Genova glanced at Ash again, but he was talking to Dr. Egan.
The young woman turned toward their group, but Lord Henry called out, “Damaris! There you are at last. Make yourself useful, girl. Play us a tune!”
The young woman stopped, smile fixed, and Genova thought she would refuse, but she curtsied—“Of course, Lord Henry”—and went to a harpsichord. A lowly companion? Or a tyrannized daughter?
Lady Arradale spoke in a voice designed to carry. “How kind, Miss Myddleton.” She turned to Genova. “Miss Myddleton is Lord Henry’s ward, and we are so fortunate to have her here. She plays beautifully.”
Notes began to tinkle out, rapid and precise.
“She does, doesn’t she?” Genova said.
“She sings beautifully, too.”
Expensively trained, Genova assumed.Wardprobably meant money, which might be why confidence overshadowed a lack of looks. Genova thought she might like Miss Myddleton, especially as the young woman was playing for the company as if that were her greatest joy. Sulking never served.
And presumably, Miss Myddleton wasn’t any sort of Malloren. An outsider, like herself.
Then she saw the smile the young woman shot at Ashart. Those long-lidded eyes were, in fact, catlike—slightly slanted, and predatory. How dare she look at Ashart like that!
The stab of jealousy was irrational but real. While playing her part in the conversation, Genova studied Ashart’s response. After a slight bow he seemed to ignore Miss Myddleton, but he was aware of her. Genova was sure of that.
She knew she had no proprietary rights, but by heaven, if she had to play the besotted betrothed, she would not have her supposed beloved ogling other women!
“Another cake, Miss Smith?”
Genova found Lady Elf offering the plate and looking quizzical. Had her thoughts shown? To cover that, she plunged back into the conversation, not looking at Ashart at all, but irritatingly aware of the fluent notes spilling out of the harpsichord.
Then Lord Rothgar joined their group. “I think it is time to discuss the mysteries and complexities.” Lady Bryght had come with him, and Dr. Egan and Dr. Marshall discreetly excused themselves.
So, this was family business, except for herself. She was a key witness. She glanced at Ashart, who seemedblandly uninterested, as if none of these events concerned him.
When called upon, she gave a carefully edited account of the acquiring of the baby, again leaving out anything to pin down Ashart’s part in it.
“How strange it is,” Lady Arradale said. “What should we do now?”
“Why, reunite little Charlie with his parents!” Thalia announced. “It will be in the spirit of Christmas. Perhaps it’s a case similar to when Christ was mislaid in the Temple.”
Genova almost choked on a crumb. “Reunion would be excellent, Thalia, but Lady Booth must know where her baby is.” She looked at Ashart. “Wouldn’t you agree, my lord?”
He met her gaze as tranquilly as an innocent angel. “She has that regrettable sense of direction, my dear.”
Genova kept her smile in place. “Then we must find and redirect her, my lord. I believe you were to try.”
“I was distracted”—his eyes said how—“but it shouldn’t be difficult. She has a house in Ireland.”
“She clearly is not there now.”
“But she must return there, or join fashionable circles in January—like a frog returning to its pond.”
This time Genova almost choked on a laugh. She put down the delicious lemon cake for the duration of battle. “InJanuary, my lord? Your frog analogy is not quite apt.”
“Poetic license. I am,” he added, “ardently in favor of license.”
She spotted a target and fired at it. “Amarriagelicense, you mean?”
“But of course!” Perdition, she’d forgotten the betrothal again. “A necessary evil in these reformed days. Once, we gentlemen could simply ride off with brides of wealth, nobility, and beauty.”
As he spoke, however, he turned from Genova to Lady Arradale and bowed slightly. Genova almost choked on air. Surely he wouldn’t take that line of attack? It could lead straight to a duel.
