Kirke decided to be direct. “You’ve got something else on your mind, Pangborne.”
Pangborne twisted his mouth wryly, then sighed. “I’ve been trying to decide whether to tell you what I’ve heard. You may already know, anyway. Bertram Rowley is thinking of running for your seat. The plan is to, ah, emphasize the moral differences between the two of you. As of course Rowley is pious as the day is long, and so forth. Allegedly spotless of character.”
“Ah,” Kirke said ironically. “And it’s alleged I’m none of those wonderful things.” He paused. “I must admit, it’s not a bad approach.”
Pangborne grimaced. “He’s a first-rate prig.”
In other words: the strategy would be to imply that someone who was as allegedly scandalous as Kirke could hardly get the job done, so busy was he with seduction and so forth.
It had been tried before.
The difference this time was that Bertram Rowley was outrageously wealthy, thanks in part to investments in textile mills. He could finance a campaign entirely on his own. He could all but buy his parliamentary seat, if enough voters could be persuaded.
Kirke mulled this new development darkly, and with a certain relish. Anyone who wanted to come for him was welcome to it.
But damned if he wasn’t a little bloody tired ofdevelopments.
“I’m not concerned,” he said easily. Which wasn’t entirely true. “If I may ask—why are you telling me this?”
Pangborne paused to consider this. “Better the devil you know? Things would be dull without you, Kirke. We’ll accomplish less. And Rowley is, in fact, an idiot.”
Kirke nodded. This was merely true.
“Perhaps now would be a good time to give a particularly spectacular speech.”
Kirke stifled a sigh. “Thank you, Pangborne. The notion hadn’t occurred to me.”
Kirke told Pangborne he’d see him in the library later, and slipped out of the game room. He presently found a footman who was willing to do two things: dump the ratafia, and wrestle Lady Wisterberg away from the game table in time to get Keating back to the boardinghouse by curfew.
He might not ever write another speech, he thought dryly, but damned if that wasn’t a satisfying night’s work.
He slipped up the marble stairs and turned left at the top. He passed three doors in the hallway, heading for the alcove near a window where he knew he could sneak a cheroot and contemplate the vexing vicissitudes of his life in peace.
He stopped abruptly, assailed by a surge of irritation.
His destination—a bench in that alcove next to an enormous, frilly potted plant—was occupied. By a woman.
His first swift impression of her—a delicate profile, the generous swell of breasts outlined against a muslin bodice, the creamy skin of her throat revealed by her dark uplifted hair—rushed his senses and tightened the bands of muscle across his stomach. He could not recall the last time a woman had stolen his breath.
A second later he realized it was Keating.
He went motionless. Stupid with surprise.
More than a little disconcerted.
He was blankly still a moment, then a strange,quiet anger seeped in on her behalf. His chest felt tight. He didn’t know why he should find uncomfortably poignant a pretty young woman taking refuge alone near a plant at a ball. It just seemed... such a bloody pity. An unconscionable waste. She ought to be dancing and reveling in the music and her beauty and the newness of London.
He pivoted a half step to leave her with her thoughts just as she turned and saw him.
Her lovely face was at once ablaze with delight and surprise.
He stopped. And then found himself moving toward that light.
He did so slowly.
“Good evening, Keating.” He gestured to the plant. “I see you’re with family again.”
“Oh. Yes. Good evening, Lord Kirke. I am a bit abashed that you have found me again near green things.” She flushed.
