He most decidedly did not speak to debutantes.
Of course, the woman in black — Henrietta squinted through the lorgnette, wishing she had an opera glass instead — didn't much look like a debutante. For one thing, debutantes didn't wear black. And their necklines, for the most part, tended to be somewhat more modest than that sported by Miles's companion. Good heavens, did that dress even have a bodice?
Henrietta fought down an unreasonable surge of pure dislike. Of course, she didn't dislike the woman. How could she dislike her? She hadn't even met her yet.
But she looked dislikable.
"Who is she?" Henrietta asked.
Pen gave a very unladylike snort. "A husband-hunter, no doubt."
"But aren't we?" Henrietta countered absentmindedly as the woman laid a black gloved hand on Miles's arm. Miles didn't seem to be making any move to divest himself of the appendage.
"That," decreed Penelope, "is beside the point."
"I would prefer my future husband hunt me," sighed Charlotte.
Penelope grinned mischievously. "He'll lurk beneath your balcony and cry, 'My love! My love! O love of my life!'"
"Shhh!" Charlotte grabbed one of Penelope's outflung arms. "Everyone's staring."
Penelope squeezed Charlotte's gloved hand affectionately. "Let them stare! It will only increase your mystique, don't you agree, Hen? Hen?"
Henrietta was still staring at the dark woman with Miles.
The dowager slapped Henrietta's hand.
"Ow!" Henrietta dropped the lorgnette straight into the dowager's lap.
"That's better," muttered the dowager, lifting her eyepiece. "Ah."
"Yes?" prompted Henrietta, wondering if it would be possible to ever so casually wander over there and eavesdrop a bit without looking like she had done so on purpose. Probably not, she decided ruefully. There was nothing large to hide behind except Miles, and his companion would probably catch on if she saw Henrietta peeking out from behind Miles's back. She would undoubtedly mention it to Miles. And Henrietta, wicked way with words though she might have, would have a great deal of trouble explaining that one away.
"So that's who it is! Whoever would have thought she'd be back in London?"
"Who?" asked Henrietta.
"Well, well, well," tutted the duchess.
Henrietta directed an exasperated look in the direction of the Dowager Duchess, but knew better than to speak. The more interest she expressed, the longer the dowager would take to get to the point. Making gentlemen jump out ballroom windows wasn't her only source of pleasure. Tormenting the young of any gender fell into the same category. Young being interpreted as anyone between the ages of five and fifty.
"If it isn't little Theresa Ballinger! I thought we'd seen the last of that girl. Good riddance, too."
"Who was she?" asked Pen, leaning over the duchess's shoulder.
"She was the reigning beauty of 1790 — the men were all mad for her. Men!" snorted the duchess. "Sheep, the lot of them. I never liked her."
Henrietta had always known the Dowager Duchess to be a woman of discernment and extreme good sense.
"She married a frog — a titled one."
"A frog prince?" Henrietta wasn't able to resist.
• "A frog marquis," corrected the duchess. "Not that she would have turned down a prince if she could have gotten one. That girl always had an eye for the main chance. I wonder what she's doing back in London?"
The other outraged onlookers viewing Miles's little flirtation had no doubts on that score. It was altogether too clear what the beautiful Marquise de Montval was doing in London — snaring a viscount. Viscounts being a rare commodity, her progress was regarded with more than a little distress by a sizable portion of the ballroom.
"She had a husband already!" one girl complained huffily to her mother. "And he was a marquis! It's not fair!"
"There, there, dear," clucked her mother, glowering in the direction of Miles and the marquise. "Mummy will find you another viscount. There's that nice Pinchingdale-Snipe boy…"
Their consternation was all for naught. Miles wasn't interested. Well, he wasn't entirely uninterested — he was male, after all, and between mistresses at the moment, and that was quite a respectable expanse of bosom being presented for his delectation. He just wasn't interested enough. The offer was flattering, but there was an old adage about not fouling one's own nest. If he was going to dally, it wouldn't be among the ton.
So instead of tipping his head towards the nearest exit, Miles took the gloved hand that was offered him and tilted his torso in an elegant bow. Just for good measure, just so she wouldn't feel like all her wiles had been wasted, he turned her hand over and pressed a kiss to her gloved palm. It was a gesture he had picked up years ago from an elderly Italian fellow named Giacomo Casanova. It never failed to please.
"Madam, it has been a pleasure."
"Not the last of its kind, I hope."
"Aren't the best pleasures unexpected ones?" Miles prevaricated. It struck him as a rather clever way of avoiding setting up an assignation.
"Sometimes anticipation can be as pleasant as surprise," countered the marquise. She closed her fan with a meaningful snap. "I ride in the park tomorrow at five. Perhaps our paths will cross."
"Perhaps." Miles's smile was as meaningful — and as meaningless — as hers. Since everybody rode in the park at five, the odds of their encountering each other were high, the odds of it being deliberate less so.
It had occurred to him that as the widow of a French marquis, she might be of some use in exploring the possibility of a spy lurking among the French emigre community, but she had mentioned, in the course of their brief, if innuendo-laden, conversation that she had returned from France two years previous, and spent the intervening time living quietly in Yorkshire in the first flush of mourning for her husband. Miles had better informed contacts in the emigre community — even if less attractive ones. Besides, his best point of departure on this assignment still seemed to be the agent's employer, Lord Vaughn.
The object of Miles's speculation was, at that very moment, moving in the direction of the group of young ladies clustered around the formidable Dowager Duchess of Dovedale.
Henrietta regarded the newcomer with interest. He wasn't precisely tall — not as Miles was tall, at any rate — but his lithe frame gave the impression of height. Unlike the more adventurous of the ton's young blades, who had decked themselves out in colors ranging from Nile green (as unfortunate to the complexion as it had been to Bonaparte's ambitions) to a particularly virulent shade of puce, the gentleman approaching was dressed in a combination of black and silver, like midnight shot through with moonlight. His hair carried out the theme, a few silver strands frosting rather than disguising the original black. Henrietta wouldn't have been surprised if he had silvered them intentionally, just to match his waistcoat; the confluence of colors was too perfect to be anything but planned. In one hand he carried a silver-headed cane. It was clearly intended for show, rather than use; despite the slight lacing of silver in his hair, he moved with a courtier's sinuous stride.
He looked, thought Henrietta, rather as she had imagined Prospero. Not Prospero in his island wilderness, but Prospero in all the decadence of Milan in his days of power — elegant, unreachable, and more than a little bit dangerous.