Page 56 of Lord Hartwell’s Refuge

That caught his attention in a way nothing else had that evening.

Well, nothing other than how elegant she looked in her gown with her dark hair framing her face in soft little curls. But he was only human.

“Thank you,” Roman said quietly, squeezing the hand on his arm. They were in public, the door ahead of them open to admit them, another carriage pulling in behind their own. He could say nothing else. Yet his heart warmed to her. She wanted to see his world, and more, she wanted to understand his place in it.

“Of course, my lord.” Tamsin looked up at the door. “Now, let us enter the evening as allies. We have much to accomplish, as well as friends to make and meet.”

It was, he thought, a very Tamsin thing to say—practical, and somehow more generous for being so plainly stated. He did not have time to examine why it settled something in his chest before they were through the doors and into the chaotically polite noise of the drawing room, as the evening began in earnest.

Guests flowed up the staircase to the large hall above where doorways opened into a card room, music room, and sitting room. Refreshments were in the hall on long tables, including a generous punch bowl, with liveried servants attending to guests in finery nearly befitting a ball. Mrs. Laycock’s gatherings were much more than simple card parties. They were opportunities to see, be seen, and gather intelligence.

Kettlewell approached at once, offering a polite bow to Tamsin. “Lady Hartwell, you look as lovely as a bride ought to on such a fine evening.”

“It is good to see you again, Mr. Kettlewell,” she returned with a curtsy.

Then he turned to Roman without preamble. “Patchett has yet to arrive, but some of his hangers-on are already making the rounds. Danby in particular is being a little⁠—”

“Of course he is,” Roman interrupted with a quick frown, glancing pointedly at Tamsin.

The man had the good sense to appear chastened. “Ah. Excuse me, Lady Hartwell. My language can be rather…decorative.”

“I understand, Mr. Kettlewell.” Tamsin’s smile could only be called serene. “I myself prefer my language less provocatively adorned.” She looked up at Roman with a smile. “I see a friend. Excuse me, my lord, good sir. I will leave you to your conversation.”

Roman watched her go, her head high, to speak to Mrs. Suddaby. They were friends? The woman was older than Roman’s own mother. He turned to correct Kettlewell’s casual manner in front of Tamsin, but Kettlewell spoke first.

“You have a most direct lady wife, Hartwell. She does you credit.” Kettlewell grinned. “Now, tell me what we plan to do about Danby.”

Though Roman promised himself he would keep an eye on his wife, he lost track of her almost immediately, which was simply the natural shape of such evenings. The room demanded him in a dozen directions at once. At least she had never needed managing, never once giving him cause to think she would benefit from his hovering like an overly concerned nursemaid.

He caught her at the edges of his attention as the evening wore on: near the window with Mrs. Laycock, her head tilted in a way that looked like she was listening rather than merely waiting to speak; by the refreshment table, laughing at something Phineas Nelson had said, appearing quite comfortable with her place in the conversation.

Roman’s first glimpse of his brother was from across the room, when he looked to find Tamsin and saw her with Lyness and Lady Emily. The three of them were chatting amicably with Mr. Sterling and his wife, Lady Juniper Sterling. The five of them together made a happy little scene, and with a start he realized they were all, in some way, his family. Connected to him. His brother, his brother’s future wife, her family, and Roman’s own wife.

Laughing together.

He took a step that direction.

“Ah, Lord Hartwell, here you are.” Mrs. Laycock had found him. “I am pleased you came this evening. In fact, I do believe this is the first event that you and your wife have attended in Society after your wedding. My congratulations to you, she seems a most lovely woman.”

Roman gave his hostess his full attention. It would be quite a feather in her cap to be the first to welcome a baron’s bride into York’s social circle. He had not given that aspect of the evening any thought until that moment. Most unlike him.

“Thank you, Mrs. Laycock. I quite agree with you. We were both honored by your invitation.” It was the polite thing to say, and the right one to make a woman like Mrs. Laycock happy. “As always, you have gathered the best of York into your home.”

He was absorbed for a time by Mrs. Laycock’s desire to speak of the current Lord Mayor and how her own husband had filled the position with great credibility. She then introduced him to her visiting cousin, before she went on to see to other guests.

After another quarter hour of moving from one person to the next, Roman looked up to ensure his wife was still comfortable, but did not immediately see her. Perhaps someone had invited her to the card tables. Despite drifting along the edges of the card room, he did not see his wife at any of the tables. He walked into the sitting room—and it was there Danby cornered him near the fire.

One of Patchett’s more comfortable allies, the man had a genial manner and a talent for saying disconcerting things as though he were merely making conversation.

“I hear you have had Salmond drafting petitions on your behalf, Lord Hartwell.” Danby spoke lightly, a glass of claret loose in one hand. “Rather a great deal of bother over an old, crumbling gate.”

Had he misspoken on purpose? That would be like Danby. Others around them were now turning to take an interest in the conversation, even if not taking part.

“A barbican,” Roman corrected. “And I would hardly call it a bother. It is simply the work required.”

“Required by whom, precisely? The Corporation has debts that want addressing, and I confess I struggle to see how keeping an old stone archway serves that end better than the money it might save if it came down.” Danby smiled, easy and unhurried, the smile of a man who did not expect to be seriously contradicted in a social gathering. “I mean no offense, of course. Only that a man might wonder if Lord Hartwell has grown rather sentimental, given both his devotion to old stone and his rather swift marriage. Both are more common in romantic novels than in our modern society.”

There was a ripple of polite laughter around them, the kind which could tip either toward Roman or away from him, depending on what he did with the next several seconds. He took in the people around him without giving any one of them his full attention, and caught sight of Tamsin in her deep-hued gown moving toward him.