Francesca glanced towards him then, and the look was brief but unmistakably appreciative. It ought not to have pleased him but it did.
Lady Upton, having circulated sufficiently to ensure that all the right people had seen the right grouping of persons, now returned and attached herself once more to the little party. “Mr. Harcourt, Lord Ashbourne,” she said smoothly, “how fortunate to find you here. I was just telling Lady Darnley that Miss Vale does not yet have many acquaintances in Town.”
“Then I am honoured to serve as one,” said Harcourt.
Ashbourne inclined his head. “As am I, your ladyship.”
“It is hardly in your style, I would have thought, to be fawning over females in the Park.” Arch turned to see his brother, Lord Dandridge, grinning at him.
“I never fawn.”
“One of Mama’s protégés?” Dandridge was looking at Miss Vale a bit too keenly as she spoke with her admirers.
“Sir Percival’s god-daughter. Do you not recall Miss Vale?”
His brother furrowed his brow. “I think I recall hearing the name. Will you introduce me?”
“Presently.” Miss Vale was still conversing and they stopped to listen.
“What else might be wanted?” she asked.
“Sense,” said Ashbourne.
“Opinion,” said Harcourt at the same moment.
“Silence,” said Arch under his breath.
Miss Vale heard him. He knew she had by the faint movement at the corner of her mouth.
Lady Upton, who may or may not have heard him and would certainly ignore it if she had, continued talking serenely, “Miss Vale has a particular interest in improvement,” she said. “She owns several mills, you know. Mr. Harcourt, you must tell her of your speech on the matter. Lord Ashbourne, you must not for I hear it was too long.”
Ashbourne actually laughed. It was a sign of either good breeding or robust self-preservation under her ladyship’s fire.
Harcourt accepted the opening at once. “If Miss Vale has an interest in improvement,” he said, turning to her, “then I am at her service.”
“As am I in anything short of defending the present state of manufacturing law, which I cannot do with a clear conscience,” Ashbourne pronounced.
Francesca’s attention visibly honed. “Indeed, sir?”
“I begin to think that gentlemen who call every regulation dangerous to trade are often merely anxious that decency should prove expensive,” Harcourt retorted.
Arch watched the effect of that with a displeasure at once ridiculous and entirely real. Harcourt had found the right note—not flattery alone, though there was enough of that, but conviction, or something artfully close to it.
“What do you believe should be done?” she asked.
Ashbourne shifted, plainly disinclined to leave the field unchallenged. “Done?” he repeated. “One must proceed carefully where commerce is concerned. Sentiment does not run mills.”
“Nor does neglect improve them,” Harcourt returned.
“Meanwhile legislation may ruin what bad management has merely inconvenienced,” Ashbourne retorted.
There followed the sort of polished skirmish London prized: no raised voice, no open offence, only the exchange of positions with enough steel beneath the civility to make the encounter worth hearing. Francesca listened closely. Arch listened more closely still—not to the politics, though those were of interest, but to Miss Vale herself. He observed the way her attention settled when she was genuinely engaged, and he absorbed the fact that while Harcourt’s agreement seemed to interest her, Ashbourne’s condescension merely roused her resistance.
“Surely the lady cannot wish to hear this?” Ashbourne objected.
“Nothing could interest me more, my lord. The welfare of my tenants and workers is always at the forefront of my thoughts.”
“How peculiar. Perhaps a husband could take on the weight of those matters for you,” he suggested.
