“God, no,” Mr. Moore said, with no small amount of relief. “Never wanted ‘em m’self. But my wife’s got nieces and nephewsaplenty. Three girls newly out, two more next year, and more still in the years yet to come.” Mr. Moore paused, considering his words. “And that’s just the girls, mind ye. God alone knows how many nieces and nephews we’ve got altogether. I’ll admit I drew the line and stopped counting after thirty-five. There’s no sense in counting more’n thirty-five o’ anything, unless it’s coins in yer pocket.”
Good God. What was there to say to that? Henry muttered something noncommittal into his glass, and began to consider the merits of a fourth glass of champagne.
“Doubt they’ll present much of a temptation, though, considering ye rarely take yer eyes off o’ Gracie’s arse.”
Henry choked, coughing as the champagne threatened to slide down into his lungs instead of his stomach. “I beg your pardon!”
“As well ye should. Grace is one o’ my girls, too. Good as family, after a fashion. And I look out fer my family.”
“I don’t understand your meaning,” Henry said. “If you intend to imply—”
“Implying is what yer sort do,” Mr. Moore said, baring his teeth in a feral grin. “My sort? We’re more direct.” He fisted his hand around the silver head of his cane. “You see this?” he asked, inclining his head toward it. “My sister bought it fer me, back when I got my knee bashed in. Pretty thing, ain’ it? Fine enough to bring to a ball wivout attracting much notice. Got a sword inside it, too. Sharp as razor. Cuts through skin and muscle like butter.”
The man had to be jesting. Didn’t he?
“Ain’t so fast as once I was,” Mr. Moore continued blithely. “But with a weapon like this, I don’t need to be. Understand?”
The gossip was wrong. Mr. Moore had absolutely not mellowed with age. “Mr. Moore,” Henry said, rather desperately, “if I have somehow given you a mistaken impression—”
“I doubt it. There ain’t much what slips past my notice. Bit of a habit of mine.” Mr. Moore loosed his grip upon the cane, affecting an indolent posture. “Just a friendly warning, Lockhart. Anyone what calls me Uncle Chris is forbidden to ye.”
Miss Seymour called this manUncle Chris?
“Kit.” Mr. Moore’s wife, an elegant blond woman, swept between them. Her lips pursed into a disapproving moue as she laid her hand in the crook of Mr. Moore’s elbow. “Can I not visit the retiring room for even a few minutes without you threatening someone?”
“Now, Phoebe. A man’s got to take his entertainment where he can find it. And hedidsquirm.”
Like a fish on a hook, no doubt, just as Mr. Moore had intended. By the exasperated sigh Mrs. Moore issued, Henry deduced that this had likely not been the first time Mr. Moore had found himself subject to a similar reproach.
Mrs. Moore threaded her arm through her husband’s, pasting a sunny smile to her face. “Whatever my husband might have said to you, Lord Lockhart, I assure you he didn’t mean it.”
Mr. Moore nudged her shoulder with his own. “Careful, there,” he said. “What if I’d told him I wanted to be friends?”
“Then youabsolutelydidn’t mean it,” she said primly. “Now, come. Charity and her family have just arrived, and we must greet them.”
Charity? She must have meant the Duchess of Warrington—who, if memory served, had been her husband’s mistress years and years ago. And that would mean that Miss Seymour, too, had arrived. Henry managed to stop himself from turning his head toward the ballroom door to sneak a look.
But by the dagger-sharp smile that slid across Mr. Moore’s face, he hadn’t caught himself quite in time. Even that barely-perceptible half-twitch of a turn had not escaped the man’s notice.
Mr. Moore patted his wife’s hand. “Your lucky day, Lockhart,” he said, pitching his voice to an amiable tone. “Man’s got to keep his wife happy.”
Henry felt a sigh of relief collecting in his lungs.
“Just remember,” Mr. Moore added, as they turned to go, “I’ve made a long and illustrious career o’ collecting London’s secrets.”
No. Nausea swirled in Henry’s gut, the champagne threatening to make a surprise reappearance. It wasn’t possible, was it? He couldn’tknow. It was his own anxiety that had conjured up the insinuation of it in the man’s voice. It simply had to be.
With a trembling hand, Henry set down his empty glass. He wasn’t going to make it to the retiring room, and the last thing he needed now was his name on the lips of every gossip with suggestions that he could not hold his liquor.
His name would be upon them soon enough anyway.
That wasit. Henry clenched his jaw, scooted through the crowd milling about the room, and slipped out into the garden just in time to be violently ill in the bushes. The champagne wasn’t half so pleasant coming up as it had been going down, and once he’d finished casting up his accounts, he slid down onto arse and braced his back against the rough stone of the balustrade he’d heaved his guts out over. The night was cool and soft, the stars stark glittering flecks against the inky backdrop of the sky. And still his heart pounded in his chest with a nameless terror. His breath snarled in his lungs. His hands trembled.
What was he going to do? There had to be something, some solution that existed to resolve this wretched nightmare. Because he could not stand idly by and watch the whole of his life crumble around him. And there were more lives at risk than just his own.
Enough was enough. Any longer and he would be missedfrom the ballroom. Or worse still, caught out here trembling like he’d had the fright of his life. Like his wits had deserted him. Like his foundation had been rocked to its very core.
Get up, you stupid sod, he told himself as he struggled to his feet, forcing his knees to hold him upright. He’d not made too much a mess of himself, but his cravat was wrinkled and his tongue was coated in the acrid taste of bile.
