His portmanteau unpacked,Damian approached the stairs. The decorated woodwork and arched doorways lent a slightly eastern appearance to the house interior. Bright Eastern carpets added to the impression. It was a blend of elegance and shabby indifference. Below, the hall filled with guests where servants directed them like herded sheep. Doors opened and closed on the floors above. The Hollands had invited quite a crowd. The chance of uncovering a French spy among the guests, should one even be here, would not be so easy. But he’d enjoy the Whigs’ conversation, although his views were more inclined to favor the Tories. Scovell had inveigled an invitation for him, despite Damian’s father having been a dyed-in-the-wool Tory. Damian’s political views were not known. He kept his opinions to himself. He seldom attended the House of Lords and avoided political intrigues, preferring to carry out his work behind the scenes. But as his host had invited him to join him for a welcome drink, Damian descended the staircase in search of the salon.
He stepped onto the floor of the hall which was clearing now as guests disappeared into the interior rooms or ascended the stairs to their appointed chambers. A young lady shed her pelisse and handed it and her bonnet to a servant. She smoothed the skirts of her pale, green-and-cream-striped gown and turned to look at him. Damian groaned softly under his breath. Lady Diana, a distraction he didn’t need when he must keep his head clear. But that might not be so difficult, he realized, as she frowned at him.
He crossed the intricately patterned tiles and stood before her to make his bow. “Lady Diana, how good to see you.” It was no lie. Looking into her indigo-blue eyes was like diving into a deep pool. Not a gentle, nor a welcoming one, however.
She raised golden-brown eyebrows. “How surprising to find you here, Lord Ballantine.” She looked past him. “If you’ll excuse me, I must speak to Lady Holland.”
He put up a hand to stay her but didn’t try to touch her. “A moment, if you please, Lady Diana.”
She hid it well, but she was angry with him. The promised meeting in Rotten Row. He hadn’t forgotten but couldn’t have disclosed to her why he hadn’t been able to appear. Damian was always cautious of drawing the ire or interest of fathers with young, marriageable daughters. And at twenty-nine, he was often the target of matchmaking mothers. But he’d hurt Diana’s feelings and disliked how that made him feel.
“I relish this opportunity to apologize to you for failing to meet you in Hyde Park. Matters beyond my control prevented it.” Damian smiled but saw no corresponding smile on her firm lips. His gaze lingered there. Then rose to meet hers. “It disappointed me not to have seen you.” The confession was out before he’d thought better of it.
“I had quite forgotten all about it,” she said with a careless shrug. “I’m relieved to hear you didn’t go to the park. As I couldn’t keep our appointment myself.”
The expression in her eyes dared him to question her. A corner of his lip quirked up while he fought not to chuckle. It was as much as he deserved. But where would they be now, should they have met and ridden down Rotten Row together? With every occasion he saw her, learned more about her, the harder it would be to resist her. Even now, he would like to see her alone. To kiss those soft lips, which pouted at him, and make her smile. But of course, that was impossible. He bowed again. “Ah, I see Lady Holland has come into the hall. I trust I will see you again?” Where they would be surrounded by a large group of people. Safe from temptation.
“Perhaps. I find much here to capture my interest. I’m especially keen to see the gardens. There are three fountains. One of the fountains that I’m particularly interested in viewing is decorated with marble cherubs and dolphins.” Having successfully relegated him to something of less interest than a fountain, she bobbed a small curtsey and left him to join her father, who spoke to Lady Holland.
Although it unsettled him, it would be best for the lady to remain aloof from him. Easier for him to keep his distance. He had much to concern himself with during the few days here, while watching his back. Even during a genial house party, it wasn’t beyond the bounds of possibility that someone would take the opportunity to knife him in the ribs while he was distracted. No one was safe in this ruthless game of spies. He felt severely hamstrung. He did not know who that might be among the diverse people here. As Scovell had said, some were Bonaparte supporters, and some of them were more actively involved than others. He must forget Lady Diana’s pursed, very kissable mouth and her golden-brown lashes, which had brushed her cheek while she’d hidden her outrage from him. Whatever she led him to believe, she had been in the park and must have been deeply offended when he’d failed to turn up. With a frustrated shake of his head, he turned and walked through one of the arched doorways.
