Oh my.Lorelei snatched her cup from Lady Peachornby’s outstretched hand and drained the cup.
“What doyousuppose it was, Lady Kimpton?”
Lorelei shook her head. Ha! She knew exactly what it was Miss Hollerfield was carrying. She felt faint.
“Are you all right, dear?” Lady Smythe moved next to her and slipped the emptied cup from her shaking fingers. “You look slightly pale. I’d heard Lord Kimpton sent for Dr. Pogue last night.”
Lorelei inhaled slowly. “Yes, yes. I’m quite all right. It’s true. Dr. Pogue did come to our home. I’m afraid Lord Kimpton believed me at death’s door, as I’d gotten caught in the rain. He panicked, the silly man. Please. Do go on.”
“Yes, well, I fear that’s all I know. Though I’ve since learned that Miss Hollerfield has left town.”
“Left?” Lorelei could hardly squeeze the words past her throat. “Where to, do you suppose?”
“It hardly matters, does it? The important thing is that she’s gone,” Lady Dankworth said.
That much was true, Lorelei supposed. She glanced around at the curious faces, each watching, awaiting some reaction. Someone was missing, but because of her brandy-fuddled brain, she couldn’t remember who. She snapped her fingers as her mind grasped her thought. “Lady Dankworth, have you word from Lady Maudsley? She was to meet me here.”
“Oh, no, dear. She sent word that she, too, was under the weather, having been caught in the rain last night. Though she looked remarkably well at the Martindales’ masquerade, I must say.”
Lorelei’s stomach fluttered with anxiety. “Did she?”
Light laughter rippled through the room, and dread touched her. “It was quite the coincidence,” Lady Martindale piped in. “Lord Brockway followed her in by some fifteen minutes. That man is smitten, I daresay. His eyes never once strayed from her.”
Fear knotted inside Lorelei. This was a deadly turn of talk for Ginny. “Lady Martindale,” Lorelei gasped. “EveryoneknowsLady Maudsley would never stray from her… her husband.” She had a sudden urge to see her friend.
Lady Martindale had a kind, genteel face. Her dark hair, streaked with silver, was pulled back in a knot at her nape, her wide green eyes sharp. She chuckled. “Of course not, dear. But a married woman does not keep a single,eligibleman from being besotted.”
“No,” Lorelei agreed reluctantly. She hesitated a long moment. “And Lord Maudsley? Was he present as well?”
In what would have otherwise been comic unison, all six women frowned at once. Lady Martindale said, “Yes. He was losing heavily in the cardroom, Martindale told me later. I’m certain he was not even aware of when or if Lady Maudsley appeared.”
Lorelei let out a slow, relieved stream of air, a little mollified. It was perfectly sensible that Ginny would have caught a small chill. After all, she did appear at the party, and as Thorne said, most likely no one saw that Ginny and Lord Brockway had arrived together. The Kimpton carriage would have offered some protection.
Lady Alymer sipped daintily from her cup and clinked it on her saucer, the sound reverberating in the hush, drawing sudden attention. Her auburn hair was a shade too red to be fashionable, as were her freckles too prominent to hide with dusting powder. She seemed so unbothered by her unsightly looks, Lorelei couldn’t help admiring her. Her blue eyes flashed with curiosity. “Is it true that Lord Harlowe’s valet was found murdered?”
“How did it go last night?” Thorne dropped into the chair across from Brock, soaking up White’s soothing atmosphere. “Bring another glass,” he told a nearby attendant. A slight hum stirred the air as other gentlemen throughout the club’s plush decor visited quietly.
“Fine. Did you think it wouldn’t?” Brock emptied the contents of his glass. “Maudsley was too far in his cups by the time we’d arrived, and he was none the wiser. How is Lady Kimpton today?”
“Snug in her bed when last I left her.” Thorne could still feel her hot breath, her warm hand on his chest, the depth of his arousal. He couldn’t deny it. He was drowning in a deep, dark hole. Each passing hour felt like the swing of a lowering pendulum’s sharp blade. Her blonde locks tickling his nose, her fragrant skin scented with the softest of roses. He missed her. His own wife.
He shook his head and made a concerted effort to focus. “I’ve been thinking. There is something odd in Harlowe’s one etching. I get the feeling he is into something deep. That perhaps he is hiding information in some of his works. I mean, who paints a political meeting with Fawkes?”
“Unless he is planning on blowing up Carleton House.”
That jerked his head up. “Christ, you don’t think that, do you?”
A small, bitter smile curved his friend’s mouth. “It was a jest.”
“Yes, well. Perhaps we should take another look at Harlowe’s quarters.”
“Excellent idea.”
Thorne rose, but a looming figure blocked him. He lowered back into the leather chair. “Maudsley.”
“Gentlemen.” Maudsley stood there, malice in his eyes, pitching a coin that he never seemed without into the air.
The man’s attire was slightly out of kilter, not quite as pristine as was his norm. His face was gruff and unshaven. He looked as if he’d been carousing all night—that part, not so unusual.
