The carriages disgorged them into a queue of finery so concentrated it could have blinded a lesser man. Oscar, unaccustomed to making an entrance, braced for impact.
The ball at Edingham House was less a social event than a battlefield; every alliance, every rivalry, every fleeting impression might be catalogued and weaponized by dawn. Still, he had fought in worse arenas. He offered Nancy his arm, and together they advanced into the onslaught.
The ballroom was already thick with conversation. Gaslight set the crystal and silver ablaze; the air vibrated with the clash of perfumes and the low drone of gossip. Oscar felt the burn of a hundred eyes upon them, some hostile, some appraising, all desperately interested.
He would have liked to think they were staring at him, the infamous Scarfield, but he knew better. Every head turned to Nancy, radiant in green, with a smile so lethal it ought to have been regulated by Parliament. Even the women stared, their envy barely concealed behind painted fans. The men looked longer, and with less shame.
The Marquess and Marchioness of Edingham descended from their dais and swept forward to greet them. The Marquess—a red-faced monument of a man—bellowed, “Scarfield! At last! We were beginning to think you’d been felled by a mathematicalparadox.” He clasped Oscar’s hand and, with a force that threatened to dislocate several bones, shook it.
“Not yet,” Oscar replied. “Though there’s still hope.”
The Marchioness, plumed and sequined beyond all reason, sized up Nancy with a sort of proprietary awe. “Duchess, you are a vision. There will be a riot at the supper table if you do not promise to save me a seat.”
Nancy bowed her head in mock solemnity. “I would rather face a riot than the Edingham kitchens unaided.”
The Marchioness cackled, then leaned in. “There’s talk, you know.”
“There’s always talk,” Nancy returned, eyes sharp. “But so rarely the truth.”
Oscar watched the exchange with equal parts pride and admiration. He’d chosen Nancy for her wit and fire, but sometimes he was shocked by just how much of both she possessed. He felt a stirring in his chest—not quite joy, not quite fear. Something new.
They paid the social tax of small talk and then were released into the general crush. Nancy slipped away, seized by a vortex of friends, well-wishers, and the occasional curious adversary. Oscar watched her go, the green dress cutting through the crowdlike a blade. He had never liked crowds. He liked them even less when they made him feel so entirely alone.
He made his way to the perimeter, accepting a glass of punch from a liveried servant. He sipped, watched, catalogued. Nancy was with her parents now, her mother glowing with maternal triumph, her father doing his best impression of a disapproving owl. Oscar wondered if he’d ever be able to impress the man. Probably not. He was resigned to being, at best, a necessary evil.
He saw her laughing with Fiona and Hester, both radiant in their own right but eclipsed by Nancy’s wild energy. He saw the way men gathered at the periphery of their circle, orbiting like doomed satellites.
He felt it—an odd, animal urge to stride over, scoop her up, and declare her untouchable. The thought annoyed him. He was not, and would never be, the sort of man who needed to stake claims. He trusted her. He just didn’t trust anyone else.
A familiar voice interrupted his audit of the room. “Scarfield, you look like you’re about to duel half the peerage. Has the punch failed to meet your rigorous standards?”
Oscar turned. Adrian Fairleigh. Dressed in sober black, with only a silver pin at his collar for ornament. His hair was arranged to just the proper degree of disorder, and his smile was the usual: wide, bright, and entirely without substance.
Oscar nodded. “Fairleigh. I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Where else would I be?” Adrian’s eyes darted to Nancy, then back. “Half the city is dying to witness your new Duchess in action. The other half is betting on how long it takes before you kill someone on her behalf.”
Oscar sipped his punch. “Disappointing them will be my chief occupation tonight.”
Adrian laughed, but Oscar detected a brittle edge. “You’ve changed, Scarfield. I remember when you’d have sneered at all this. Now you’re practically… domesticated.”
Oscar let the remark hang. “I manage as I must.”
Adrian cocked his head. “You’ve done well for yourself. The Duchess is… formidable.” His gaze tracked Nancy for a beat too long. “I’m told she can out-debate any man in three counties.”
Oscar shrugged. “I enjoy a challenge.”
Adrian’s smile sharpened. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
Oscar could not put his finger on it, but there was something in the cadence of Adrian’s words tonight. A misstep in the usual dance, a subtle shift. Oscar scanned the room; Nancy was still with her friends, but now Lord Ellsworth and Lord Corrington had joined the group, posturing for attention. Lord Corrington was gesturing extravagantly, his gaze openly hungry.
Oscar felt his jaw tighten. “Is there a reason you sought me out, Adrian? Or is this nostalgia for old times?”
Adrian smiled wider. “Both, perhaps. But also—” he leaned in, voice lower, “to warn you. Society is a hungry beast. It will chew up your Duchess and spit her out if you’re not vigilant.”
Oscar’s patience thinned. “I am always vigilant.”
Adrian’s eyes sparkled. “I know. That’s what makes you so much fun to poke.” He tapped his glass to Oscar’s. “But even you have blind spots, old friend.”
