Denzell cocked an eyebrow. “By ‘her’ you mean…?”
“Come, come, Hawkeridge, do you take me for a fool?”
“No, sir,” said Denzell, laughing. “But I’m damned if I know how —”
“I should imagine the whole room must know how, my dear boy,” chided Sir John. He added, as Denzell, looking rather startled, glanced round, “No, no, you will not find them advertising their interest. But if you do not wish the world to know where your interests lie, then you must become more master of your eyes, my friend.”
“Chaste stars, but how can I?”
Sir John’s smile grew. “She is very beautiful.”
“In this case, sir, I find the word inadequate.”
“But it is a surface beauty,” continued the elder man. “Or don’t you think so?”
Denzell met his eyes, a frown in his own. Was he being quizzed? Had Sir John also seen beyond the veil of that polite serenity?
“I don’t, sir,” he said bluntly. “And I mean to seek what there may be beneath it.”
A soft laugh came from the aged exquisite. “I wish you well. Though the odds, I fear, are against you.”
“I care nothing for the odds, as long as it is not Miss Chaceley who is against me,” retorted Denzell, grinning.
Sir John glanced across to where Verena could be seen listening with an air of attention to Mr Cumberland’s ponderous speechifying. “I imagine you must inevitably receive a welcome if you were to rescue her from our poet, poor girl.”
But Denzell had no intention of rescuing Verena Chaceley. He had quite other plans in mind. When at last he moved in her direction, he did not look at her, but kept his gaze on Mrs Peverill instead, who had risen from her chair and was weaving a slow path through the room, chatting with a number of acquaintances.
As he passed close to where Verena still remained seated, with now both Cumberland and Martin Yorke vying for her attention, Denzell paused in his way, turned his head and looked her full in the face quite suddenly.
She caught his eye, and blinked, but her features did not alter. Denzell gave her his most dazzling smile and nodded a greeting. She gave him a slight inclination of the head. Before she could turn away again, Denzell averted his own gaze and continued on his way.
He had reached the circle containing Mrs Peverill before he dared to glance back to see how his treatment of Miss Chaceley might have affected her.
Deuce take it, but she looked quite unconcerned!
The statuesque vision was speaking to Mr Yorke, her gaze concentrated upon the old man. Piqued, Denzell turned to greet the mother with an excess of enthusiastic charm.
“May I introduce myself, Mrs Peverill? Denzell Hawkeridge. I am staying with the Ruishtons. I was fortunate enough to meet your daughter a few days since.”
Pasty features looked up at him, gaunt and shadowed. The woman was shockingly ill. Frail, too, if he was any judge. But she answered him readily enough.
“You have met Verena? She said nothing of it to me.” A smile came, echoing the look he originally saw in Verena’s face. “I have heard of you, Mr Hawkeridge, if only tonight. One does, you know. So few newcomers in a place like this. Not that we are…”
Her voice faded, and she seemed to sway a little. Denzell put out a hand, catching at her arm to steady her. “May I see you to a chair, Mrs Peverill?”
But the Master of Ceremonies, Mr Tyson, bustled up. He was a dapper gentleman of middle years, with a respectful manner that diminished a trifle the air of self-importance that he assumed from his position in the town. This, his attitude seemed to say, was peculiarly his own task.
“Mrs Peverill, allow me. You should be keeping your bed, ma’am.” He shook his head at Denzell, including him even as he ousted him from the lady’s side. “She is not in the best of health, not at all.”
Tucking the lady’s hand into his proffered arm, Richard Tyson guided her towards one of the sofas that were ranged about the sides of the room, chattering as he went. Denzell watched them go, and then glanced back at Verena. She did not appear to haveso much as moved a muscle. She had not even noticed! Perhaps Osmond had indeed gauged her correctly. Such an apparent carelessness of her sickly parent argued a lack of feeling, as well as a cold heart.
CHAPTER THREE
Verena, for all her apparent unconcern, was acutely aware of everything that had passed. Aware, and indignant. What was his design in seeking out her mother, she would like to know? How dared he flash that look at her as if to censure her for not taking better care of Mama? Or did he suppose that she had not seen that piece of byplay? Little did he know.
No doubt he would be astonished to learn of her mastery of a particular art she had acquired over the years. Had been obliged to acquire it. Swift and unremarked were the glances cast from under her lashes, and from the corner of her eye she was well able to note the whereabouts of anyone she chose. She had mastered this secretive trick from sheer necessity. Heavens, but had she not had her back to the wall for as long as she could remember? Had anyone informed old Martin Yorke, for instance, that his listener, seeming to be looking directly in his face, was in fact checking quite other places, she was sure he would not have believed them.
At home she had never entered a room without a swift and comprehensive glance about, and had always taken care to sit where she might slyly observe the room and the doors. How else could she have fathomed Nathaniel’s moods?