The popular heir to a viscountcy, William Lamb, walked ahead of him. Damian followed him along the corridor. The center of Whig social circles, one could always rely on Lamb for valuable information, and Damian liked him. He felt sympathetic toward him. Lamb must have been uncomfortable to find Byron here. The poet had had a very public affair with Lamb’s wife, Lady Caroline, last year, who’d described him somewhat colorfully as “Mad, bad, and dangerous to know” in her diary. But Lamb was ambitious and made of sterner stuff.While matters might grow tense, Damian didn’t expect to see a duel fought in the gardens. Although one had happened here, he’d been told. They’d erected an antique Roman altar on the site where Lord Camelford and Captain Best had fought a duel in 1804, resulting in the death of Lord Camelford.
Lamb turned and saw him. “My good fellow, are you joining Lord Holland in the salon?”
“Indeed, I am. I gather you know where to find it?”
Lamb smoothed his brown, curly hair. “It’s a rabbit warren of rooms. I sent a servant to discover it.” He waved a hand to encompass the wide hall where statues lurked. “He informed me it’s in this direction.”
“Curious old house. I’m not sure what I make of it,” Damian said as they walked along a corridor.
“Or its owner,” Lamb murmured enigmatically. He turned to look at Damian with a wry twinkle in his eye.
Damian focused on the possibility of a spy among them as they entered the cavernous reception room, where a group of gentlemen gathered. Samuel Rogers, the poet and art collector, occupied a seat next to Lord John Rowntree, the parliamentarian with clever, observant eyes. Richard “Conversation” Sharpe stood addressing the room. A witty, knowledgeable man, he could converse on any subject, be it metaphysics, poetry, politics, scenery, or paintings. The Thomas Grieve, Viscount Montgomery, sat with his arms folded and inclined his fair head in welcome. There were two men whom Damian didn’t know.
Holland, ever the genial host, introduced Damian to the room. Damian recognized the stocky, bespectacled John Allen, who spent a good deal of his time here and was known as “Holland House Allen,” a political and historical writer, and the Holland House librarian. The two strangers were French, and they rose to shake his hand. Charles Moreau had a roundface and light eyes. He was almost completely bald, with tufts of gray hair sprouting above his ears. His full-lipped mouth hinted at indulgence, but his handshake was strong. The other Frenchman, Jean-Claude de La Touche, Damian knew was the son of a surgeon from Meaux with the olive skin and black hair of his countrymen. His black eyes were enigmatic, but his mouth, pressed in a hard line, revealed something of a rigid character. His hand barely touched Damian’s fingers before he withdrew it. Damian knew de La Touche had been providing information to the government for some years, although much of what he’d supplied had proven of little use.
Damian took a spare seat. Was he in the presence of a French spy, or might there be two? Or might he find nothing of use here? He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. The conversation at least would be far from dull. Already, disagreements arose, voicing concerns about the government’s latest unpopular bill.
Two hours later, Damian left the salon, having gained nothing of interest from the Frenchmen. Lady Diana returned to his mind. He shook his head, bemused. He’d become quite disciplined over the last few years. His head ruled his heart when he was engaged in dangerous work. There was no room for romance. And yet he still glanced into the drawing room as he passed to see if she was there. Knowing was one thing; apparently, turning off his desire for her was another.
Chapter Four
Eager to seemore of the estate, Diana persuaded her reluctant grandmother to take a walk through the sweetly perfumed gardens.
They passed a pretty bed bordered with clipped hedges and planted with bright, spring blooms. “Lady Holland is very fond of dahlias. I can’t say I share her enthusiasm.” Grandmama glanced up at the sky. “I think it’s going to rain.”
The sun peeped from behind the wispy clouds.
“Are you growing tired, Grandmama?”
“No. Why are those in their twilight years always asked if they’re tired?”
Because they often are, Diana thought. “I do not wish to fatigue you, Grandmama.” She gazed at the old lady with amused affection. “Before we return to the house, shall we visit the antique Roman altar where Lord Camelford and Captain Best dueled?”
Grandmama perked up. “I knew Camelford. Pitt, as he was then. A complex man, given to violent impulses, but capable of the most noble acts of generosity.” Her soft, gray-blue eyes brightened at the memory. “He was adventurous and charming with the ladies, which foolishly resulted in his death. He and Best argued over a woman.” She shook her head. “He must have known that Captain Best was a crack shot.”
The path took them to the impressive monument with two large pillars built above the fountain. They climbed the staircase.At the top, Diana read out the Latin inscription. “HOC DIS MAN VOTO DISCORDIAM DEPRECAMUR.”
