Читать книгу Regency High Society Vol 7 - Diane Gaston, Ann Elizabeth Cree - Страница 12

When Morgana woke the next morning, it seemed the very air was charged, as if the house were inside a huge electrifying machine, but Morgana knew any sparks that flew would be due to her own decisions. The porcelain clock on her bureau chimed six times. Morgana threw off the covers and was halfway dressed when Amy crept in, expecting merely to tend the fire.

Did Amy know of their guests? She must, but the girl did not reveal it. She did not even remark upon Morgana rising so early. Morgana meant to breakfast with her grandmother and Miss Moore, who always rose at dawn.

After breakfast she begged Miss Moore to take a walk with her. Miss Moore settled her grandmother in her sitting room with her maid for company, and the two ladies walked the short distance to the park, one of the footmen providing a discreet escort.

‘Goodness, it is chilly this morning,’ said Miss Moore as they crossed the park. ‘It is fortunate Lady Hart did not come with us. It would be bad for her lungs.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed Morgana, uncertain how to begin.

She’d tossed and turned all night, even rising once and wandering to the window at the exact moment Sloane returned to his house. Realising he would be undressing and climbing into a bed so close by had not helped her fall back asleep. But those wakeful hours did yield the semblance of a plan.

Morgana had decided that she needed to speak to Miss Moore before Mr and Mrs Cripps or any of the other servants. She had a reasonable expectation that generous salary increases would ensure the servants’ co-operation and silence. But if prim Miss Moore could not be persuaded to go along with this scheme, Morgana did not see how she could proceed.

Morgana could not force a respectable lady like Miss Moore to endure a situation abhorrent to her. And she could not send Miss Moore away. With Miss Moore went her grandmother. Without her grandmother, Morgana would be forced to go to her Aunt Winnie’s house, and the girls, Lucy too, would have nowhere to go except to Mrs Rice.

Morgana glanced back at the footman, who, enjoying the fine morning air, seemed uninterested in the conversation between the two ladies. Still, she spoke quietly so he could not overhear. ‘I must talk to you, Miss Moore.’

Miss Moore gave her a fond smile. ‘Is it about the three young ladies who are staying in the house?’

‘You know about them?’ Morgana glanced at her in dismay.

‘Oh, yes.’ Miss Moore nodded. ‘Dilly told us first thing that there were three new girls. How did she put it?’ Miss Moore paused, but there was a twinkle in her eye. ‘The likes of which she’d never seen.’

Morgana inwardly groaned. Dilly, her grandmother’s lady’s maid, was an old retainer, nearly as old as her grandmother.

‘Oh, I suppose everyone knows.’ Morgana gave a helpless shrug. ‘But I suspect they do not know the whole, and that is what I must tell you…’

Morgana explained to Miss Moore as well as she could. She withheld her plan to seek Harriette Wilson’s assistance as a bit too much information, emphasising instead that the girls, Lucy included, would be lost to a terrible life unless Morgana helped them.

Miss Moore listened with an unremitting frown on her face that caused Morgana’s spirits to sink. They had come to the banks of the Serpentine, where two graceful-necked swans glided through the water.

Morgana stole a glance at the lady’s companion in her dark grey dress that matched the hair peeping out from her black bonnet. Miss Moore followed the swans with her eyes, but made no comment on the shocking tale.

Morgana blurted out, ‘Oh, I know it is scandalous, and I know you must be wondering if I belong in Bedlam, but, please, Miss Moore, say something!’

Miss Moore continued watching the swans. ‘I was a girl once, Miss Hart. As hard as that might be for you to believe.’

‘Of course.’ Morgana had no idea where this was leading.

‘There were soldiers billeted in my town when I was young and green and foolish. When they sailed to the Colonies, I discovered I was with child. I was only eighteen.’

Lucy’s age, Morgana thought.

‘My parents would have nothing to do with me. They sent me away. If it had not been for your grandmother taking pity on me, I do not know what I should have done. She took care of me and made me her companion.’

Morgana’s heart had thoroughly melted. ‘What happened to your baby?’

Miss Moore’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I… I had had very little to eat. Sometimes I didn’t have a roof over my head. Lady Hart found me at my lowest. She did what she could do, but the baby did not survive his birth.’

