Page 27 of Marry in Scarlet
“Exactly.”
“And Cal wasn’t at the ball, so he couldn’t have confronted the horrid beast on your behalf,” Rose added.
“Cal doesn’t even know Lord Towsett has been pestering me,” George said. “I swore Emm to secrecy. I wanted to deal with Towsett myself.”
“Then what do you think happened?”
George shook her head. “I don’t know. It’s a mystery.” There was a second, smaller mystery that she didn’t mention: A footman had come to the conservatory with a message that Lord Towsett had left the ball. And when she’d asked him who sent the message, he refused to say, which made George think he’d been bribed.
She could think of only one person who might have done such a thing, who even knew she was in the conservatory—but why would the duke care enough to send her a message? It couldn’t possibly be him. She’d seen him briefly when she returned to the ballroom, but he’d given her an icy glance, made no attempt to talk to her and left immediately afterward.
So, no, she wasn’t going to mention that little incident. It would only stir up speculation, and she wanted to forget all about it.
But for the rest of the evening, free of Lord Towsett’s presence and the duke’s, she’d had a lovely time. Danced until the wee small hours.
They rode on, and the strangeness of Lord Towsett’s unexpected about-face was soon forgotten as talk turned to the ball to be held on the following night, when Rose’s husband, Thomas, would be presented to the ton for the first time.
***
Hart scowled. What the devil was he doing? He’d had no intention of attending this wretched affair. It would cause the kind of gossip and speculation he loathed.
And yet his feet kept on moving.
He turned the corner into Berkeley Square, saw the crowd outside Ashendon House and the many carriages lined up, dropping people off. The sight of them alone should have given him pause—he hated crowds—but his feet kept moving.
“Hart! Dear fellow, don’t tell me—you are, you are!” Sinc almost fell on him, chortling with delight. “You’re going to the Rutherford ball, after all! Oh, that’s splendid!”
“Whatever makes you think that?” Hart said dryly. They were almost at the steps leading up to Ashendon House.
Sinc’s face fell. “But you’re wearing formal duds, enough black for a funeral, except it’s nighttime, so—oh, you’re bamming me, you rat.” He grinned in relief and slapped Hart on the back. “I’m delighted to see you, old fellow, simply delighted.”
Hart eyed his friend thoughtfully. “You are showing an unwonted joy at the prospect of my company, Sinclair. Another bet, I suppose.”
“Moi?Bet on you? My dear old friend?” Sinc tried to look hurt. It failed—smiles kept popping out—so then he tried for humble sincerity. “I am simply pleased to have your company for the evening, my dear fellow.”
Hart wasn’t fooled for a minute. “You bet on me to attend.” They were inside the house now and had joined the crowd of magnificently dressed guests moving slowly up the stairs leading to the ballroom.
Sinc’s smile tried desperately to achieve ruefulness, but glee won. “The odds were irresistible.”
Hart laughed. “You’re a disgrace.”
“I know, but I’m a very much richer disgrace than I was ten minutes ago—or I will be as soon as you step through that ballroom door.” He pushed Hart up several more stairs, then turned to wave to some of his cronies, standing below them, staring up at them with jaws agape. “Losers,” he explained to Hart. “Bet that you wouldn’t come.” He rubbed his hands in glee. “But I knew better.”
Hart frowned. “How? I had no intention of coming.” Until half an hour ago, after several hours spent pacing and fuming and being ridiculously indecisive—which wasn’t at all like him.
“Ah, yes, but I’ve known you a devilish long time—ever since we were seven-year-olds, trembling with fright outside the headmaster’s office, abandoned by our nearest and dearest and facing the prospect of living with hundreds of young savages dressed in civilized sheep’s clothing—and all bigger than us. Ghastly. Remember?”
“Yes, but what does the first day of school have to do with betting I would attend this wretched ball?” They climbed another few stairs.
Sinc grinned. “It doesn’t. But I know you. The moment that girl refused to sell you—no, before that—the moment she ripped strips off you at the opera, I knew.”
“Knew what?” Hart said irritably. It was more than he knew.
Sinc shot him a knowing look. “No oneeverrefuses you. I knew you couldn’t let it rest. And then, when I heard theon-ditthat Towsett had apologized to Lady Georgeandwithdrawn his suit, well—the money was practically in the bag. And now you’re here, it is, it is! My bag!”
Hart frowned. “How could you possibly connect me with—”
“Towsett’s withdrawal?” Sinc chuckled. “So that wasn’t you marching him across the floor as if to a court-martial?”
