“I’m so sorry,” whispered Charlotte. “I’ll need to find proof. But I fear it will be there.”
He looked away for a moment, casting his face in shadows, before he responded with a shrug. “Perhaps Wrex is right—perhaps it best to think the worst of people, so that way you are never disappointed.”
* * *
Wrexford slipped into the reception room and quickly took up a position behind an arrangement of potted palms. The crowd from the lecture hall was fast filing into the space, the clink of champagne glasses punctuating the rising hum of animated voices.
The visiting Italian scholar’s presentation on his latest experiments with electricity was sparking a great deal of comment.
Peering through the leafy fronds, the earl began a close scrutiny of the faces. Hollister hadn’t been in his rooms at the Albany Hotel, but the earl had managed to learn that he was slated to be part of the evening’s activities as a member of Sir Joseph Banks’s party.
It seemed unlikely that a toadeater like Hollister would risk offending such an illustrious personage as Banks . . .
Sure enough, Wrexford spotted his quarry entering from one of the side salons in the company of Sir Joseph.
Moving out from the knife-edged shadows, he began to work his way through the crowd. Hollister paused by therefreshment table, then was blocked from view by the swaying plumage of the Duchess of Wright’s massive turban as she swept in to take a glass of punch.
“Damnation,” he muttered, trying to squeeze around a group of gentlemen engaged in a heated debate about the lecture. The duchess had moved on, but where the devil was Hollister?
“Language, Wrexford,” came a whispered warning, punctuated by the rap of an ebony cane against his shin. “Have a care, sir, or you might make some elderly crone swoon from shock.”
“But not you, Lady Peake,” he replied, darting another quick look around the room. “You are made of sterner stuff.”
Alison chuckled. “Yes, fire, brimstone, and reptile scales—I know what you young people call me.”
“It’s meant as a compliment. Unlike so many of your pasteboard peers, you have spark and color.”
“Hmmph. It seems the gossipmongers are wrong,” she replied dryly. “You can be quite charming when you choose to be.”
Wrexford caught a glimpse of Hollister at the far end of the room. Their eyes met for an instant through the swirl of colored silks and dark evening coats, and then Hollister spun around on his heel and hurried through the archway leading out to the side set of stairs.
The earl bit back a second oath. Pursuit was useless. Even without the dowager blocking his path, he had no hope of catching up with his quarry.
“Take my arm, Wrexford, and escort me over there.” Alison waved her cane at a spot behind one of the large marble plinths. “I wish to have a private word with you.”
Quelling his frustration, he did as he was asked.
“That’s better. Now”—Alison studied his face for a moment—“is something amiss?”
His gaze darted once again to the archway. “Nothing that need concern you.”
“Don’t patronize me, young man,” she retorted. “I’m quite aware that Charlotte is up to something havey-cavey. And I fear she may be putting herself in danger.” A sniff. “She’s always been too brave and too principled for her own good.”
“I’m more than aware of that,” he said tersely. “Leave Lady Charlotte to me.”
“Is that so?” Alison fixed him with an owlish squint. “And what, may I ask, are your intentions regarding my grandniece?”
“My intentions, Lady Peake, are to see that your stubborn, maddening, willful grandniece doesn’t come to grief,” he muttered. The dowager’s mention of danger had his innards coiling in a knot. “To which end, I really must take my leave. Forgive me for not explaining why.”
Her frail fingers clutched his sleeve. “What can I do to help?” she demanded.
“Leave this battle to me, Lady Peake.” Wrexford covered her hand with his. “Let us each fight to our strengths. There will be other wars to wage in the coming weeks . . .”
Assuming I can keep Charlotte from charging in where angels should fear to tread.So far, she had refrained from taking terrible risks. But worry and frustration were making her desperate.
“Balls, soirees, morning calls—she will need a clever general to help her maneuver through the world of Polite Society,” he continued. “There will be enemies lurking behind the glittering smiles and polished manners, looking to attack, simply because they will scent blood and take pleasure in trying to cause hurt.”
Alison squared her shoulders. “Ha—let them try! The battlefield of the beau monde is one with which I’m intimately familiar. Anyone who seeks to hurt her will have to cross verbal swords with me. And they’ll quickly find my blade slicing off their tongues.”
