Vale, however, dismissed Markham’s declaration with a derisive snort. “Ah, so it’s dark-haired ladies is it, Markham? How curious. I would have said it was just the opposite. I suppose we’ll see, won’t we? For God’s sake, Ramsey, what the devilisthis thing?” He scowled down at the marble lion.
“It’s a paperweight, you simpleton.”
“Hmmm.” Vale turned the lion over in his hands, looking at it from every angle, then plunked it back down on the edge of the desk with a sniff. “Damned ugly one, if you ask me, but never mind. Go fetch your hat and stick, Ramsey. We’ve come to take you to Old Bailey with us.”
Ciaran didn’t move. “Old Bailey? Why should I want to go there?”
Vale rolled his eyes. “The better question, Ramsey, is why you should want to stayhere. It’s as dull as a tomb.”
“I can’t go to Old Bailey. I’m going to Scotland.”
“Scotland?” Vale blinked. “What, rightnow? This very second?”
“Not now, but as soon as I’m ready to travel.” What Ciaran didn’t say was he’d had the entire afternoon to get ready. Long, empty hours had passed since he saw Lucy at Lady Ivey’s ball, but he’d hadn’t lifted a finger to prepare for his journey, or given a single servant a single order.
Vale waved away this excuse. “Well, as soon as you’re ready isn’tnow, is it? Damn cold and rainy in Scotland this time of year, anyway. Can’t think why you’d want to go there, Ramsey.”
Ciaran rolled his eyes. “I’m Scottish, for one.”
“Well, what of it? My great-grandfather was from Cardiff, and you don’t see me running off to Wales, do you?” Vale frowned at the marble lion, poking experimentally at it with the tip of his walking stick. “Go to Scotland if you like, but we can’t have you moping about in this stupid manner while you remain in London. Can we, Markham?”
Lord Markham shrugged. “May as well come along, Ramsey. You’re not any use to anyone lazing about here.”
Ciaran doubted he’d be any use to anyone in Old Bailey, either, but he rose reluctantly from his chair. He hadn’t anything better to do. He wouldn’t leave London until he’d heard back from Isla. Until then, he was trapped here, with the long afternoons stretching out empty before him. “What do you two need to do in Old Bailey? Drop Vale off at Newgate?”
Vale laughed. “Ah, that’s much better, Ramsey. Do try and stay amusing today, won’t you? There’s a good fellow. Our business hasn’t a thing to do with Newgate, but with a certain trio of young ladies. My sister is at her dancing lesson with Lady Lucinda and Miss Jarvis. I promised I’d fetch her at Thomas Wilson’s Dancing Academy and escort her home.”
Ciaran snatched his coat off the back of his chair and shoved his arms into the tight sleeves. It was the perfect chance to speak to Lucy without her bloody uncle hovering over them, listening to every word.
“Vale, stop fussing with that paperweight. You’ll hurt yourself. Come on, then. If we’re going to Old Bailey, let’s go.”
* * * *
“What sort of a place is Wilson running here?”
They’d paused at the large window in front of Thomas Wilson’s Dancing Academy to take a peek at the ladies inside. Harmless enough, but all of a sudden Markham was clutching his walking stick as if he’d like to smash the window to pieces.
He’d seen something he didn’t like, and it had thrown him into a temper.
Ciaran peered through the window. He didn’t see anything amiss, but Markham wasn’t the sort to indulge in pointless tantrums.
Vale was staring at Markham. “What the devil’s the matter with you, Markham?”
“For God’s sakes, Vale, are you blind?” Markham’s voice was shaking. “Or do you simply not care if someone insults your sister?”
Vale glanced through the window, then turned a blank look on Markham. “Who’s insulting her?”
“Lord Nash, of course! He’s holding her in his arms!”
Vale pressed his nose to the glass for a longer look, then drew back again. “They’re waltzing, Markham. You’ve heard of waltzing, haven’t you? I daresay you’ve even done it yourself once or twice. It’s hardly a scandal. Wilson’s is, after all, a dancing academy.”
Markham stared at Vale without speaking, but after a few moments he seemed to recall himself, and his cheeks flushed a deep red. “Well, it’s nothing to me who Lady Felicia dances with, anyway.”
“Clearly not.” Vale’s voice was gleeful, but when Markham opened his mouth to argue, Vale gave him a hearty slap on the back. “Never mind, Markham. I daresay Felicia’s virtue is safe. Just look at Miss Jarvis, would you, Ramsey? I’ve a notion she’s a bit of a scold, but she’s a very pretty dancer.” Vale’s eyes followed Eloisa Jarvis as she drifted gracefully across the floor. “I may have to waltz with her at the next ball.”
Ciaran pressed closer to the window, frowning. “Where’s Lu—that is, where is Lady Lucinda?”
Vale and Markham crowded closer, and after a quick glance Markham pointed with his walking stick. “She’s there, at the back. Who’s that she’s dancing with? It looks like—”
