Stephen, in the back, lowers his head.
“Your Grace, I’m Mrs. Theodora Randolph. While I’m pleased to be invited today by our dear physician Mr. Carew, I must inquire why.”
“Why what, Madame?”
“After being in London for three years, why now, Your Grace? Why invite us?”
He glances at them, his blank countenance swiveling as if he’s searching for answers. “Madame Randolph, it’s never too late to right a wrong. I’m pleased that you have come.”
Nods sweep the room. The woman sitting beside Mrs. Randolph stands; her orange gown with reed smocking along the bodice looks elegant. “Everyone concluded that you were too busy,” she says, “dealing with the Wilcox girls or the ton to think of us in Cheapside.”
“Mrs. Smith.” Jahleel focuses on her. His smile radiates theconfidence and sincerity he has always had since we met. “I must apologize. You and Mrs. Randolph know the struggles that I had when I first came to London six years ago. Though I prevailed, the mocking of my situation and heritage extended from Mayfair to the immigrant populace of Cheapside. It’s taken emissaries like my friend Mr. Carew to let me know I am welcome.”
Whispers and fan-waving spread. I see smiles. He’s winning them over.
Still standing, Mrs. Randolph folds her arms. “Was it an oversight that invitations to your balls weren’t sent to residents of Cheapside?”
“I invited the friends I knew, Madame Randolph. I’ve thrown only one ball, and it was to unmask a villain. My thoughts were to seek justice in the most public and humiliating way possible, not exclusion.”
“Well, that’s what you achieved,” she says. “There are gossip and questions about whom you wish to socialize with.”
“I humiliated the Marquess of Prahmn. He deserved it for the injuries he caused my father, the first Duke of Torrance. Everyone must find their own ways to celebrate the passing of Lent, and I relished humbling him at my observance. But I didn’t enjoy the anguish it caused his son. Lord Mark Sebastian is a friend of the—”
“A friend and brother-in-law,” Mrs. Smith says, making way for a younger woman, dressed in a sea foam–green Spencer coat with chenille fringe about the bust and hem, to join her.
The young lady waves at Jahleel. He stops. His smile broadens. “I forget myself. More questions, ladies?” he asks.
I twist inside. I want to be the one who makes the strategist, the smartest man in the world, stop, lose his train of thought.
“As Mrs. Randolph mentioned,” Mrs. Smith says, “you’ve had your hands full with the Wilcox girls.”
“Well, my hands are large. I can hold a great deal.”
The cackles that follow, the craning to examine him, and perhaps the size of those fingers … my thoughts spiral.
Jahleel spins his cane. The golden cap twinkles within his palm. “I enjoy such forthrightness. From my previous time in London, I wasn’t ignorant of the risks my actions faced. I can absorb scandal. I didn’t want any of my guests to befall this scrutiny and have nasty cartoons drawn about them and put in the papers. It was the Marquess of Prahmn’s night to fall. Him alone. No one else needed to be hurt.”
The same nasty newspapers that put my name and the wordbigamistin headlines were merciless to Jahleel. Six years ago, I comforted myself, thinking that having no Blackamoor wife made his fight easier. When I look back, I know it was never easy. I left him to face it all alone.
Heads dip and mull. Then Mrs. Randolph looks back at me. “Yes, Your Grace, you seem to abound in scandals.”
“And you seem to track them, Mrs. Randolph. Wasn’t it just a few minutes’ difference that made a potential compromise of your eldest daughter disappear?” Jahleel offers her a withering glare.
Mrs. Randolph sits down quickly. “I see your point. Mary is quite happy and settled.”
Chuckles follow, but Jahleel waves them silent. “This is an invitation for honesty, but please state your opinions wisely. I’ll not tolerate disrespect of the Wilcoxes. They are family.”
My heart warms at this public acknowledgment. I want to turn back time, find my way back to him.
Another woman rises. Her day dress is a beautiful cotton print of crimson leaves intersecting like a lattice. Her matching gloves and smallish bonnet don’t quite say Mayfair or Cheapside, but they have some level of money. “What is your nationality, sir? There are many questions.”
“May I be introduced to my accuser?” he responds. “Excuse me, I meant questioner. Language translation.”
Her pale peach face reddens. “I’m Mrs. Tisdale. I’ve a daughter of marriageable age. She’s lovely and well accomplished, but I hear rumors of you, sir. You observed Lent. Are you Catholic?”
His trusted smile fades for a moment. “Orthodox, actually. Lent is one of the early rites of the Church we retain, but our theology diverged from Rome centuries before our Henry VIII decided he needed a new wife and formed the Church of England.”
He starts to laugh. “Discussing the much-married king when I’m here hunting my future bride is a little ironic.”
