“Who’s the other gentleman with Mr. Jarvis? The older man, with the walking stick and the sparse gray hair?” Lady Felicia frowned. “I daresay I’ve seen him before. I can’t place him, but I confess I don’t much like the look of him, either.”
Damn it. It was Godfrey, the worthless scoundrel.
Lord Godfrey had been in Brighton, as well. He was an earl, but from what Ciaran could tell, Godfrey’s title was his only claim to gentlemanliness. Ciaran frowned, thinking back to the dozen or so times he’d seen Godfrey in Brighton. He did his best to avoid the man, but Godfrey was an avid gamester, so they inevitably ran into each other at the card games held in the back room of the Castle Inn.
Ciaran’s jaw went tight as he watched Jarvis fawn over the older man. Every time Ciaran had seen Godfrey in Brighton Jarvis had been with him, tossing banks notes about the tables as if he had an endless supply of them. Ciaran had been disgusted with them both—Godfrey because he was a grasping scoundrel, and Jarvis because he was just the sort of brainless, drunken cull Godfrey would pluck of every penny he had.
At the time, he hadn’t given a damn if Godfrey swindled Jarvis of his last farthing, but that was before he knew Jarvis was Lucy’s uncle.
That changed everything.
Now here was Godfrey with Jarvis in London, hanging about Lucy like a leech lusting after fresh blood.
“Mr. Ramsey? The dance is over.”
Ciaran jerked his attention back to Lady Felicia. “So it is. I beg your pardon.” He escorted her from the floor back across the ballroom, his gaze on Lucy. As they drew near, they heard Mr. Jarvis speaking sharply to her, his voice raised.
Ciaran and Lady Felicia stopped a few paces away, confused. Something was wrong. Mrs. Jarvis’s lips were trembling as if she were about to burst into tears, and Markham was gaping at Jarvis with the strangest look on his face—an odd combination of outrage, shock, and fury.
Some sort of argument was taking place between Lord Godfrey, Lucy, and Mr. Jarvis. Mrs. Jarvis looked on, blanching with terror every time her husband’s jarring voice rent the air.
“Thank you for the invitation, my lord,” Lucy was saying to Godfrey as Ciaran and Lady Felicia joined the party. Lucy’s shoulders were rigid, and her lips white at the edges. “But I don’t care to dance again this evening.”
Ah, so that was what had caused the uproar. Lucy had already danced once with Vale, and etiquette demanded she now dance with whatever gentlemen requested her hand, including Lord Godfrey.
Ciaran didn’t give a damn about etiquette. He didn’t like the anxious look on Lucy’s face, and he didn’t want her to dance with Godfrey any more than she wanted it.
“It’s a country dance, Lady Lucinda.” Lord Godfrey gave Lucy a condescending smile. He was leaning toward her with his arm draped over the back of her chair, as if he had every right to be there, every right to touch her. “I realize you’re not familiar with London manners, but surely you can manage a simple country dance?”
Ciaran’s scowl deepened. Godfrey was far too close to Lucy, and his arm on her chair was insultingly familiar. Lucy kept edging away from him, but each time she moved Godfrey did, too, closing whatever distance she put between them. He looked like a snake about to wrap itself around its prey.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to decline all the same, my lord.”
“Don’t be silly, girl,” Jarvis snapped. “If his lordship wishes to dance, then you’ll dance.”
Lucy glanced at the dancers assembling for the set, and Ciaran could tell at once what she was thinking. The dance would take an age with such a large number of couples, and she couldn’t bear to suffer Lord Godfrey’s company for such a long time.
“This instant, Lucinda.” Jarvis looked as if he was about to drag Lucy from her chair.
Mrs. Jarvis laid a timid hand on her husband’s wrist. “Augustus, I don’t think…that is, the child’s natural reserve may be such—”
“For God’s sake, Harriet, be quiet!” Jarvis snatched free of his wife’s grip and turned a fearsome glower on Lucy. “Not another word of fuss, Lucinda, or else—”
“Never mind it, Jarvis.” Lord Godfrey rose to his feet and tugged his coat down with icy dignity. “I’m not so desperate for a reel you need to bully the young lady into a dance.”
Jarvis’s face went from white to red as Godfrey offered Lucy a stiff bow, then turned on his heel and strode away. When Jarvis turned back to Lucy, his face was nearly purple with rage. “By God, Lucinda—”
Markham evidently didn’t care for Jarvis’s tone any more than Ciaran did. He leapt forward, but Ciaran was there first. He thrust his body between Lucy and her uncle, then stepped up to Jarvis, so close their faces were mere inches apart.
“The lady said she doesn’t wish to dance.” Ciaran spoke calmly enough, but his voice was frigid with menace.
Jarvis’s face drained of color. “The lady is my ward, sir.”
Ciaran raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t back away. “Even more reason for you to treat her with respect.”
Jarvis drew himself up. “Who areyou, sir, to tell me how to treat my niece?”
Before Ciaran could answer, Lucy made a soft sound of distress. He turned to her to find her dark eyes had gone huge, and her face was paler than he’d ever seen it before. “Lucy, are you all—?”