Morgana reached over and grasped the older woman’s hand. ‘I am so sorry.’

Miss Moore gave an embarrassed smile and blinked her tears away. ‘It was a long time ago, but I well know what those girls of yours are facing. If you can give them a better life, a way to survive on their own, I shall help you!’

Morgana impulsively wrapped Miss Moore in a hug, blinking away tears of her own. ‘I promise you, Miss Moore, you shall not regret it. You shall have a pension for life, I guarantee it!’

Miss Moore gave a little laugh. ‘Oh, your grandmother arranged that years ago, before she became… feeble.’

Morgana wished she could have known the woman her grandmother had been. At this moment she was fiercely proud to be her granddaughter.

With the footman still oblivious, Morgana and Miss Moore walked back, arm in arm, quietly hatching plans of how to transform a maid, a harlot and a very ordinary girl into sirens of Greek legend. Rose O’Keefe, Morgana explained, would have no difficulty.

Sloane saw the two women from a distance. There was no mistaking Miss Hart’s graceful posture and purposeful stride. He did not think he knew the other lady, but, if he kept to his course, his trajectory would put him on their path.

For a brief moment he considered turning the corner to avoid them, but he did not. He had little to do that morning. He had little to do almost every morning, thanks to the very efficient Mr Elliot. And Sloane was a man easily bored. At least Miss Hart would provide a diversion. She never bored him.

The woman who accompanied her was older than she and no one he recognised. When they came close enough, Miss Hart met his eye with a friendly smile. Sloane quickened his step.

‘Good morning, Mr Sloane.’ She was in high colour and he sensed an air of excitement about her, as if she were about to explode with good news.

Glowing as she did like a sparkling morning sun brightened his own mood—as well as bringing some baser senses to life. He touched his hand to his hat. ‘Miss Hart.’

She introduced the lady with her as Miss Moore, her grandmother’s companion. Miss Moore’s face was nearly as flushed with excitement as Miss Hart’s.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose. She was up to something. He narrowed his eyes at her. ‘What are you about, Miss Hart?’

She responded with great exuberance. ‘We have had a delightful morning walk in the park.’

He glanced from one lady to the other. ‘That is all?’

Miss Moore averted her gaze and hid a smile. Miss Hart fluttered her lashes at him, all innocence. ‘That is all,’ she said brightly.

Fustian, he said to himself.

‘Do you attend the musicale this evening, Mr Sloane?’ she asked.

It was the sort of chitchat that made for conversation among the Mayfair set, but Sloane was not fooled. She was changing the subject.

He tilted his head and gave her a slow smile. ‘You presume I was invited?’

‘Oh.’ Her cheeks gained even more colour than the brisk morning air had given them. ‘I confess I did presume. It was bad of me to ask, I know. It smacks of lording it over another person who might not have received an invitation. I dislike that above all things—’

He laughed. ‘Enough, Miss Hart. I am among those whose presence is requested.’

Her eyes danced with merriment. ‘I did not know you were a jester, Mr Sloane.’

Her eyes, sparkling like the finest topaz, entrapped him. It took a moment for him to respond. ‘I am many things, Miss Hart.’

She lowered her lashes, before meeting his gaze again. ‘Well! I suppose we must not detain you, must we? I do hope you have a good day.’

Miss Moore, her smile softening, regarded him with a curious look. ‘I am pleased to have met you, Mr Sloane. Good day to you.’

He felt suddenly reluctant to leave them, to leave the circle of sunshine that was Morgana Hart.

‘Good day, ladies.’ Sloane bowed to them both and proceeded on his way, resisting the impulse to look back.

Morgana, feeling breathless, set off at such a brisk pace that she had Miss Moore puffing to keep up. She slowed.

‘What a handsome gentleman,’ Miss Moore managed between breaths.

‘Do you think so?’ Morgana said stiffly. She laughed and entwined her arm in Miss Moore’s again. ‘Yes, indeed. He is a very handsome man. More like a Spanish guerrilla than an Englishman, do you not think?’ And every bit as dangerous—to her heart.

Miss Moore chuckled. ‘I do not have any notion what a Spanish guerrilla looks like.’

