"Well, that's reassuring," muttered Miles. "I think."
"Oh, for goodness' sake," sighed Henrietta. "Charlotte was very cast down at Almack's last night because no one — except the most obvious fortune hunters — asked her to dance. She didn't say anything, but I could tell. It's been like that all Season."
"She's very quiet," Miles said, attempting to exonerate his sex.
"That doesn't mean she doesn't have feelings," countered Henrietta. "It's very lowering for her having to spend the evening standing next to her grandmother."
"If I had to spend the evening standing next to her grandmother, I'd be low, too. The woman is a menace to society."
Henrietta looked at Miles expectantly. "Well?"
"Tell her to save me the first quadrille."
"You really are a dear," Henrietta beamed, standing on tiptoe to press a quick kiss to Miles's cheek. His skin was warm beneath her lips, and surprisingly soft. If he turned his head just a litde bit to the right…
Henrietta clunked back down onto her heels with such celerity that she staggered.
"I know," Miles said smugly.
"Toad," countered Henrietta, wrapping the old insult around herself like an old and beloved blanket.
"Come for a drive with me this afternoon?" Miles asked.
Henrietta shook her head regretfully. "I can't. My new voice teacher is coming at five."
"New voice teacher?" Miles strolled with Henrietta in the direction of the door. "What happened to Signor Antonio?"
An elusive dimple appeared in Henrietta's right cheek. "He and Cook had an artistic disagreement."
"An artistic disagreement?"
"Signor Antonio thought that a true artiste didn't need permission to help himself to Cook's biscuits. Cook disagreed." Henrietta glanced up at Miles. "Cook, as you know, has a formidable way with the rolling pin."
"Not with me," said Miles smugly.
"Braggart."
Miles stepped aside as a footman trotted forward to open the front door for him. "Jealousy does not become you, my dear."
Henrietta skidded to a stop just before the open door. "Who said I was jealous?"
"Don't try to hide it," Miles said knowingly. Too knowingly. "You know Cook likes me best."
"Oh. Right. Cook." Hen took a deep breath. "Of course."
"Are you all right, Hen? You seem a bit flustered."
Henrietta mustered up a smile. "Fine. Perfectly. Just a little… um, well…"
Miles clapped his hat on his head. "See you tonight, then! Tell Cook I adore her."
The door slammed shut behind him. Henrietta stood there, in the marble foyer, staring at the inside of the door. She stood there so long that the footman shifted uncomfortably and asked if she wished him to open the door again. Henrietta shook her head, not altogether sure what he had asked, because her mind was somewhere else entirely, finishing that last sentence. She wasn't sure she liked the result. In fact, she was quite sure she didn't.
Just a little… jealous?
Chapter Ten
Poetry, Romantic: a detailed report provided by an agent of the War Office
Miles bounded cheerfully down the front steps of Uppington House. His cheek still tingled where Henrietta's lips had pressed against it, and Miles lifted a hand to rub absently at the spot. The scent of her toilet water — some flower or another, Miles never could keep them straight — tickled his nostrils. It smelled nice. Like Henrietta. Settling his hat more firmly on his head, Miles pushed the thought aside and contemplated the sun-dappled street. Just past noon, and the rest of the day still ahead of him.
It was, considered Miles complacently, shaping up to be an exceptionally fine day. Downey had manipulated his cravat into a Waterfall after only three ruined squares of linen; Cook's ginger biscuits were, as always, the epitome of gingery goodness; there were rumors of a new soprano at Haymarket (Miles being, at the moment, lamentably between mistresses); and he had a spy to catch.
Shaking a floppy lock of blond hair out of his eyes, Miles looked back at Uppington House with a smile. Even now that he had London lodgings of his own, it still felt more like home to him than anyplace else in the world.
The first time he had ever gone up that shallow flight of steps, he had been a terrified eight-year-old with nowhere to go for Christmas. His parents had been on the Continent, his old nurse had been called away to take care of her ailing sister, and Miles had been left at loose ends until Richard suggested he accompany him home.
Richard took his friend by the collar and tugged him forward. "I've brought Dorrington home," he announced helpfully.
Lady Uppington, with fewer gray hairs, but just as imperious a disposition, bustled forward. "Does Dorrington's family know he's here?" she asked.
This consideration had, indeed, eluded both Richard and Miles. Richard considered a moment. "No."
Her worst fears about her son's career as a kidnapper confirmed, Lady Uppington looked sternly at her wayward offspring. "You are going to have to return him."
"It's all right," said Miles matter-of-factly, just as a chubby toddler in a frilly dress waddled into the room. "They don't want me returned."
Before Lady Uppington could react to that startling statement, the toddler thrust the grubby doll in her arms at Miles. The china head wobbled ominously and bits of stuffing escaped out the neck. "Play."
Miles decided that if he was going to spend the holidays here, they were going to have to get a few things straight. "Boys," he informed the tot grandly, "do not play with dolls."
The toddler looked decidedly unimpressed. She shoved the doll at him again. "Play."
"I say, Selwick? Does your sister have any toy soldiers?"
And that was that. Miles was firmly ensconced in the Uppington household. Lady Uppington did, early on, write a letter to the Viscountess of Loring, on the theory that the viscountess might somehow resent the appropriation of her only offspring, but the reply that returned was so riddled with references to Les Noces de Figaro and so devoid of the slightest mention of Miles, that Lady Uppington muttered a few very uncomplimentary things in the general direction of Italy, and set about relabeling Miles's trunks. Miles received an extra-large helping of trifle that night, and a good-night hug that put him in imminent danger of asphyxiation.
After that, it was simply understood that Miles's Christmases and summers and anything that might come up in between were to be spent at Uppington House. Lord Uppington took him fishing and shooting, and instructed him in the rudiments of estate management. Lady Uppington scolded him and cosseted him and dragged him, squirming and complaining, to be outfitted for school. Every so often, Miles would receive a box from Europe, filled with murky bottles of mineral water, folios of sheet music, and tiny lederhosen that might have fit him when he was two, but in all the ways that mattered, his true home was at Uppington House.
And there were those ginger biscuits.
Miles considered going back for another handful, but decided twelve was really quite enough for one day. Besides, he had a job to do.
With a light step and a cheerful whistle, he set off in the direction of his club. Last night, after the fiasco with the note, Miles had sat for a long while at that secluded table. After a few searing sips of gin, Miles had stopped muttering imprecations to himself, and abandoned tempting visions of self-flagellation. By halfway through the glass, he had come to the conclusion that, really, it had all turned out quite well. After all, now he had proof that Vaughn was up to something dodgy, whatever that dodginess might be. An innocent man didn't have clandestine meetings in seedy parts of town.