Page 19 of Marry in Scarlet
“Just need to respond to an invitation.”
Sinc’s jaw dropped. “Respond? But you never respond to invitations. Famous for it.”
“Nonsense.”
“You are, you know. So what’s this extraordinary acceptance for, then?” He swirled the wine in his glass, sniffed deeply, then drank.
“A ball.”
Sinc choked. “What ball?”
Hart didn’t respond. He’d found the invitation he was looking for and had begun to scrawl an acceptance.
Sinc drained his glass, refilled it, then said in an airilycasual tone, “Which ball is it again?” It was so unlike him that Hart looked up with a frown.
“What is it to you?”
“Might be going too. Could go together. Company, y’know.” Sinc made an expansive gesture. “Depends on the ball, of course. It wouldn’t be the Rutherford ball, I suppose?”
Hart snorted. “The Peplowe ball, though why it matters to you, I can’t fathom.”
“Doesn’t matter a bit, old fellow. Not a bit, not a jot. Just being friendly, makin’ conversation, don’t you know.”
Hart eyed him thoughtfully. “You’re babbling, Sinc. Now why would that be?”
“Babbling? Me? Not a bit of it. What’s the world coming to when a chap can’t inquire about the plans of another chap without being accused of babbling.” Avoiding Hart’s eye, he turned to refill his glass.
“You’ve bet on me, haven’t you?”
“Me? Bet?” Sinc said with a feeble attempt at indignation.
“On whether or not I’ll attend the Rutherford ball.”
“Pfft!Bet on you? My oldest friend? As if I would. Good heavens, what an impertinence that would be.” He darted a glance at Hart. “You’re not going, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Damn.”
“Problem?” Hart asked dryly. Of course Sinc had bet on him. Sinc bet on everything.
“Dropped some wine on my breeches.” Sinc scrubbed energetically at an invisible stain.
Hart returned to his note.
“So... the Peplowe ball tomorrow night,” Sinc said. “What brought that on? I thought you hated balls.”
Hart gave a lazy shrug.
“But you never attend balls—only for that short time when you were engaged to Rose Rutherford. And you can’t be pining after Lady Rose because that was the most cold-blooded arrangement I’ve ever—” Sinc’s eyes brightened. “Oho, so that’s it.”
“What is?” Hart signed the note with a flourish.
“Everyone knows the Rutherfords and the Peplowes are practically joined at the hip. You’re hoping to meet up with Lady George, aren’t you? I told you she was a charmin’ gal—oh.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re not planning to punish her for that little contretemps at the opera the other night, are you, Hart? Because if you were... well, it wouldn’t be gentlemanly.”
Hart raised a brow. “Contretemps? I have no idea what you’re talking about. I merely wish to purchase her horse.”
“Her horse?” Sinc gave a crack of laughter. “Naturally, you’re going to a ball for a horse.”