‘Exactly like Mr Sloane!’ Morgana laughed again, but her laugh soon subsided. ‘He may be handsome, but he is also the gentleman Lady Hannah has her eye upon. I suspect he will offer for her soon.’

‘Lady Hannah and such a man?’ Miss Moore exclaimed. ‘I cannot credit it.’

‘Just so. She is the type all gentlemen want, you know.’

Much to Morgana’s mortification, Miss Moore gave her a sympathetic glance. Morgana wanted to protest that she had no marriage aspirations. It was not necessary to feel pity for her.

Still, when she thought of the tall, exciting, valiant Mr Sloane, she wished, as she had never wished before, that she were a woman he would look upon to marry.

By the time they entered the house, Morgana had shaken off such nonsense. Why should Mr Sloane desire her for a wife when other men did not? It was nonsensical.

She and Miss Moore walked up the stairs to Lady Hart’s sitting room, and found the elderly woman rocking in her chair, smiling pleasantly, while Dilly worked on some mending.

‘You need not stay, Dilly,’ Miss Moore said. ‘I am sure you have much to do.’

‘Very good, miss.’ Dilly patted Lady Hart’s hand before she walked out of the room.

Miss Moore sat in the seat Dilly vacated. ‘What will you tell the servants, dear?’

Morgana remained standing, too restless to sit. ‘I thought to tell Mr and Mrs Cripps exactly what I am about, and seek their advice as to the rest of the household.’

Miss Moore shook her head. ‘Oh, no. No, indeed. I do not advise it.’

‘Why not?’

Miss Moore’s expression took on the same haunted look as when she recounted the sad events of her life. ‘People do not take kindly to women who have lost respectability. If the household staff know who you have taken under your wing, they will fear the loss of their own reputations. Believe me, Morgana, they will leave your employ and they will talk to their next employers. You will be ruined.’

Morgana folded her arms across her chest and wandered to the window to look out on the garden. Lucy knelt among the flowers, pulling at weeds. She did not mind keeping her affairs private from prying eyes and gossips, but it seemed a folly to try to hide anything from the servants. They always knew whatever went on. Better to be forthright and hope for the best.

She watched Lucy, from this distance, looking so small and vulnerable. She might gamble her own future on the goodwill of those in her employ, but she had no right to risk Lucy’s or the other girls.

She turned to Miss Moore. ‘What shall we tell them, then?’

‘We shall tell them the girls are my nieces, come to London to learn town manners so that they might be employed.’

‘That does not explain Lucy,’ Morgana reminded her.

Miss Moore was undaunted. ‘Everyone can see Lucy is unhappy. We shall tell them you have generously included her in the lessons, so that she might seek more compatible employment.’

Morgana gave Miss Moore a sceptical look. The story was preposterous. She took a deep breath. It would nevertheless afford the servants some protection, should the whole business fall apart. They could honestly say their mistress lied to them.

A few minutes later, with Miss Moore at her side, Morgana summoned Mr and Mrs Cripps. The butler and housekeeper listened to the concocted story with impassive expressions. Morgana had the sinking feeling they believed not a word of the unlikely tale. They did not even blink when she added that all the staff would receive bonuses because of the extra work entailed in having three more household guests.

By late morning, Cook, the footmen and maids were all given the false story. Morgana prayed the deception would hold.

She gathered her girls in the library where they could not be glimpsed from the street. Lucy had found dresses for them, and Morgana supposed she would need to concoct another story to explain why they had not arrived with luggage of their own. She bit her lip in dismay at the mounting lies.

At least the girls’ appearance did not now give them away. They appeared as ordinary girls, ones who might indeed be nieces of Miss Moore. Except for Rose, who could not look ordinary if she tried, and who spoke with an Irish lilt besides.

Miss Moore walked into the room, Lady Hart leaning on her arm. ‘Miss Hart, I hope you do not mind. But I should like to help.’

It had been enough that Miss Moore had not packed up and left London. Morgana had never expected her assistance. ‘But what of Grandmama?’

‘Allow her to sit among us. She will enjoy the liveliness, you know. It will be good for her.’ Miss Moore helped Lady Hart into a chair.

