His uncle looked away as they left the room, his gaze snagging on Sebastian’s as he turned back to the table. A gleam kindled in his eye upon seeing where Sebastian’s attention had lingered.
Sebastian reached out and busied himself, gathering the cards. “Another game, gentlemen?”
“If there’s time,” said Handley, who never said no.
But the major was still looking at him, a smile growing. Sebastian supposed he was about to be punished for his barracks room comment. The major never liked to be reminded he’d come up from the ranks. “Your fool of a frienddoesmake a good point.”
“Oh?” said Sebastian as Beckford coloured.
“If the Pemberthy woman and her niece can nag people into remembering they have a conscience, maybe they can help prove the existence of one too.”
Sebastian only glanced at him, shuffling the cards, though their hostess had stood and there was already the beginnings of an exodus back to the music room.
“Get on that society board, my boy. Get involved with Pemberthy and the Pretty Pariah. They’ll find you some orphansto weep over, and then Lady Frances won’t ever be able to claim you have no heart.”
Beckford’s eyes went wide. “Oh, but that just might work! She’s recruiting for her committee, trying to set up some fundraising ball or other. Imagine how much help you’d be!”
The major’s smile deepened, eyes still fastened on Sebastian. “Your popularity against their lack. What do you say, Cote? Think you’ve got what it takes to bring them up to scratch? You act like society’s king. Perhaps it’s time you proved it.”
Handley stared between the two men, a familiar light in his eye. “Nowthere’swager with some meat on it. Maybe we’ll have a proper game after all, eh?”
Two
Madelaine paused, tapping herpen against her lip.
The wretched plight of these children…
The plight of these unfortunate children…
The unbearably wretched plight of these unfortunately wretched children…
Her aunt would have used all the words, and underlined them too, but Madelaine was writing to a medical man who was presumably also a rational and scientifically minded man, and therefore a degree of restraint would probably do more good than a torrent of emotion. Everyone already thought their cause ridiculous enough.
Madelaine sighed and took a break from her letter, getting up from the messy desk and walking to the window though the pen was still in her hand. She chewed the end absently, looking out on the unprepossessing view.
This large study in her aunt’s London house, the base of their administrative operations, was one floor up. The window looked out of the back of the house, over the roofs of the kitchenoutbuildings and to the small, muddy yard of the mews stables where her aunt kept her two carriage horses. It was a view, therefore, of rooftops mainly; a view of slate tiles spotted with white lichens and greened with moss between their borders. Further away was the back of a rather grand house, and between the two was a strip of garden, the tops of its trees visible over the stable roof.
The crests of the trees were white with blossom so thick it crowded out the twiggy branches. And far up above it all, the sky had brightened to an angelic blue after yesterday’s sullen, feet-dragging grey. April was a difficult time, both so pretty and so sad. It was when Alfred had died; it was a month spent with her heart on eggshells, if she ever stopped to think about it…and really, it was silly that the season affected her the way it did, because Alfred had died somewhere in the Caribbean ocean and his last views would have been nothing like an English spring.
She turned at the sound of the door. Her aunt’s ancient footman, Godfrey, an equally ancient yellowed and unpowdered wig upon his head, appeared in the doorway.
“The Viscount Cotereigh.”
That was all the warning she got. The footman was gone, and in his place was a tall, dark-haired man. He was about the same age as her; she knew that for a fact. She knew a great deal about Lord Cotereigh, the Earl of Arnon’s heir, just as she knew a great deal about all of society’s key figures. She and her aunt had researched them all.
And, like most others in his social circle, Lord Cotereigh was firmly in theHopelesscolumn in her aunt’s ledger of potential supporters. He’d already been there eight years ago when Madelaine first began her seasonal visits to town, and he’d stayed there ever since.
So why on earth was he here?
Lord Cotereigh halted one step into the room. He was dressed all in blacks and whites and palest cream, Beau Brummel’s maxims distilled into crystalline perfection, the crisp lines of his clothing sharp enough to cut cloth themselves. His hair was almost black too, shorter than was fashionable and therefore a fashion all of its own. Only his eyes ruined it. A society beau’s eyes ought to be bright and lively. Lord Cotereigh’s were as black as his boots.
The distant drop of a dark lake… He stared coldly at her for a moment…a memory of freezing water on a bare ankle… A lifetime ago, she had swum and bathed off the shores of Sussex, where the flint shingle shores stretched for miles. They shelved deeply, the land suddenly falling away beneath paddling feet, the brown, friendly sea turning icy and dangerous all in a moment. She’d reached for Alfred when she found herself out of her depth… She’d reached for strong arms, slippery with saltwater, and laughing brown eyes…
“Forgive me,” said Lord Cotereigh, searching the room with a glance and finding it one large aunt short. “I was under the impression I was being taken to Lady Pemberthy.”
Madelaine shook off her strange mood. The month of April had awkwardly grasping fingers. She stepped forward from the window, smiling. “And I’m a poor substitute, I know.”
Shifting her pen to her left hand, she held out her right. Lord Cotereigh looked at it as though it was a grisly museum exhibit before giving it a small, precise squeeze. He looked up at her then appeared slightly shocked all over again as his gaze tracked down to her mouth and quickly away.
