Grace tried to remember their names as Uncle William called impatiently for claret and ushered them to be seated. Once they were installed at the card table, a game of whist ensued, and Grace took refuge in a wide armchair beside the fire, as far away from them as possible, and bent her head to her embroidery, bracing for a long evening.
Within the hour, darkness fell, and the room held a buoyant atmosphere as Uncle Charles won several rounds of whist, and the young men laughed and joked and flung back liquor. Grace tried to concentrate on her sewing and let the conversation wash over her. She was not part of it and never would be, and she railed at having to sit in the parlour for no better reason than to satisfy her uncle’s vanity. Yet she was drawn to sneak a quick glance at Caville Sharp occasionally.
Her uncle snapped at the servants to bring his port, decrying the claret as too inferior for his honoured guests and cried, ‘Grace, you cut a lonely figure there. Come and sit nearer to us on the chaise.’
‘I find the light better here,’ she replied.
‘Aye, but we can appreciate you much better on the chaise. Indulge me, my dear, would you?’ he said, eyes narrowing.
Grace had no choice but to comply and sank unhappily onto the chaise. As the evening wore on, she could not relax, for the eyes of the young men lit on her from time to time as though she were some painting hung in a gallery to be stared at. When she grew weary of their impertinent attention and met their eyes, they would have the good grace to quickly look away, apart from the Caville fellow, who smiled at her and winked instead. After that, she did not look up from her sewing, but it was as if his gaze reached out and touched her skin, making her shiver and long for her shawl.
The conversation swirling about the room grew louder as more port was consumed but did not seem to require any contribution from her, and it mainly revolved around cards and a thoroughbred horse, which one young man called Peregrine was buying. He was a frequent visitor of Uncle Charles, who seemed to esteem him very highly indeed. Eventually, talk strayed to more serious matters and Napoleon’s escape from Elba. Some of the young men dismissed his escape as nothing to be concerned about, and Grace bit her lip. Best she not insert her opinions into the cloud of cigar smoke and manly arrogance at the card table.
So intent was Grace on being invisible that when a shadow suddenly loomed over her, it made her start, and she missed a stitch on her embroidery and pricked her hand. Caville Sharp sank beside her on the chaise and made a sad face.
‘A thousand pardons. Did I cause you to stab yourself? We can’t have blood all over that pretty dress now, can we?’ he said, withdrawing a handkerchief from his jacket with a flourish.
Grace expected him to offer it to her, but instead, he took her hand and put the injured finger into his mouth. He sucked gently on it. Her heart leapt to her throat, and she cast a panicked glance at her Uncle Charles. He saw it all but merely coughed and looked back down to his cards. Her face burst into flame, and she could not think of what to do.
‘There, all better now,’ said Caville smoothly, removing her finger from his mouth. He wrapped the handkerchief around the wound, and Grace was powerless to resist.
‘I fear I am having appalling luck at cards, Grace. Is it too forward to call you Grace?’ he added, as if sucking her finger was not forward at all.
‘I…no, not at all,’ she replied through a throat thick with mortification. She had promised to be courteous, and so she would be, though she longed to run from the room, for this young man seemed to be mocking her with his forward manner.
Caville Sharp leant in as if they were old friends sharing confidences, his sandy hair falling over his forehead. ‘I must confess, I am finding the company a little tiresome. Are you not? Have you noticed that my friend Peregrine takes an age to choose his play? Stanton is too bold and rushes in with no plan of attack, and I fear your uncle is well in his cups now and is likely to get fleeced this evening. He is like a lamb to the slaughter. What do you think of them all?’
‘I shouldn’t know. I rarely play cards,’ she replied.
‘Really? Not even Loo or Piquet?’
‘No.’
‘Then what do you do for pleasure, Miss Howden? What sins do you commit when your uncle’s back is turned?’ he said, stretching his arm out along the back of the chaise. The question was far too intimate.
‘Nothing. I have absolutely no pleasure in my life whatsoever,’ she snapped.
Caville Sharp leant in. ‘Then we shall have to rectify that as soon as may be,’ he said.
Grace stared at him, wanting to look away but unable to do so. From a distance, Caville Sharp would be judged handsome. The flicker of the candlelight caressed his face, highlighting the perfection of his high cheekbones and a square, aristocratic jaw. But up close, his beautiful grey eyes held mockery, where she had perceived admiration. And his demeanour was altogether jarring.
‘You are a rare find, Grace,’ he continued. ‘A beauty who does not know it - like a perfect little wildflower wilting in the glare of the ton’s disdain, or so I am told.’
‘By whom?’ Are you talking nonsense, Sir, for I do not catch your meaning?’
He smiled again. ‘No matter. We will come to understand each other in time, I am certain of it, for I insist on getting to know you better. Who knows? If you bestow your favour on me, perhaps you will bring me luck tonight?’ He glanced back at the card table and sighed as if tearing his gaze from her was a great effort of will. ‘I must return to my host and lose some money to him. Is that not polite of me? You know I do it only for your pleasure.’
With that, he rose and returned to the table, where he approached her uncle, put his hand on his shoulder, and squeezed. Uncle Charles smiled up at him and then cast her a smug glance. Whatever could it mean?
***
The night wore on until Grace was almost nodding with exhaustion. The men had become raucous with drink, so she approached the table warily.
‘I fear I have grown weary and must retire for the night, Uncle Charles,’ she said.
He cast a sideways glance at Caville. ‘Yes, yes, the hour is late. Gad, it will be dawn soon, and I am quite out of money for you fellows to steal from my pockets. Be off with you all now,’ he declared to the table. He stood up unsteadily, and the others followed, and, in no time at all, they bid her farewell and left Grace to the quiet of the drawing room. The fire was almost out, and the room was growing chill, so Grace took up a poker and stoked it. No doubt, Uncle Charles would soon come and berate her on some deficit of courtesy to his guests.
Grace peeked out of the curtains to watch the men walk away in the light spilling from the downstairs windows, their shouts and laughter echoing down the street, muffled by the hiss of rain. So intent was she on watching that she started when a hand came down on her shoulder.
