The guests were beginning to disperse, moving in a purposeful direction through the doorway and following, Felicity saw, a bowing and gesturing major-domo. The purpose of this exodus was explained by Lord Lynchmere.
“It would seem supper is the next order of business. Would you care to join the throng?”
She was not conscious of hunger. Rather of a growling empty hollow that spoke of bewilderment and despair. There was no sign either of Mrs Sprake or her guardian. “I suppose there is nothing else to be done.” Was there a faint hope either one or other might be found in the supper room?
“We could starve instead, but I would not advocate it.”
Her mood lightened briefly as she laughed. “Are you always as sarcastic as this?”
“It is an art, Miss Temple.” He gave a small bow but his lips twitched. “I do my poor best.”
He drew her into the line of chattering, laughing guests, thinning by this time. Felicity could not refrain from checking faces as the line crossed the rapidly emptying saloon with its couches about the walls, traversed a short hallway and entered a dining-room set with several tables already occupied. The moving line brought Felicity within sight of sideboards containing a selection of viands piled high on serving dishes, which were being rapidly demolished.
“They are not in such sore straits they cannot afford to feed their guests in a lavish fashion.”
The murmur from her companion startled Felicity and she looked up. “What did you say, sir?”
“Nothing.” He was frowning, clearly preoccupied, but as he met her gaze the frown cleared and he produced a smile she found superficial. “Allow me to procure you a repast before the lot disappears. Chicken?”
His purgatory was coming to an end, he hoped. With supper over, the business of the evening could be said to be complete. There was to be no dancing, Angelica had informed him in a brief moment as she passed from couple to couple in the supper room, merely a conversable evening against a background of music provided by a string quartet. “To give our auction partners an opportunity to get to know each other,” as his cousin put it.
In the event, it was obvious this plan fell sadly flat with the guests after the excitement of the bidding. A number of them were finding excuses to leave and the groups were growing sparse in the saloon, the chatter desultory. Raoul was tempted to emulate several gentlemen who had ruthlessly abandoned their prizes. But since Miss Temple had no duenna to re-join as several forlorn debutantes had been obliged to do, it would be churlish to leave her flat.
Thrust into the thick of things in the supper room, the girl had lost all the charm of her unexpected candour. Raoul found her subdued, her responses to his sallies mechanical. She ate sparingly and if she looked about her it was only, he was persuaded, to satisfy herself that her errant duenna and guardian had not made an appearance.
There had been a brief instance of animation when she had paused with her fork halfway to her mouth, her gaze riveted upon the doorway.
“Miss Temple?”
She glanced at him but immediately trained her eyes back to where a couple of footmen stood either side of the open door. “I thought I saw him.”
“Who?”
“My guardian.”
“Maskery?” She half rose from her chair. Raoul set down his napkin. “Stay where you are. I will go and see.”
It had taken several minutes to weave a path through the noisy tables and by the time he reached the door, Maskery had vanished. If he had been there at all. Raoul made a cursory sweep of the immediate area beyond the door, even venturing into the gallery and checking the stairwell and what he could see of the hall below.
“I believe you must have been mistaken, Miss Temple,” he told her when he had managed to wend his way back.
She had accepted this, but the interlude rendered her more distrait and silent than before.
Creeping tedium threatened. Yet it was overlaid with an irritating snake of concern Raoul found impossible to shake off. Had the fellow indeed looked in? If so, where the devil was he? And why in heaven’s name had he left the girl without support?
It was none of his affair and he had no desire to become involved in whatever shambles was brewing here. Especially with a girl under Maskery’s care. Although, if she was of age, presumably she might do as she pleased.
Yes, return to this academy of hers to teach ghastly young madams how to comport themselves in public, whispered an infuriating voice in his head. As if Miss Temple herself had any notion how to behave. She had treated him with none of the deference due to his position — though he must admit to a preference for that. He loathed the toad-eating simpers of your average debutante. Miss Temple did not simper. Nor was she arch. But neither was she animated. At least, she had been, but no longer.
“I am poor company, I’m afraid,” she said suddenly, as if she echoed his thought.
“Not at all,” he returned, as mechanically as she had spoken earlier.
Her open gaze met his. “You are being polite.”
“I do know how.”
A shadow crossed her face. “Which is as much as to say I don’t. Alas, I know it.” She fidgeted with her fan, glancing absently about the room, and then looked at him again. “I dare say it would be best if you were to escort me downstairs and ask someone to procure me a hackney.”
