“Perhaps. I am having dinner with Mr. Oliver tomorrow. Are you staying here at the hotel?”
“I ... Yes, I am.”
“Well. I shall try to make time beforehand. Give you a little advice if nothing else. Good-bye for now, Miss... ”
Rebecca hesitated. Had his brother told him the whole sordid story? If so, he might refuse to speak to John Lane’s sister. And what about the pen name on the manuscript?
She beamed at the man as though she’d not heard the implied question. “Until tomorrow, then. Thank you. Thank you so much!”
Apparently she was staying at least another night.
At dinner that evening, Frederick noticed several more tables were occupied than had been the previous evening. Rebecca Lane, however, sat alone, and he idly wondered where Lady Fitzhoward was.
The ornamental Miss Newport swept in, wearing, he recognized, the same gown as the night before. So was Miss Lane for that matter, but still unease niggled him. Was it a sign of the Newport woman’s penury? He could well believe her an impoverished beauty looking to land a wealthy husband at a grand hotel. He frowned at the disparaging thought. His own disastrous marriage had apparently jaded him.
Still, I wonder why she is here.
The likely answer strode in, in the form of his younger brother. How he managed to look rumpled and perfectly groomed at the same time was a mystery to Frederick.
Thomas grinned. “Sorry, brother dear. Only meant to rest my eyes for a few minutes and fell asleep. Late night, em, reading.”
Reading? Balderdash, Frederick thought. His brother had no doubt taken advantage of the gentlemen’s billiard room and bar tucked away belowstairs. Or worse.
Thomas bowed to Miss Newport before taking his chair at Frederick’s table. “May we not invite her to join us? Seems less than chivalrous to let her dine alone again.”
“I am not sure that would be wise.”
“Why not? What an old codger you are. It won’t exactly be a romantic tête-à-tête, now, will it? Not with the three of us.”
“So I am to serve as chaperone for appearances’ sake?”
“A sour, disapproving chaperone? It is, I believe, the role you were born for.” Thomas leaned closer. “Better yet, let’s invite that sweet-faced Miss Lane to join us too. Make a proper foursome of it. I don’t see the old lady she usually dines with, and she looks deuced uncomfortable over there alone.”
She did indeed; Frederick had noticed.
When he hesitated, Thomas took that as consent. “Excellent!” He rose before Frederick could object and first asked Miss Newport to join them. She accepted with a coy smile, as if such invitations were customary and her due. Thomas led her by the elbow to their table and pulled out a chair for her. Frederick rose politely and offered a bow while Thomas crossed the room to Miss Lane. Her thick brows rose as his brother approached. He could not hear what was said, but she replied without smiling, her gaze darting around the room, clearly uncertain.
At that moment, Frederick’s view was blocked as the maître d’hôtel led two people across the dining room—a well-dressed mother and a daughter of perhaps eighteen or nineteen.
When they had passed, Frederick was surprised to see Miss Lane rise and allow Thomas to escort her to their table, lookingsupremely self-conscious. He fleetingly wondered what his brother had said to win her agreement, when she had seemed intent on politely refusing him. But his brother had always been able to charm women and was much more at ease in their company than he had ever been.
Frederick had thought, after he married and had a wife to share his life with, that his days of having to make inane conversation with attractive females was over. He had been mistaken in that, and in so many other things.
Again he rose, bowed, and murmured a greeting.
Miss Lane dipped an awkward curtsy, looking as uncomfortable as he felt, yet pretty too, with dark glossy curls framing her face, her hazel eyes looking almost green by candlelight.
Thomas’s warm smile and gallant words smoothed over the uneasy moment as they all settled themselves once more, and the waiters laid more places.
Seated close to him, Miss Newport looked a bit older than Frederick had at first supposed. He noticed she wore powder and rouge, compared with Miss Lane’s fresh face with a sprinkling of freckles across her nose.
When the four of them had played lawn bowls together, most of their conversation had centered on the game itself. Now, Thomas explained, “Miss Newport and I met in London last year. She was the toast of Town.”
Selina Newport demurely dipped her head. “Mr. Wilford exaggerates.”
Thomas turned to Rebecca. “And Miss Lane is, em...” He faltered, his smooth tongue for once failing him.
“An old friend,” Frederick supplied. “Miss Lane’s father was our vicar before his untimely death, and before that my tutor. An excellent man.”
