Henry plunged once more into the stifling air of the ballroom, bracing himself against the cacophony of jarring scents and sounds that turned his stomach anew as he wended his way back toward the refreshment table. Thank God, some enterprising servant had set out glasses of lemonade in his absence. Probably someone—most likely the all-too-observant Mr. Moore—would notice if he had helped himself to an unconscionable fourth glass of it, but he needed something to cleanse the sour taste from his tongue.
A half hour more, and he could take his leave. Nobody noticed who had left early; only who had attended. He found a place against a wall and settled back to wait it out, glass in hand, praying the lemonade would settle his still-fractious stomach.
To whom did a man in his predicament apply for assistance? His was not the sort of dilemma which could be resolved by a constable or a magistrate—indeed, the interference of the police or the courts were liable only to make it worse.
A criminal then, though God alone knew where he would find one, or whether such a man could be trusted to keep his secrets besides.
His gaze strayed across the ballroom, scanning the crowd until they landed upon Mr. Moore—
No.Decidedlynot. The man hadn’t had a qualm about threatening his life so openly over Miss Seymour; like as not he’d laugh straight in Henry’s face had he the temerity to approach him. And could Mr. Moore be trusted, besides?
The fine hairs at the back of his neck prickled as he recalled the silky menace infused into Mr. Moore’s none-too-subtle insinuations. Probably his family could trust the man implicitly. Anyone else? Not bloody likely.
Best to avert his eyes before Mr. Moore caught sight of him again. Henry had the vague sense that it would take very little provocation indeed for the man to make good on his threats. Perhaps he ought to make his way to the card room, or at least make an effort to smooth the wrinkles from his cravat in the retiring room.
Before he could move from his spot against the wall, he caught sight of Miss Seymour at last, making her way through the crowd toward the refreshment table. Unaccompanied, of course—he had never been certain if it had not been thoroughly explained to her that a young woman of good reputation never went anywhere unaccompanied, or if she simply did not care.
Then again, he knew well enough that one could do one’s utmost to follow every stricture of society and still fall short of public approval.
If she had noticed him standing nearby, she’d given no indication of it whatsoever, and so he slouched back against the wall hoping to avoid Mr. Moore’s notice for just a few minutes longer. He watched her surreptitiously as she lingered over the table, choosing a selection of tiny pastries for herself.
A few delicious blond curls had been left loose from the coil of her hair to drape elegantly down her back, drifting with each turn of her head over the seafoam-green silk of her gown. Tiny cap sleeves left a swath of her arms bare above her evening gloves, revealing smooth, creamy skin. The cinch of the bodice at her natural waist flattered her figure ever so much more than had the high-waisted gowns that had been the mode only a few years ago.
And thatarse.
“She’s got good breasts, I’ll give her that, though the hips are a bit too wide for my liking.”
“Mm. But she’s got a dowry of twenty thousand.”
Henry’s head swiveled in the direction from whence the voices had come. At the opposite end of the refreshment table lingered two men who stared openly at Grace only a few feet away from them.
A nasty chuckle from one of them. “Well, the duke can afford it, can’t he? I’d wager no one would take her for less than ten, besides. Would you?”
His companion wrinkled his nose. “I’d consider it for thirty and no less. For thirty, I could afford to keep my mistress, besides. Still, it’d be a cold day in hell before I’d pollute my bloodline in such a fashion.”
“For less than thirty thousand, you mean to say,” said the first, and they both shared a laugh.
“But thehips,” the second sighed, with a shake of his head.
Though she did not betray herself with so much as the smallest glance in their direction, Grace’s shoulders stiffened.
So did Henry’s. Didn’t they know she could hear them? Or did they simply not care? What manner of man spoke of a woman,anywoman, as though she were a damned broodmare? In a crowded ballroom, no less! Perhaps he had not always—or ever, really—been particularly kind to her, but it had never been on account of her figure. Which was lush and full and perfectly lovely. The sort of figure that could have made her the muse of any sculptor; the sort of figure that would have made Rubens himself weep with joy.
He couldn’t cause a scene. Not tonight. But he found himself scanning the crowd in search of Mr. Moore. Before he took his leave, he’d drop a word in the man’s ear regarding what he’d overheard and from whom he’d overheard it, and trust that the man’s loyalty to those he considered his family would see thematter satisfactorily resolved.
“Oh!” Grace’s voice grabbed his attention once more. She’d turned in the direction of the two men, plate of pastries in hand. “I beg your pardon, gentlemen. I didn’t see you there.”
A lie. The falsehood was pleated into the saccharine sweetness of her smile, etched into the stiff set of her shoulders, in the very twitch of her adorable little nose. If he’d heard the fellows at twenty feet, she’d certainly heard them at five. And yet she pretended she’d cast herself into their path by mistake, smiling pleasantly.
“I’m so very sorry. Might I squeeze by?” she asked, all syrupy amiability.
Though they grumbled about it, the two men made a path, and as Grace glided forward to pass, a catch in her step had her fumbling the plate of pastries in her hand. One of the men dived to right it before it could land flat upon his chest.
“How clumsy of me!” Grace simpered as she retrieved the plate. “Terribly sorry, gentlemen. Do have a lovely evening.”
Something round and silver flashed briefly in the palm of the hand she flattened against the bottom of the plate. A pocket watch?
Henry slid his hand over his mouth, scrubbing away the expression of raw amazement he knew had settled there. Grace Seymour had just stolen a man’s watch straight out of his coat pocket in the midst of a crowded ballroom—and not a damned person had noticed.
