Jason grimaced and adjusted his cuffs as he leaned against the nearest marble pillar, resolutely ignoring the flirtatious glances a bevy of young ladies sent his way.
He wasn’t here for them. He was here because his best friend, Henry Chadwick, had broken his bloody leg racing Jason’s bay gelding across Richmond Park three weeks ago, and in the haze of guilt that followed, Jason had muttered that if Chadwick needed anything—anything at all—he had only to name it.
And Chadwick had named it, God help him.
Keep an eye on Georgiana. Don’t let her do anything foolish. She keeps threatening to run off before her wedding. You know how she is.
But Jason didn’t know how she was.
He’d formally met Henry’s younger sister, Lady Georgiana, exactly once—at her come-out ball three Seasons ago, where she’d danced with him one time, flushed prettily, and then disappeared into the throng. He remembered thinking she looked cleverer than most, with those shrewd brown eyes taking everything in.
But she was still just another debutante. And watching debutantes was the last thing in the world Jason wanted to do tonight. He cursed Chadwick’s luck and the bloody horse who’d thrown him for the thousandth time.
Jason scanned the ballroom, narrowing his eyes. No sign of Georgiana Chadwick.
His jaw flexed. Because of course. Of course she wouldn’t be easy to find.
With a muttered oath under his breath, he tugged at his gloves, pushed himself off the pillar, and began to move through the crowd.
You’re the last man alive who ought to be watching a young lady, his mind whispered unhelpfully.
And wasn’t that the truth?
If Evelyn were here—if she hadn’t?—
Jason’s chest went tight. He didn’t let himself finish the thought. He didn’t have to. He’d thought it a thousand times before. Evelyn should have been here tonight, standing among the most sought-after debutantes of the Season, smiling shyly as she searched for a husband.
But she wasn’t here.
Because of him.
His younger sister had died on his watch.
He straightened his shoulders, scowling as though the force of his glower could keep the memory at bay.
It couldn’t.
And that memory alone was reason enough that he should not—should not—be entrusted with anyone’s sister.
And yet here he stood, scanning the crowd for Chadwick’s.
He was fairly certain Georgiana wasn’t in the ballroom. Which meant he needed to expand his search. He strolled out the double doors into the corridor that led to the foyer.
The moment he stepped onto the polished marble floor, a flash of skirts caught his eye as the door to the retiring room opened, and out walked three young ladies. One dressed in pink. One in yellow. One in green.
Jason went still.
There she was. The one in pink.
Lady Georgiana, looking quite unlike the shy girl he remembered from three years ago. Her chin was lifted, her dark-brown eyes bright and alive with some secret mischief. Her cheeks were flushed—not with modesty, but with determination. She moved like a soldier advancing into enemy territory.
Beside her in the yellow gown was Lady Beatrix Winslow—the diamond of every Season, her golden hair and swanlike neck catching the candlelight as if she’d been born to command it. She had what looked like a drawing pad tucked under her arm. And on Georgiana’s other side, a red-haired young lady dressed in green who Jason didn’t recognize, though she carried herself with a sort of weary dignity that told him she didn’t want to be here either.
He studied Georgiana more closely.
It was subtle—clever, even—but he’d been in enough drawing rooms and military camps to know what plotting looked like.
She was up to something.
