Well, they weren’t alone in that. That spiteful girl held no interest for him at all. But Miss Mayne . . . he’d been across that ballroom and trying to ameliorate her humiliation before he’d had time to even think about it. What was it about her that fascinated him?
The smoke in her blue eyes had cleared when she’d smiled up at him, during that dance. Her whole face had brightened. His hand had tightened on her nimble waist and his fingers had itched to explore the rest of her generous curves. But it was something else altogether that hooked him and would not let him go.
She held her own with him. No looking away or casting her gaze down. No demurring to his opinion or simpering at his harsh wit or any of the usual wiles that females sought to use against him. She stood toe to toe with him in a way that no one did, save for his closest friends. Damnation, she’d even somehow got him talking about himself—and that was something Chester, Sterne, Keswick and Tensford had to work at.
He needed to be more on his guard with her. He needed to keep the upper hand, or he’d have to avoid her altogether.
He wasn’t sure avoiding her would be possible. Very privately, he acknowledged that he wasn’t sure he wanted it to be.
“How on earth did she come up with the blunt for a Season, then?” he wondered aloud. “They are renting a house, I gather. That comes with its own expenses. And she and her aunt would need wardrobes—and not the kind you wear in a small village. And all of the smaller expenses—the servants, the subscriptions and tickets and carriages and vails and everything that go along with it all.”
“The footman I spoke with speculated that the older lady sold something from her collection of old coins.”
“Ah, I did hear of the aunt’s expertise.”
Chapman finished sliding him into his coat and glanced at the clock. “The gentlemen will be here soon, sir.”
“Oh. Yes.” He smoothed his coat and took up his hat. “Thank you for making those inquiries for me, Chapman. Anything else I need to know?”
“That’s all I heard, save for one thing, concerning the girl’s father’s demise.”
Whiddon paused.
“He was struck down by a carriage. There are whispers that it could scarcely have been an accident.”
“Ah, well, we are hardly in the position to judge anyone for dubious deaths in the family, are we?”
“I suppose not, sir.”
“Thank you, Chapman. You’ve done well.”
“Of course, sir.”
Whiddon set off downstairs. He paused as Old Alf shuffled to open the door for him. “What’s that . . . odd . . . smell, Alfred?”
The footman glanced around. “Ah.” He nodded toward a bundle of fur in a corner. “I believe it’s the cat, sir.”
“Has the cat died, Alf?”
The old man moved over to peer down at the animal. “Not yet, sir. He must be sleeping off a rat.”
He shrugged. “Fine, then. Carry on.”
He stepped outside and caught sight of his friends coming down the street. Good. Perfect timing.
* * *
Charlotte held her breath,then gave a little jump of victory as her bowl edged past another and settled close to the jack.
“Good show, Miss Mayne!” Mr. Rostham grinned good-naturedly. “How on earth did you come to be so skilled at bowls?”
“It comes of having a twelve-year-old brother.” She smiled up at the young gentleman. “I have to keep sharp or risk losing to him every single match.”
“Yes,” he said wryly. “Twice is enough for me. But I’m shocked you deign to play with your brother. The devil knows my elder sisters moved heaven and earth to avoid me when I was that age.”
She raised a brow. “And did that have anything at all to do with your own behavior, I wonder?”
He laughed. “I did enjoy tweaking their curls and pinching them in church.”
