“You cost me ten quid.”
“I beg your pardon?” Henry had always thought himself a rather capable dancer, but the snippy accusation—rendered only moments after he and Grace had swept out onto the dance floor—drew him up short enough that he nearly missed a step.
“Ten quid,” Grace reiterated, tilting that adorable little nose toward the ceiling. “Because you asked me to dance.”
“I’m sorry; I find myself at a loss.” There was a frown ofconfusion that wanted to pleat itself into his brow, and which he valiantly staved off. The last thing he wished was to give a public impression that she had somehow offended him. “How has that cost you ten quid?”
“You never have before. I was certain you were going for the refreshment table.”
Henry found himself reluctantly impressed that she could move so gracefully whilst clearly in the throes of some bit of pique he didn’t entirely understand. “You…bet against me?” he asked.
“Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time!” A haughty little huff puffed across the plush softness of her lower lip. “I assume you have got some purpose for asking?”
He hadn’t, initially. But throughout the evening, as he’d watched her take to the floor with partner after partner, as he’d watched her engaged in casual conversation with a young man with whom she’d seemed entirely too familiar, he’d been searching for excuses.
He’d wanted that dance. The waltz, specifically. And the perfect excuse to claim it had walked through the door only minutes ago.
“Uncle Nigel has arrived,” he said. “I thought it would be best if you could see him, so you might recognize him in the future.”
“Oh?” To her credit, she didn’t so much as blink at the revelation—nor did she crane her head around to scan the ballroom, as he might have expected. “Tell me where,” she said. “And describe him, if you please.”
Henry bit back a grimace. “Dark tailcoat,” he said. “Garish pink waistcoat with gold embroidery and buttons. Entirely too much lace at his cuffs and a cravat with approximately two hundred frills to it just dripping from his neck. He’s standing by the doors waiting to be noticed. And complimented. Excessively.”
Grace pursed her lips against what he was certain was a giggle at the picture he’d painted. “He’s a dandy,” she said.
“He’s a damnedfop,” Henry replied. “And he doesn’t look half so fashionable as he thinks he does.”
“I’ll sneak a glance on the next turn,” she said. Incredible, how she managed to cut her gaze through her lowered lashes, to all intents utterly engaged in the dance when he knew those sharp eyes were gathering every bit of information they could in the few seconds his uncle was plainly visible. “Good lord,” she whispered beneath her breath. “Is he always so—so—
“Ostentatious? Yes; nearly always. He enjoys being the center of attention.” A knot of fury pulled itself tight in his chest. “At my father’s funeral, he made quite an unseemly display of himself. One would have thought he would have preferred to be in the coffin himself, for he could not seem to endure people paying their respects to someone else even for a handful of moments. He blathered on quite extensive about how much Father had meant to him, though it was common knowledge that they had been on rather chilly terms for some years.”
Grace could not quite suppress her cringe. “And the woman beside him now—is she his wife?”
“Aunt Alicia,” he said, struggling to keep a wince from pulling at his features.
“You like her.”
Better than he’d ever liked Uncle Nigel. Better, in fact, than Uncle Nigel had ever liked his own wife. “She’s a good sort,” he said. His one true regret in this was that Aunt Alicia might come away hurt. “I’m reasonably certain she hasn’t got the faintest idea of what he’s been plotting. She’d never have approved.” And Uncle Nigel had never been the sort of man who thought a wife ought to be apprised of anything in particular. He behaved toward her not as a loving husband, but rather like the owner of someobject d’artwhich might once have been favored, but hadlong fallen out of fashion. At best, he wore her like an accessory—at worst, he ignored her existence altogether.
Sometimes, he had the feeling that Aunt Alicia preferred being ignored.
“She’s got kind eyes,” Grace said softly. “You can always tell from the eyes.”
Could you? He’d never considered such a thing.
“Poor woman,” Grace sighed. “He looks like a peacock preening there beside her. One has to wonder at a man who outfits himself in such a fashion while his wife looks as though her gown has come through three Seasons already.”
“Uncle Nigel is a pinchpenny with everyone but himself,” Henry said. “He’d never allow his own wardrobe to suffer, of course. But it would not surprise me if he’s nipped the purse strings so tightly closed that Aunt Alicia must sacrifice her own wardrobe on account of his.”
“You ought to do something about that.”
“I have tried,” Henry said. “And so did my father, before me. Probably we’ve all suggested that she come and stay with us at some point or another, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Didn’t want to make herself a burden, she said.”
“A shame, that,” Grace said sympathetically. “Probably her husband has convinced her of it.”
“Likely,” Henry replied. “He’s never been particularly kind to her. He married her because her father was wealthy, and he needed a wife with a large dowry. But she and my mother were great friends for years, until…” Until Mother had retreated so thoroughly into herself, hiding herself away even from her closest friend. “We would have welcomed her,” he said quietly. “It is a pity she wouldn’t come.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” Grace spackled on a vacant smile, holding her tongue until a couple who had strayed too close passed them by. “I practiced my lockpicking skills evening last.It’s a critical skill for thieves, you know.” Her even, white teeth flashed in a smile that seemed just a touch too sharp. “Got my time down to seven seconds.”
