Diana gazed up at his set expression. At the hard lines bracketing his mouth. His gritty voice carried a warning, which should have deterred her. Her pulse raced. Lord Ballantine had confirmed her suspicions. Knowing she’d been right to warn him made her feel validated and a little smug. But why must he deal with this alone? She could be of assistance to him, as she’d told him. If only he realized it. But it would be foolish to try to persuade him while he flatly refused to listen. If she couldfind out something more, she would have something to bargain with. Until then, this mystery would give her purpose, focus, and a distraction from worrying about Anne. She watched him move around the table, chatting to the guests and taking his seat toward the bottom.
As footmen served the wine, Lord Holland rose to address the party. After dinner, they were to be treated to a recitation by Lord Byron in the blue salon.
Everyone clapped politely. Seated opposite Diana, Byron raised his glass with a smile. She had once thought Lord Ballantine a rake, but he showed little inclination to behave in that fashion, at least with her. There was a stark difference between him and the poet. Byron’s very public affair with Lady Caroline Lamb had shocked many when she’d behaved so disgracefully. But he must have broken her heart. And Diana doubted he cared very much. Women were a conquest and, once he had them, he then moved on to the next. When he glanced her way, his eyes looked devilish. She didn’t wish to flirt with him, nor did she wish to offend him if she failed to appear at his recital. But should either of the Frenchmen be absent, then she would go in search of them.
The footmen brought in the covers, tasty aromas filling the air. Th delicately flavored fish soup was served. A contented hum rose around the table, along with the clink of crystal glasses and silverware. Diana almost dropped her spoon when she heard an elegant, fair-haired Englishman seated across the table speak French to the moon-faced Frenchman at his right. she caught enough to believe it was nothing of interest, as indeed it wouldn’t be, here. But what was Ballantine’s reaction? She couldn’t tell from where he sat farther down the table, and a gentleman leaning over his plate to spoon up his soup blocked her view.
She discreetly watched the Englishman, who was addressed as Viscount Montgomery by the lady on his left. He looked in histhirties and was good-looking, with fine features. The cut of his dark-blue coat spoke of Bond Street tailors, and the gilt buttons on his cream silk waistcoat and at his cuffs gave an impression of wealth. His shoulders were rather narrow, and he wasn’t as broad in the chest as Ballantine. But she must concentrate on this Englishman, and not Ballantine. It was vital to find out who he was. How could she manage it discreetly? If she asked her father, he might believe her to be interested in him. She was about to discount this method when it occurred to her that if the gentleman wasn’t married, he might make a perfect distraction. A suitor she had no intention of marrying who could halt Papa’s search for a husband for her. That would enable her to spend time with him and learn all about him. But she could not be sure it was he she sought until she’d heard him speak French again without the surrounding noise.
*
While his mindstruggled with the problem of Lady Diana, Damian conversed with Lord Franklin, the elderly gentleman with bushy, white sideburns beside him who smelled strongly of pomade and cigar smoke. It was obvious Damian’s warning had not made the slightest difference. It was impossible to be brutally frank with her, not when she looked so lovely tonight. The blue satin reflected in her dark-blue eyes. He’d been too aware of the upward thrust of her bosom in the low-necked gown. He caught the scent of roses when he’d leaned over her. Instead of issuing the sharp warning he’d intended, he wanted to kiss the fragrant hollow beneath her ear, exposed by the smooth arrangement of her heavy hair, and then down her creamy-skinned neck to other glorious pleasures. With a silent groan at the eager response of his body, he admitted he was in trouble.How best to handle the persistent Lady Diana? He would have to outwit her. Not a simple task.
“Ballantine?” Lord Franklin’s eyebrows rose at Damian’s prolonged silence.
“It might require considerable thought,” Damian said quickly, realizing he’d taken too long to answer the fellow.
Franklin nodded, thankfully satisfied with his answer.
A footman filled Damian’s wine glass as the following course appeared, the steaming, flavorsome aromas of meat and vegetables blending with the smells of smoke and hot wax, as well as the ladies’ perfume. Damian took a hearty sip of red wine, wishing they had not placed him at such a distance from Lady Diana. What might she throw at him next? Must he deal with these spies for Scovell, get his hands on the missing documents, while watching his back, and keeping Lady Diana safe? He swallowed the wine too fast and coughed. At least, the enormity of his task dampened his desire to discover more of Lady Diana’s charms. But he feared that would not last.
“All right, Ballantine?” Franklin asked with concern.
“Quite, thank you.” He held up the ruby liquid swirling in the crystal wineglass. “A fine vintage, is it not?”
After dinner, theguests filed back into the drawing room to hear Byron read his latest work. Seated, Damian made a quick study of those present. Moreau and de La Touche were not, although it might have been because poetry failed to interest them. Lady Diana entered with her grandmother. Pleased to see her here, he spoke to the man seated on a chair beside him. But when he heard the door open and close again, he looked to where she’d been sitting. Her grandmother sat alone.Curse it!He excused himself and left the room.
She might have gone for any number of reasons, including something as innocuous as to fetch a shawl for her grandmother.But he couldn’t take the risk. There was no sign of her in any of the reception rooms, nor, even more worrying, were there either of the Frenchmen.
As he stood in the hall, a maid appeared. She dropped into a curtsey.
“Which chamber is Lady Diana’s?” he asked before she could lower her head and scurry away. “I have a message for her.”
She pointed. “Three doors from the top of the stairs, milord.”
“Thank you.” He ran up the stairs and knocked on the door. No answer.
Damian leaned over the balustrade below; the hall was empty. He descended the stairs, grinding his back teeth. Where the devil had she gotten to? Must he play nursemaid to Lady Diana for the duration of their time here?
As he reached the hall, a footman opened the front door and admitted the lady in question. Her eyebrows rose when she saw Damian frowning at her.
She recovered herself quickly and advanced on him with a smile. “Were you planning a walk too, my lord? It’s a lovely night. The smoky rooms bothered me, so I strolled along the arched walkway. The air is so sweet with spring flowers.”
They walked together down the hall. She was a picture of innocence. Damian didn’t believe her for a minute. “Not searching for the missing Frenchmen?” he suggested, in as pleasant a voice as hers.
She widened those blue eyes a man could drown in. “Are they missing?”
He took her arm. “Allow me to escort you to the drawing room. Lord Byron is about to begin.”
She pulled back and stared at him. “You are the most stubborn man. At dinner, I heard an Englishman speaking to one of the Frenchmen in his language, the partly bald Frenchman.”
“Is that so unusual?” he asked casually. But his interest piqued.
“It might be the Englishman I overheard.” Her hands were akimbo, drawing her gown tight around her body and revealing the enticing curve of her hips and narrow waist. He was aware of her delicate bones, and how vulnerable she would be to ruthless men.
“Who was he?” He growled.
She blinked, surprised at his gruff demand. “I’d tell you if I knew. He has fair hair and looks to be is in his mid-thirties.”
