But portent prickled at the back of Kirke’s neck. He thought he knew where she was. And if shewas where he thought she was, something was wrong.
A few minutes later, he began to think his assumption was incorrect. He’d wandered into the garden about fifteen feet, and it was getting darker with every step. And there was no sign of her.
He might never have seen her at all if not for the moon. It was the only illumination besides the scattering of flickering torches flanking the edges of the garden path.
It was blessedly quiet, and the air was cool and almost motionless.
The spangles on her sleeves caught his eyes. She was resting her arms on the edge of the rail surrounding a little gazebo.
He was very still, contemplating whether to approach her.
And then he did, slowly, and stood beside her.
She didn’t turn her head. She in fact didn’t move at all.
That’s how he knew she’d known already it was him.
And that something was terribly wrong.
His heart felt like a hard boot-fall in his chest. His stomach did a slow, painful revolution. Was it her father? Had her father taken a turn for the worse?
“Winded?” he asked idly, finally.
“After a fashion.” Her voice was very strange. It emerged dully, after delay.
“It’s a lovely garden,” he said carefully.
It might be. It was dark, and it smelled green, and the air was fresh, if London air could ever be said to be fresh. It was a thing to say, at least.
He might have said, “Any garden in which you’re standing is a lovely one.” He would have meant it, which was why he didn’t dare say it.
“I’m a bit surprised you aren’t dancing,” he said, almost lightly.
“I am, too. Given that I’m apparently a success.” Never had words sounded so ironic. “All thanks to you, it would appear.”
He decided to be direct. “What are you doing out here instead of dancing, Keating?”
“I was just looking at the stars and thinking. About crocodiles.” Another of those long pauses. “And something Lady Pilcher said.”
He went rigid.
Bloody.
Fucking.
Hell.
Ice slowly spread in his gut.
He knew his long silence was incriminating.
“What did she say?” He said it resignedly. He didn’t want to know. But he supposed he needed to hear how bad it was.
Keating swallowed. “She... she noticed that I had a little birthmark here, shaped like a heart. She called it charming.” She pointed to her breast. “And then she said...” She took a breath, as if it hurt her. “Lord Kirke has a darling freckle on his hip about that size. And that it’s hard to see when”—she cleared her throat—“your hips are moving.”
He couldn’t speak.
For a man accustomed to blazing ever forward in life, committed to progress, there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do to turn back time now to the point where he’d never met Lady Pilcher, had never made love to her, so that Keating would never need to hearthat. He supposed he could turn the clock back to the point where he had never kissed Keating in the dark of a carriage, but he would need some memories to carry with him to hell when he went there for semiseducing an innocent twenty-two-year-old who trusted him.
