Whitehall could not andwould notwin this game.
Chapter Fifteen
“Idon’t belonghere.”
“Nonsense, Tamsin,” Jordan assured his sister. “We were invited by Lady Curchon.”
His sister looked lovely tonight, in a gown of pale green, which brought out the emerald lights in her eyes. Although that could also have been scathing dislike glowing in their depths as well. With Tamsin, it was often difficult to discern the difference.
The invitation to Lady Curchon’s gathering this evening had come as a bit of a surprise, considering Jordan had never been introduced to his hostess. It was Lord Curchon who had once been a close friend of Jordan’s father and visited River Crest, but his wife never accompanied him, claiming she didn’t care to be away from London.
Far more likely she didn’t want to associate with the notorious Lady Emerson.
In either case, after Jordan found Lord Curchon, quite by accident, at the club Jordan’s father had once frequented, the pair had become reacquainted over a glass of expensive brandy. Thus, the invitation to this evening’s festivities. Freely given, no matter the opinion of Lady Curchon.
“I think I’ll just join Drew at the card tables,” Tamsin whispered from beside him. “I feel like a prize horse on display. Everyone’s looking at me.”
“Because you are stunning,” he assured her. Truthfully, his sisterwasrather notorious. The story of her breaking the nose of the Marquess of Sokesby so many years ago was still making the rounds, as evidenced by the incident at Gunter’s. And Richland’s son, the boy she’d beaten in a horse race at Dunnings, took great delight in entertaining his cohorts with tales of Tamsin riding in breeches. “Joining our brother at the tables would only draw more attention. Besides, you’re terrible at cards. You wear your thoughts on your sleeve.”
Tamsin gave a puff of exasperation, but stayed by his side.
Lord Curchon was active in politics, and the guest list for tonight’s event reflected his tastes more so than his socially ambitious wife. One or two of Her Majesty’s ministers floated by, along with several members of Parliament. That wasn’t to say that there weren’t a handful of prominent titles sprinkled about the room, or that there weren’t more than a few young ladies on the search for a suitable match. But Lady Longwood and her minions were unlikely to be in attendance.
“I almost prefer Dunnings to this,” Tamsin murmured. “Or torture of some sort.”
“Shh. Our hostess will overhear you.”
Lady Curchon had welcomed the Sinclairs, if not with open arms, at the very least with excessive politeness. After a few moments of light, pleasant conversation, Lady Curchon announced she would introduce Tamsin to some of the other young ladies circling about, and Jordan was thankfully excused.
He’d have an earful from Tamsin on the carriage ride home.
Ignoring her angry glare, Jordan left Tamsin to the attentions of their hostess, thinking to join Drew at cards, but ultimately heading for the peace and quiet offered by Lord Curchon’s terrace. He meant to enjoy a cheroot and contemplate where Miss Whitehall had been spending her evenings. Lord Curchon was far more open-minded than most, but he thought his father’s old friend might draw the line at having Whitehall or his daughter here. Jordan toyed with the idea of informing Curchon of his situation with Whitehall, but decided to remain silent. All of London would know of his wedding Odessa Whitehall soon enough.
Since taking his leave of Miss Whitehall nearly a fortnight ago and allowing her to assume him gone from London, Jordan had visited Bond Street several more times, hoping to catch her unawares, but Odessa remained stubbornly absent. Assuming she must take leisurely walks with her aunt, Jordan made a habit of riding every day in the park. He’d also visited Madame Tussauds, thinking to catch Odessa and her mysterious lover gawking at the bloodstained wax figures, most of which were quite gruesome indeed, but there had been no sign of her.
Whitehall had sent Jordan a series of notes, demanding he call upon Odessa and the reason for his absence.
Jordan put him off with a deftly woven tale of estate matters.
Lamps had been lit along the terrace, attracting a great deal of flying insects, including a fluttering herd of moths. Small, papery wings flitted about, crowding around the torches. A young lady squawked, whispering in a terrified voice that she feared a moth would land upon her person or insert itself into her carefully styled coiffure. Or, she claimed in an innocent tone, one might land on her bodice.
Jordan snorted and lit his cheroot. The last declaration was merely an excuse for her companion to admire her bosom. She could use a lesson in deception from Miss Whitehall. But the gentleman finally took the hint and led her away from the light and deeper into the shadows.
Inhaling the cheroot, Jordan blew out a large, perfect ‘O’ and watched it float away into the night.
A large shadow suddenly loomed at his shoulder. “Do not move,” a deep baritone instructed in a menacing tone.
“May I take my cheroot from between my lips?” Jordan asked, peering over his shoulder.
The gentleman stood just to Jordan’s left, but all that he could make out was a massive, lumpy shadow, the size of Holly. He doubted he was about to be accosted on Lord Curchon’s terrace, though it wasn’t completely out of the question.
“I beg you, do not move. You have anopisthograptis luteolataon your shoulder.”
“A what?” Jordan’s eyes turned.
“Anopisthograptis luteolata,”the condescending tone repeated. A small jar glinted in the muted light, followed by the light brush of fingers along Jordan’s shoulder.
Good lord. He’sbiggerthan Holly.
