Page 62 of Plucked By the Orc

“I imagine I am not,” Duncan managed. And then, feeling the intense glare of the people still waiting in the receiving line, he nodded and left Lady Bellingham to her other guests.

He approached Albion, who was trying to remain close to Iris but had difficulty wrangling her. When she headed to the tables piled high with refreshments, Albion remained nearby but leaned in close to Duncan.

“Well done, brother,” he said. “But we have reason to be wary.”

“Why? I thought that went swimmingly.”

“Look at who the lady is speaking to now?” Albion nodded his chin in the direction of the receiving line. “Have you known Lady Bellingham to be invested in the Anglican Church? Why do you suppose she’s talking to Vicar Swinton?”

Duncan furrowed his brow, feeling every line he knew appeared there. The marchioness might have been charmed, but she was also terribly curious. If anyone could determine Iris Gabbert’s true identity, it was the vicar who had already met her at Mother’s house. And was not blinded by affection for her like Felton Maberly.

“I heard them when I walked past,” Albion said. “Lady Bellingham had just tasked Vicar Swinton to learn who this mysterious countess is and where she comes from.”

Chapter Twenty

Iris made a concerted effort to keep her lips only slightly parted. Otherwise, she feared, she would be caught gawking and trapped into some conversation or another meant to prove she was no countess. Nor a lady of any kind, for that matter.

But, oh, there was so much to see.

Lady Bellingham’s townhouse and drawing room were even more extensive than Duncan’s. The furniture had been skillfully re-arranged to maximize one’s opportunities to socialize. Long forms and window benches with velvety cushions and pillows were placed strategically along the perimeter of the room. The sideboards next to them were flush with savory pastries and soft cheeses to place on small plates and carry around the room.

Fresh blossoms in high vases perched on end tables, sweet-smelling cyclamen gathered around late-blooming Christmas roses. The pictures adorning the walls were of attractive, pink-cheeked figures from mythology and inviting landscapes ofsunsets captured in what Iris guessed was the Lake District. As far as Iris was concerned, the room was perfect.

Rather, it would have been perfect had she and Duncan mended their differences prior to this event.

Though Albion provided perfectly acceptable companionship, and had caught up with her once more, she wished his brother had remained at her side. When all was said and done, Duncan Higgins was the only one who could calm her shaking nerves and make her think she could do this. That she, Iris Gabbert, was no less worthy than the other attendees here. Even if she was an experiment in his eyes.

She thought she’d got to him a bit, returning to their customary teasing while they waited in the receiving line. But no sooner had she been introduced to Lady Bellingham than Duncan had parted ways and left her with Albion.

“Ah! I was hoping I might see you this evening.”

Vicar Swinton, whom she recognized from Duncan’s mother’s parlor, approached her, still in the collar appropriate to his calling but otherwise spruced up in much the same manner as the other gents in attendance.

“You needn’t talk to him,” Albion whispered. “A simple nod, and then we can move along.”

“Why wouldn’t I talk to him? He was nice enough last I saw him.”

“He might give away the game. You needn’t let one person monopolize your time.”

“What toff! He’s a man of the cloth, he is.” Iris briefly lapsed in her diction, though she felt quite certain no one else had heard. Still, she lowered her voice and tempered its cadence. “It’s only right I should say something.”

“How lovely you look, my lady,” the vicar said as he approached them.

“Thank you.” Iris tipped her hand in his direction and accepted the peck he planted on it.

“I was hoping we might become better acquainted this evening,” the vicar continued. “I found it astonishing to learn you are a countess. We simply must—”

“There you are, Vicar Swinton. Just the gentleman I wished to see.”

Before Iris could get in another word edgewise, Duncan stepped between her and the vicar. His broad smile looked more like that which usually graced his brother’s face. It seemed she wasn’t the only one performing this evening.

“Your grace,” the vicar said politely. “Why, perhaps we three might chat.”

“It is regarding a charitable donations to your parish. And how one might go about making the gift in the most expedient manner possible.”

“Oh! Well, I would be most happy to answer any inquiries.”

“Capital! Have you a taste for tobacco pipes? We must partake outside. Lady Bellingham insists the scent clings to her tapestries in the most objectionable manner.” Duncan steered the vicar in one direction, while Albion steered Iris in the opposite direction.

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