“I would like that.” I took the lieutenant’s arm, narrowing my eyes at Peter. His lips were pursed, eyes set at Lieutenant Rawles as we turned toward the doors. Never had I been so pleased to attend a small, more informal dinner party where the guests could choose their own seats. If I played my cards right, I would not have to sit by Peter Wood for the duration of the fortnight here.
“How are you this evening?” Lieutenant Rawles asked, his voice kind and low.
“Very well, thank you. And you?”
“I am exhausted,” he admitted with a laugh, his posture slumping as we passed into the dining room and toward the mirrored, candlelit table. “Demsworth’s little tour turned into quite the trek, did it not?”
“To be sure,” I agreed, taking the seat he offered me. What a gentleman. From his gruff exterior, I’d half expected him to behave more like he looked.
“Are you comfortable?” Lieutenant Rawles stopped above me, waiting.
“Yes, thank you.” My face must have registered surprise at his gentleness for when I met Clara’s eyes, she exaggerated a smile for me to emulate. Were all gentleman supposed to be this amiable? This thoughtful and caring? Peter’s chair scratched loudly as he pulled it from under the table. He sat, scowling at his plate. No. Some gentlemen were brooding and self-involved.
Lady Demsworth directed the course of the dinner, asking general questions to each member of our company.
When it was my turn, I sipped from my glass, waiting for her question, as a servant placed a sweet-smelling pudding in front of me.
“Miss Moore, how is your stepfather faring? There are rumors his illness has worsened, heightened by a lack of his presence during the Season. But surely they are untrue?”
I stilled, unable to meet Clara’s gaze. Lord Gray’s secret itched in the back of my throat, choking me. Clara knew our stepfather was sick, guessed he likely would not recover, but she did not know with certainty as I did.
“His doctors have unfortunately been unable to find a diagnosis, nor any useful treatment,” I said.
“What is it that ails him?” Sir Ronald asked, dipping his spoon in his own dessert.
“An illness of the lungs.” I tucked my hands under the table, looking up to find Peter’s eyes. They were curious and almost sad.
“How very unfortunate,” Lady Demsworth continued. “First the loss of your father, then your dear mother, and now ... He is smart to have relocated to Brighton. Medicine is advancing there.”
That I doubted, though I would not say as much. The mention of my parents stung, but it always did.
“He is well taken care of,” I said, which was not a lie in the least. Lord Gray hired more help than he needed.
“And Lieutenant Rawles, how are you enjoying your time away? We did not find you in the Season this year.”
I let out a breath, happy to escape further questioning, and picked up my spoon. Our story was still unfolding, and the present company would learn of our destitution soon enough. When I raised my head, Peter was still staring at me, but this time he quickly looked away, busying himself with stirring his pudding.
Lady Demsworth rose from her chair before I’d finished my dessert, and I snuck one last sweet bite before politely wiping my lips and following her into the drawing room with the other ladies.
Before I could speak to Clara, Sir Ronald entered the room with all four men behind him. “Shall we play a game? A bit of blindman’s bluff?”
Voices mounted in approval as the group gathered around.
“I haven’t played since we were children,” Clara whispered from behind me. “I will embarrass myself.”
I turned to face her, finding fear and worry in her brown eyes. “It is only a game, Clara. You will not have to go first, and if you hide yourself well, not at all. I shall help you. Stay beside me.”
“Mrs. Turnball and I will be in the corner conversing. Do see that you maintain propriety, Ronald.” Lady Demsworth pursed her lips.
“Of course, Mother, of course. None shall lose her reputation in my house,” he joked, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket. “Who should like to go first?”
“Georgiana,” Peter called with a smirk.
“I couldn’t,” Georgiana demurred in a voice that wasn’t at all convincing.
But perhaps if Georgiana made herself a fool, Clara would feel less ridiculous to play in Sir Ronald’s company.
“Come, Miss Wood, let us start out with a lady and make the men look all the more foolish,” I prodded.
