“Devonshire, I think.” Henry grimaced. “No! It was Deverell. Yes, Deverell. The name had too many vowels.”
“I will have it looked into. If Deverell was north last spring, he will have paid for rooms and stables or been entertained by someone who keeps books. We will cut gossip with fact.”
***
Edward opened the door and stepped back into noise. The corridor’s little eddy of quiet released him into the main current. Someone seized his hand, someone else called his name, and a child in ill-tied shoes ran under his arm with a cake. He caught sight of Glenmore speaking to his mother with intimate gravity and looked away before the glare burst through the civility at his temples.
He found Isla near the French doors at the south end of the room, Victoria Melrose at her side like a calm harbor. The ladies had drawn Isla into one of those conversational nets designed to test seam-strength with compliments.
Victoria had, by the set of her mouth, sliced through it elegantly. Isla’s eyes were bright with the humility of endurance and the high color of too much attention. When she saw Edward, a small relief moved across her face, so quick and unadorned it felt like something he ought to have earned. He crossed to her.
“You have admirers,” he said.
“I have specimens,” she returned, very low. “Victoria tells me their plumage is rare.”
“Only in persistent daylight,” Victoria murmured, unrepentant.
“Shall we take air?” he asked.
“Yes,” Isla said at once.
They walked from the assembly rooms and out of door in a hallway. It led, eventually, to a garden walk that ran beneath the terrace. Edward meant to say nothing. To keep his own counsel about what he had learned.
“Did you know,” he asked evenly, “that Glenmore is here?”
She blinked at the change of current. “I had the pleasure of not noticing him.”
“Keep it,” he said. “My mother invited him and his son.”
“Ah,” she said, and the single syllable carried more comprehension than a paragraph, “Morlich, the horse expert.”
“You met him,” he said.
“In the park,” she said. “He does not like to be beaten. Few men do.”
“I do,” Edward said. “When the rider deserves the win.”
She looked at him, quick, surprised, and almost pleased. Then whatever that feeling was folded away as if warned. She laughed instead. “You were within a length.”
“I was not certain.”
“I was.”
The smile softened, real. Then it changed again as she read something he could not quite keep from his face. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing of consequence,” he lied, poorly.
“Do not do that,” she said.
He did not give her the rumor; to speak it would be to lend it the weight he wanted to deny it. He said instead, “You will meet glances today that speak languages we do not choose. I would prefer if you stayed near me when you can” he heard the command and hated it.
“For ours,” she said, as if correcting a child gently, “yes.”
He nodded. The fountain said nothing sensible. He noticed, stupidly, again, the small scar on her finger. “That has healed well.”
“Not my first scar,” Isla said with mischief.
“Is it not?” Edward asked.
