“I did not. I was outside walking before feeding the children. It helps the milk sometimes, so I walk before settling them. I stopped to watch the carriages arriving and the gowns, and then I saw a face I recognized. I thought perhaps my mind was playing tricks on me—we have spoken of him so often—so I followed to the front door and kept myself behind the pillars. He walked up the stairs and stood in the light of the sconces, and I knew it was him.” She paused. “Bash. He arrived after most of the other guests, so there was nobody at the door but the footman, who let him in.”
“So the footman will have taken his name,” Clara said.
Marianne nodded. “I heard it. Sebastian Devereau.”
Devereau. Clara turned it over. Marjorie had been right about the French connection. And Bash, Sebastian… yes, both names sat easily together.
They were almost at the ballroom. Clara stopped at the threshold. “Find him for me,” she said quietly.
Marianne’s eyes moved slowly over the room. It took a minute or two, during which Clara pressed her hands together and resisted the habit she had broken at the age of twelve of putting her fingers to her mouth when she was anxious.
“I cannot see him from here.”
Clara nodded and pulled her to the stairs, so they could overlook the ballroom from the mezzanine level above.
Once there, Marianne nodded. “This is better. Let me see.”
She squinted as Clara likewise looked around, hoping to see the man.
Then Marianne nodded slightly. “There. By the arches.”
Her gaze followed Marianne’s. He was exactly as Marianne had described. Tall, broad-shouldered with a shock of ginger hair that was striking enough to understand why Frederick wouldhave remembered it had he seen it. He wore a beard along the outer edge of his jaw only, a style Clara had always found rather affected. His attire was impeccable—a deep green waistcoat that suited his coloring—and he was handsome. She made herself acknowledge it because Arabella would have, and it mattered to understand it.
“He is exactly the sort of man she would have picked,” she said quietly. “She always liked the handsome sort, so sure of themselves they bordered on arrogant.”
“Do you know him?” Marianne asked.
“No.” She looked at him more carefully. “But if he is here, he must be a nobleman or a very wealthy merchant. We invited only those most influential in society.”
Down in the ballroom, she could see Julian with Evelyn at his side. She waved and called down, but her voice was drowned entirely by the orchestra, which had just struck up a reel.
“Here,” Marianne said, and pressed something into her hand. Clara looked down. A hairpin.
“Throw it at him,” Marianne said.
This was, without question, the least ladylike thing anyone had ever advised her to do. She did it. Her aim was not equal to her intention, and she missed Julian’s head by a clear foot, but Evelyn, whose instincts were apparently extraordinary, lookedup at once. She caught Clara’s eye, touched Julian’s sleeve, pointed, and Julian came up the stairs.
“Sebastian Devereau,” Clara said, before he could speak. “Red hair, by the arches. That is him.”
Julian looked. Something crossed his face.
“Devereau,” he said. “I know him. His cousin is Steven Devers—I do business with him. He was at my birthday celebration in Southampton last year; you would not know since you were already in Scotland. He brought his cousin along. I recall Steven saying the man was rather particular about keeping the family’s original French name because he felt it sounded more distinguished.”
Clara steadied herself. “Was Arabella at your birthday celebration?”
“Naturally.”
“And do you believe she met him there?”
“I believe she danced with him. Yes.” He looked at the man again, and something hardened in his expression. “He is wealthy. Considerably so, more than Devers. He trades heavily with France. I hear legitimate exports now, but during the war, I always suspected those French wines he seemed so well stocked with came through rather less legitimate means.
“Steven would bring them from time to time, claiming his cousin had ensured the supply before the war. Tall tales, if you ask me. Nothing was ever proved. And I remember he told me his grandmother was Italian. She came from somewhere near Naples and married a Frenchman.” He paused. “That would account for the French name and the Italian connection.” He took a deep breath. “I will speak to him.”
“Be careful,” Clara said. “Do you think he is here because he suspects something?”
“It is possible. Or it is possible that he is here precisely because he knows a man with nothing to hide does not avoid the ball of the cousin of the lady whose child he wishes to steal.” His eyes were still on Devereau. “Or he is here because he knows David is here, and he wants us to know he knows it.” He looked at her then. “I do not know which. But I intend to find out.”
He turned to go. She caught his sleeve without thinking.
