on top of Emily's black curls.
Letty would have winced for her hostess, but she was preoccupied with worries of her own. Concentrating on being inconspicuous, she sidled away from the betraying glare of the candles. Hopefully, Letty thought, Lord Vaughn wouldn't equate Mrs. Alsdale, widow, with Miss Laetitia Alsworthy, reluctant debutante.
She didn't think he would recognize her—most men were in too much of a rush to get to Mary's side to take much notice of her little sister—but something about Lord Vaughn's quizzing glass made Letty distinctly uneasy. His attentions had been fixed on Lady Henrietta Selwick, but that hadn't prevented him from dancing some five or six times with Letty's sister, nor had it prevented Mary from doing her best to inveigle Lord Vaughn into a declaration more solid than dancing. An earl trumped a viscount, especially when the earl was rumored to have some of the finest family jewels in England, and a country estate larger than Chatsworth.
Either Mrs. Lanergan knew about the country estate as well, or the yacht had been enough to convince her. With a match-making gleam in her eye, she laced her plump arm through Emily's. "My lord, this is Miss Emily Gilchrist, newly come from school in England."
"How very edifying."
"And this," said Mrs. Lanergan, chivying Letty forward like a sheepdog with a particularly recalcitrant ewe, "is Mrs. Alsdale."
Lord Vaughn's heavy-lidded eyes conducted a knowing sweep of Letty's face, until she was quite sure he could have recited the location of every one of her freckles with unerring accuracy.
"Mrs. Alsdale, is it?" he inquired delicately, with an emphasis on the last syllable that made Letty want to climb inside the Chinese cabinet and stay there.
Letty knew she should have quietly slipped off while Mrs. Lanergan was introducing Emily. But where? It wouldn't do for her cad of a husband to see her wandering alone through the party. The thought was enough to make Letty toss her ginger hair and smile archly up at Lord Vaughn.
"Indeed, my lord."
"Quite amazing, isn't it, how many familiar faces one may encounter in a Dublin drawing room."
"Really?" inquired Letty brightly, wondering if it would look suspicious if she suddenly ducked behind Emily. Emily, unfortunately, had already drifted away in search of greener gentlemen. Letty was on her own. "I haven't found it so."
"I could have sworn that we two have met before, and not so very long ago. In London."
"Have we?" Letty modeled her simper on Miss Fairley. "I'm afraid I don't recall."
"Ah, but I do." Lord Vaughn's polished smile allowed for no denials. He flicked his wrist in the direction of Letty's mourning dress. "You were not so somber then."
"My circumstances have changed."
"So it would seem. Married and widowed in…three weeks? How very expeditious of you, Mrs. Alsdale."
"It was all quite sudden," replied Letty helplessly.
"There are many ladies in society who would be glad to learn that trick of you."
"Tell them to use hemlock," suggested Letty. "It's faster than arsenic."
Lord Vaughn's eyebrows lifted. "Remind me never to offer you the protection of my name."
"Never fear, my lord, you are too corporeal for my taste." Better for Lord Vaughn to think her husband imaginary, rather than merely misplaced.
He accepted the misdirection with an appreciative inclination of his silvered head. "You are, I believe, a very resourceful young lady."
"One does what one has to."
A whisper of a smile played about Lord Vaughn's thin lips. "Just as I said."
"There is nothing heroic about necessity," demurred Letty.
"There is," riposted Lord Vaughn, wagging his quizzing glass at her, "in retrospect."