Her eyes dropped to the plate of food. “I, ah, don’t know all the details, of course.”
“Perhaps you wouldn’t mind sharing those you do know,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound as angry as he felt.
She blew out a pursed breath. “Corinne was the late Earl of Maudsley’s daughter from his first marriage. His wife before Lady Brockway.”
That statement alone made his head ache for all the confusion she wreaked over him.
“The first Lady Maudsley, Hannah was her name I believe, was Corinne’s mother. She had a young companion who disappeared with the child when Hannah perished giving birth to Corinne. There was also a rumor that Maudsley killed his first wife.”
“Why would he kill her?”
“I’ve no idea.” She shrugged. “He was terribly abusive. Lady Brockway can attest to that. The man had once set his attention on me, but Brockway happened to walk in and intervened, thankfully.” A shudder shook her shoulders.
Harlowe’s fist tightened until the blood showed white.
“In any event, Maudsley is dead now and, I for one, could not be more thrilled. I suppose that is not a terribly nice thing to say.” She plucked up a scone, breaking off a piece, and put it in her mouth.
He forced his hand to relax, flexing his fingers, and for the first time that night, a smile tugged at him. “From all accounts, I shall not hold that against you. I do remember some things, and Maudsley’s abuse was as notorious as his desire for very young women. Forgive me for saying so.”
“Not at all, my lord. It was quite common knowledge.”
“Did you know her, Corinne? Personally, I mean?”
She looked down at her hands. “A little. She was…very reserved.”
A sense of desperation to learn surged through him. To learn something. Anything about the woman in the picture. “In what way?”
She glanced up at him, but he couldn’t read her eyes. Not in the low light.
“Tell me,” he growled.
“She was… quiet.”
He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. She was being deliberately difficult. “That would go with the reserved.”
“Well, yes. Nor did she give a care for going about in society.”
“She was reclusive?”
“It looked that way to me.”
He waited for more, but it didn’t appear she was going to elaborate. He let out a breath then strove for something to lighten the heaviness of the atmosphere. “Tell me about Oxford’s ball.” Perhaps hearing her speak about some of her acquaintances would trigger other memories.
In the low candlelight the Aegean blue of her eyes appeared midnight, if not outright black. Disgust covered her pert features. “Well, the moment I walked in, my mother informed me she had secured both waltzes of the evening for me.”
There was a tightening in Harlowe’s chest he rubbed a palm over. He remained quiet, deciding to revel in the dulcet, well-modulation of her voice.
“The first, and thankfully so, was the Duke of Oxford.”
“That blackguard. But why ‘thankfully’?”
“Because it was not the supper-set,” she said loftily.
He hated to ask, but couldn’t resist, knowing the answer would keep him awake the rest of the night. “And the supper-set belonged to?”
“The Marquis of Dorset. He was blessedly more pleasant. We didn’t dance. By then my shoes were practically threads. We sat and talked instead.”
“How pleasant for you.” His sarcasm floated over her head.
