“That is exactly what we need to find out.” Ramsey leaned forward. “Could it have to do with Miss Grace’s family? Her parents? Her past? Any sort of correlation that we could potentially uncover?”
Heathcliff gave his head a decisive shake. “They—Grace’s parents—were hardly in the country at all; they roamed about. It would be hard to make any correlation between them and Lord Westhouse. He’s never been one to travel.”
“Then we can assume that it has nothing to do with her history, so that leaves . . .” Ramsey leaned back in his chair slowly.
“You.” Heathcliff spoke the word simply, but it carried a weight that settled over Ramsey’s shoulders.
“How in heaven’s name, though? I’m not connected with her in the slightest! There’s no reason for him to single her out with me in mind!” Ramsey reacted angrily.
“I haven’t a clue. But you’re the only common denominator in the whole complicated problem.”
Ramsey sighed. “What a bloody mess.”
“Indeed. I’m half tempted to just sequester her from attending any events till we can be certain what he’s about.”
“That’s not a bad idea, but I have doubts about your being able to achieve it.”
Heathcliff let out a beleaguered sigh. “She is rather stubborn.”
Ramsey scoffed.
Heathcliff narrowed his eyes slightly, his gaze questioning.
Ramsey sobered immediately, no need to raise suspicion.
Heathcliff’s gaze shifted, and Ramsey was immediately on edge at the adjustment. “You’re not . . . interested in her, are you?” He articulated the words carefully.
Interested?No.Attracted, yes. Dangerously so. However, to Ramsey’s great benefit, Heathcliff had asked the first question, not the second. So it was with a mostly clear conscience that he said, “No.”
Heathcliff shrugged. “Well, until we figure this out, would you mind keeping one of her waltzes in reserve if we are in attendance at a party? Keep talk down, and try to manage the situation while we figure things out.”
“Of course, raise suspicion about my designs on her as well.”
“At least it will be speculation about you, rather than he.”
“You mean, in addition to his.”
“At least the speculation won’t be entirely about him.” Heathcliff all but rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Besides, I trust you. You’re not going to do something stupid. He, however, I do not trust.”
Ramsey’s chest tightened, his breathing grew shallow and he nearly vomited the truth out at his friend’s statement of faith in him, but he barely restrained himself.
There was no need to reveal what happened.
Because it would never happen again.
That was how he would make penance. If he wouldn’t be honest, at least he would be honorable and keep his distance. He’d dance the damn waltz with her to keep her from Westhouse, but nothing more.
As Heathcliff gave his leave and quit the room, Ramsey nodded, vowing to be worthy of his friend’s trust.
Yet as the door closed, leaving him with his traitorous thoughts, he wondered if perhaps this was one of those times where the spirit was willing, but the body was weak.
Because even as he swore he’d never do it again . . . her kiss haunted him.
And he didn’t want to be rid of that ghost.
* * *
It was with that same trepidation that Ramsey accepted the invitation to the Martins’ rout that evening. It was a popular party and would be well attended, no doubt attracting half the ton, including Lord Westhouse.
