She felt herself stiffen.
“Oh, not inthatway,” assured Lady Ashton with a wry smile. “Be assured that I am quite happy with my own husband. He and Sebastian have been close friends for years, and I, too, have come to feel the same regard.”
Alex once again felt flustered. “I … I can’t imagine that I have any influence over Lord Branford’s moods.”
Lady Ashton regarded her shrewdly but remained silent. She felt her face flame even more under the scrutiny but was saved from having to respond by the timely arrival of Lord Ashton.
“My dear,” he said, taking his wife firmly by the arm. “Your great-aunt has sent me to fetch you to pay your respects—without delay!” A harried huff. “I know you’ve been avoiding her all evening.” He turned to smile at Alex. “I beg you will excuse us, Miss Chilton, but I am afraid that family duties call.”
“In other words, the old dragon calls,” muttered Lady Ashton under her breath. She gave Alex a parting smile. “I look forward to speaking with you again, Miss Chilton. It has been a most interesting conversation.”
Alex was grateful for the interruption. She most definitely did not want their pleasant discussion turning to Branford. Her current feelings onthatsubject were not ones she cared to discuss with anyone.
Indeed, how could she, when she wasn’t at all sure what they were?
Drat the man!
But she had promised herself to put him out of her thoughts tonight, and she meant to do just that.
Drawing a deep breath to steady her composure, Alex made her way back to the ballroom and headed toward the spot where she had last seen Mr. Simpson and several of their London Botanical Society colleagues conversing. The dialogue there would no doubt be a trifle heated—but much less inflammatory to her own overwrought emotions.
As she circled around one of the decorative plinths that held a large display of flowers, a liveried footman approached her, a silver tray full of champagne flutes balanced on one hand.
“Miss Chilton?” he asked softly, as he stopped and offered her a glass.
“Yes?” Alex was mystified as to how he knew who she was.
“A gentleman asked that I give you this,” he whispered, “but said it was important that no one see.” He discreetly pressed a note into her gloved hand along with the champagne. “I was told to tell you to be extremely careful of how you proceed from here.”
Before she could react, the footman melted back into the crowd.
Alex managed to gather her wits after the momentary shock and retreated to a quiet nook half hidden by a cluster of potted palm trees. Fingers trembling, she unfolded the note and quickly scanned its contents.
If you wish to know the reason for the attacks on your brother, leave at once and take a hansom cab to St. Giles Lane. Turn left and walk down to the river. I dare not say more or contact you again. Do not delay—his fate is in your hands.
There was no signature.
Paper crackled as she quickly stuffed the paper into her glove and looked around, her mind racing.
Choices, choices …and precious little time to make up her mind.
After a moment of hesitation, Alex beckoned to one of the servants serving ratafia punch and sent him to tell Mr. Simpson that she was returning home early with an indisposition and wouldn’t need a ride home. Then, edging back into the shadows of the decorative palms, she slipped out of the ballroom.
A glance back over her shoulder showed that her exit hadn’t attracted any attention. Quickening her pace, Alex hurried down a long corridor, past the ladies’ withdrawing room, to where a side staircase led down to the main entrance of the townhouse.
It was highly unlikely that Lady Hopkinton or any of the guests would even notice her early departure.
A cold mistrose up from the river, obscuring the sooty brick warehouses and splintered docks in swirling tendrils of fog. Sounds were muffled in the dampness—the creaking of the timbers in the ebbing tide, the lapping of water against the embankment and the pacing of booted feet on a dirt path.
“What time is it?” Standish halted by the side of a carriage, which had been temporarily stripped of all distinguishing markings. The horses snorted and whisked their tails in response to the creeping chillness in the air. He pulled the thick black scarf wound around his face even higher, leaving only his eyes visible, and peered into the unlit interior.
“Precisely five minutes later than when you last inquired,” came a voice from the impenetrable darkness. “She will not behere for at least another hour. I suggest you climb inside before you exhaust yourself with such a pointless display of nerves.”
Standish swore under his breath. After one last, jerky look around at the ghostly grey mist and overcast sky, he got in and threw himself onto the seat opposite his cousin. A fire-gold flare illuminated Hammerton’s face for an instant as he inhaled on his cigar, then exhaled a mouthful of smoke, thicker and more choking than the air outside.
Coughing and sputtering, Standish waved a hand in front of his nose to punctuate his distaste, but Hammerton ignored him and continued to puff away.
After a fraught interlude of silence, he began toying nervously with the pistol he had drawn from his pocket. “It’s one thing to deal with another man. But I don’t fancy the idea of having to shoot a woman.”
