Then she waved someone forward who was apparently standing close to the doorway. The woman came at her hostess’s bidding. “Please, sir,” Lady Middlebury said, “you remember Lady Rabron? She and her husband are new to our party this year as well, and I believe she is an old friend?”
Beck swung his attention to the other guest and froze. Lady Rabron was Violet Danvers, the woman who had rejected his love because he hadn’t been good enough for her family. He had not bothered to learn her married name or the title she had sold herself for.
Violet was older now, but still lovely in that fawnlike way of hers. Her eyes widened in mutual recognition. She started to say something, butbefore she could, Lady Middlebury cut in, “Lady Rabron, this is Mr. Nicholas Curran, Lady Orpington’slong-lostnephew who has made a sudden appearance. Fortunate for her, isn’t it?”
She smiled as she spoke, and Beck was certain she knew exactly who he was. He had no idea how she had come by the information. He’d been very careful.
However, for whatever reason, she was apparently not going to call him out.
At least, not yet.
He met Violet’s confused gaze, silently pleading with her to pretend, to not call him out.
There was a tense moment, and then Violet said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Curran.”
Chapter Eight
Gwendolyn wished Lord Ellisfield would leave her alone.
They stood in a crowded reception room where guests gathered to enjoy light refreshments and become acquainted while waiting to be taken to their rooms. There had to be close to fifty people milling around. Lady Orpington had turned her over to his lordship while, with an annoyed Magpie tucked under her arm, she flitted around clasping hands and kissing the cheeks of her acquaintances. Mrs. Newsome had disappeared down a hall to a room where the other companions gathered.
However, the décor of the reception room was spectacular. Angels cavorted across the ceilings and around star-shaped lamps that Lord Ellisfield said a great uncle had brought back from the Ottoman Empire. Four wall-sized tapestries depicting different stories from the Bible hung over cream walls. “Those are from when the family was more pious,” Lord Ellisfield confided. He also pointed to the parquet floor. “The family crest isinlaid in the center along with the family motto.” He said this as if she should be impressed.
She was. The flooring was lovely. A far cry from the cold stone floors of her beloved Wiltham. She couldn’t imagine how much parquet cost to keep. “What is the motto?” she asked politely.
“We reign forever,” he said proudly, and she smiled, because it wasn’t a very interesting motto as far as those things went.
She had to admit that Lord Ellisfield was a remarkably handsome man with his square jaw, fair hair, and even features. Considering the few portraits she had noticed upon entering Colemore through its baronial entrance hall, he was one of a long line of attractive people. She could almost hear Dara’s enthusiasm at the attention he was paying her. He also acted sincere, if one discounted the waft of drink and horses on his person.
Or that he had endangered everyone in the coach by doing something infantile. Gwendolyn was not a fan of immaturity.
She also tried not to keep looking at the door, hoping Mr. Steele would join them soon. She feared she was in need of rescuing.
Maybe because of the drink, Lord Ellisfield didn’t notice her distracted air. Instead, he enthusiastically wished her to befriend his three riding companions, who seemed to follow him around like Magpie trailed after Lady Orpington. “This is Mr. Penrose Mason—”
A somewhat pudgy man, with thin hair that he wore swept forward, bowed over her hand. “Mr. Mason,” she said in acknowledgment.
He blushed furiously. However, he respondedin a bored, affected drawl that annoyed her. “Misss Lannnssscarr.”
“And this is Captain Royce McGrath—” Lord Ellisfield continued.
The sandy-haired captain wore a uniform jacket of what seemed to be his own design since Gwendolyn had not seen anything like it before on a soldier around London. It had a collar so high, he could barely move his head. She wondered how he’d managed to ride comfortably being so propped.
“—and the Honorable Franklin,” Lord Ellisfield finished.
Gwendolyn had heard of Mr. Randell. He was a Member of Parliament. Her smile was genuine as she said, “My sister is married to Michael Brogan. Perhaps you know him?”
Mr. Randell’s eyebrows rose to his hairline in disdain. “TheIrishman?”
“Yes, the well-known, highly respected, up-and-coming Irishman who is one of the leading Members of Parliament,” she agreed cheerfully, adding the lilt of Ireland to her words, and Lord Ellisfield laughed.
“You take no prisoners, do you, Miss Lanscarr?” he said in admiration.
“I see no purpose to it,” she replied. “Nor do I appreciate having my heritage disparaged.”
“My thoughts exactly,” he answered, and then smiled to himself.
“Is something amusing, my lord?” Gwendolyn asked.
