Page 14 of His Wife, the Spy
The crowd took their seats again, and Jasper, obeying a perverse impulse, claimed the now-vacant chair beside Annabel. Her eyes widened, and a blush stained her cheeks.
“Your lordship.”
“Miss Pearce.” Jasper weighed mentioning her conversation but decided against it. Admitting to eavesdropping was a sure way to make sure no one spoke out of turn. “Are you enjoying the music?”
Annabel nodded. The newest performer had chosen a livelier tune. It was a welcome change, but it made it difficult to hear any conversation. Jasper had to lean in to hear what she was saying.
She smelled of clover and apples.
“You should speak to your housekeeper,” she said.
He glanced around the room, looking for anything out of place. “Why?”
The look she gave him was the same she’d given the impatient Elizabeth. “Viscount Raines has the stare of a well-trained rogue.”
Jasper looked into her expectant gaze. It was clear she was awaiting his response, but he wanted to know how she interpreted what she’d seen.
Her sigh was so deep it moved her shoulders. “The young man is a bounder, but Miss Bainbridge has a sharp-eyed chaperone. He’ll not get past her. Your maids will likely not be so safe. They should tend his room in pairs, or with a footman at the door.”
Jasper nodded his agreement with a lazy dip of his chin that had taken him months to master. “Thank you.”
She turned her attention to the music, leaving him no choice but to sit in silence, watch the people around him, and not wriggle in the too-straight, poorly padded chair. After a moment, the light shifting across her gray silk skirt drew his attention. It was too rhythmic to be a fidget. She was tapping her foot in time with the song.
Jasper didn’t remember ever seeing her dance, though, frankly, he didn’t remember seeing her in a ballroom at all. Those events were always a crush, and only the peacocks and fools stood out. Annabel was neither of those.
The only small party they had attended had been his cousin’s house party, and that had ended before the dance could be had. “It’s a shame the floor is crowded. This would be a fine reel.”
The tapping stopped. “It would. If one chose to dance.”
“Do you not?”
“My dancing days are over.”
She’d become a statue in her chair, as though his question had turned her to stone. Agitation skittered over Jasper’s skin as he sipped his drink. She liked wordplay and music, but she’d put it all aside. She was observant and forthright, but she carefully measured out her advice. He’d only get answers from her if he could loosen her rigid control.
He thought back over the days of Amelia’s house party, of what they’d done and what he recalled of Annabel’s attendance. She’d sketched during the hunting party, and she’d read during fishing. They’d ridden, and she’d…
Loved it, if he recalled correctly. She’d cleared every jump and poured enthusiastic praise on her horse. At least, he thought it had been her.
“We’re riding tomorrow,” he whispered, testing his hypothesis.
Her eyes sparked to life before she could stop them. The fire died slowly. “Elizabeth has discussed painting in the garden. We will likely stay behind.”
“Linden always chooses the garden over trailing after Fiona in a carriage. She can keep an eye on Miss Spencer.” He applauded as everyone else did and stood to lead the gentlemen to the billiards room. “You can join us for a morning ride.”
“Lord Ramsbury, I couldn’t possibly.”
He stopped halfway to the door and turned. “Miss Pearce, I insist.”
Chapter Four
“The old marquesswould have enjoyed seeing the stables and paddocks this full.”
“It likely would have reminded him of Tattersalls,” Jasper replied to the stable master. He ran his hand over the long, muscled back of his favorite mount, a roan whose black-tinted coat looked blue. “And grandfather loved nothing more than a horse sale.”
“Unless it was a race.” The servant grunted a laugh as he shoveled fresh hay into a neighboring stall. “His lordship had a damned good eye for a runner.”
Let’s go for a flutter, boy. Jasper’s lips twisted into a wry grin. Grandfather had never been one to merelyflutter. Days at the track started early, in the stables with the trainers, pacing up and down until the old man pulled a stack of notes from his coat and shoved them at Benchley, his favorite bookmaker. Benchley’s frown grew deeper with every win. He likely would have stopped taking Grandfather’s wagers if he’d been just another bloke with five quid to spare.
