“How so?”
She had to press her lips against an awkward smile. “He was…a little lacking in stature.”
“Ah.” Jack cleared his throat and looked away. After a short pause, his voice brisker, he said, “It’s very late. Will you let me take you home, Lucy?”
She nodded.
“Let’s give that cab man something to do, eh?” he said, a smile in his voice, but it was strained and false. “He’s had entertainment enough watching us these last few minutes.”
If the hackney driver was wary about admitting an argumentative couple into his cab—one a lady out at night having a publicly heated conversation and therefore clearly of dubious quality—Jack’s authoritative shout to hail him seemed to reassure him.
Lucy eyed him as he strode to the cab’s door. Tall, handsome, confident, and well dressed, he was obviously a gentleman of goodton. But who knew what the little creature was that followed him inside, her cloak subdued, a sketchbook in her arms. She could’ve been a seamstress with a portfolio of designs. She could’ve been a brothel madam with a book of available wares. Society, she thought bitterly, would always take the most spurious path. And the lowest.
The house was quiet and sleeping when she returned home. Or perhaps Caroline was still out somewhere. Jack watched her to the door, leaving her with a promise to call tomorrow—with his mother, she learnt with surprise. She went to her bedroom, unsure whether she dreaded the visit or not. A long hour staring at the ugly pencil mark his shocking appearance had scored across her work left her undecided.
Twenty-Five
Jack instructed the hackney onwards to his own address but got caught in a snarl of traffic at the junction towards Piccadilly. Some large ball must have just finished.
Jack called to the driver to stop, paid him, and set off on foot, a fretful agitation crawling in his bones. He hadn’t gone far before he caught sight of a familiar carriage trapped in the same squeeze. The crest on the door made him pause—the first time it had ever done so—but he surrendered to impulse and rapped on the door, smiling up at the watchful driver, who had glanced round at the noise. He recognised Jack and returned his attention to his horses, though they scarcely needed it, being half asleep as they waited in the queue despite all the noise around them. George always did have the most placid cattle.
“It’s me,” Jack called when George’s cautious, “Who is it?” sounded from within. The door was unlatched, and Jack climbed into the lighted carriage, glad to find only George inside, though the lingering scent of perfume was evidence George had dutifully escorted at least one of his female cousins somewhere tonight.
“The Howarth’s ball,” George said tiredly before Jack could even ask.
Jack sat down opposite, flicking the tail of his coat out of the way. “No fun?”
“It was the youngest’s come out. Nothing but relatives, debutantes, and watchful mothers.”
“Ah.” He wrinkled his nose in understanding. Strict propriety and marital hopes. Always a hypocritical and dangerous stew.
“Also,” said George, “your sisters were there.”
“Yes, now I remember. They were half out the door when I arrived this evening with my mother.” His mood was rattled at best and dismal at worst, but he attempted a smile. “Nora on the catch for you, is she? It’s a pity your betrothed wasn’t there to keep you safe.”
Had George had any idea exactly where she’d had been tonight? He suspected not.
“Whenwillyou make the engagement known?” The question came out fully formed, though he hadn’t quite known he was about to ask it. Perhaps his voice sounded normal enough, but the words seem to hang there, edged in glass.
George rubbed his jaw and took a glance out of the window at the motionless traffic. “My parents wrote to say they’ll be visiting town next week.”
“You’ll tell them then?”
George gave a small hum, which might have been yes or might have been indecision, then fixed him with a look. “And where haveyoubeen all this time? And why is Warde driving your chestnuts?”
Jack cursed. “Hebought them, did he? Just to annoy me, no doubt. Well, I hope they run away with him, damn the man. And they probably will. He hasn’t the skill or the strength to hold them.”
“You haven’t answered the question, Jack.” George ran an assessing gaze over him. “And now I’ve seen the state of you, I’m more worried than ever. You don’t look quite yourself.”
It had been a stupid idea getting in this carriage, trapping himself in a tête-à-tête with George. There was nowhere on earth to get friendly reassurance, no sympathetic ears. The world, quite rightly, didn’t look kindly on men who coveted others’ wives.
Jack took a breath, let it out, thumbing a ridge in the leather upholstery of the carriage seat. “I’m well near basketted, George. There’s the rub.”
His friend gave him a long look. “How bad is it?”
“Oh…” he waved a hand. “Fixable. Eventually.”
“If I can loan you—”