Why not? thought Morgana. There was no risk her grandmother would remember enough to expose the truth.

‘I should like to teach comportment and manners and proper speech,’ Miss Moore said.

‘I can teach music,’ Rose chimed in. ‘My father is a musician, and I have been trained on harp and pianoforte as well as voice.’

Mary Phipps looked up shyly. ‘I… I used to be a governess. I can teach all manner of things.’

‘That is splendid, Miss Phipps.’ Morgana smiled at her. ‘Perhaps you can look through the books here and find something useful.’

Katy laughed. ‘Well, there is only one thing I know, but I can teach it, all right.’ She gave a bawdy glance around the room. ‘Might need one of those handsome footmen to help me.’

Miss Moore, who was a good deal shorter than the red-haired young woman, still effectively looked down her nose at her. ‘Miss Green,’ she said in clipped tones, ‘you will behave like a lady here in this house. You aspire to be a highflyer, attracting the best and the richest. To do so you cannot act like common Haymarket ware. You must not fraternise with the footmen. Do you understand?’

Oh, yes. Miss Moore would be an asset indeed.

Katy looked down at her lap, but with a hint of rebellion in her eye. ‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘It is Miss Moore, dear,’ she said gently.

‘Yes, miss,’ Katy corrected herself.

Lucy hung her head. ‘There’s nothin’ I can teach. I’ll just be a burden on everyone.’

Morgana walked over and put a hand on Lucy’s shoulder. ‘You shall be in charge of supplies, Lucy. You managed to find everyone a proper dress and a bed to sleep in. In fact, I will prevail upon you to produce a trunk to be delivered, the nieces’ luggage. Do you think you can contrive such a thing?’

Lucy gave a surprised glance, then wrinkled her brow. It took several seconds, but she finally responded. ‘I could send to home for some of Amy’s and my old clothes. Would that do?’

‘That is an excellent idea.’ Morgana had forgotten about her lady’s maid. No matter what Miss Moore thought, Morgana simply must tell Amy the truth, though what the girl would say about it, she could only guess.

The day flew by with all of them talking and showing off their skills. When it was time for dinner Morgana led them to the main dining room. Lucy held back, insisting she ought not to eat there. Morgana acquiesced. There would be time enough to bring her abovestairs. To do so now would merely whip up the servants’ curiosity.

The dinner was the most pleasant Morgana had passed in the house to date. When Mr Cripps and the footmen left the room, Morgana and Miss Moore drew the girls into the conversation, learning more about their lives. Rose talked of growing up in Ireland and of recently coming to London. Mary spoke of being the daughter of a country vicar. When he died, she’d become a governess. She did not disclose how she wound up at Mrs Rice’s house. Katy, whose table manners needed the most improving, said she’d left Derbyshire to make her fortune in London and she’d go to the devil before she’d return there. Morgana’s grandmother cheerfully picked at her food and smiled at them all. At meal’s end, Morgana left the table in high spirits, confident that all would go well.

She retired to her room to dress for the musicale. As Amy worked on another braided style for her hair, Morgana told her the truth about the plan.

‘Do tell me what you think of this business, Amy. Tell me if you think I’ve done right by your sister.’

Amy frowned as she concentrated on sticking hairpins in securely. ‘It is not right, miss. I cannot say ‘tis right, because it is not, but Lucy was ready to run off again, I know she was.’ She gave Morgana a quick glance in the mirror. ‘You stopped her from doing that. Going with one of those procuring fellows, I mean.’

Amy’s point did not miss the mark. Morgana knew the better course was to convince Lucy and the others to lead moral lives, but, once fallen, could they rise again? Lucy had convinced her she could not.

Morgana watched Amy concentrate on her hair. She set her chin in determination. This was the only chance for Lucy. The only chance for all of the girls to change their lives.

Sloane surveyed the room where the guests to Lady Sed-ford’s musicale loitered in groups, waiting for the latecomers to be announced and the programme to begin. Across the room stood his brother, Lord Rawley, who, without cutting him directly, was at least pretending he had not seen him. David gave him a friendly nod. At least the Earl was not present, although Sloane would have experienced a smug satisfaction if his father had witnessed him mingling successfully with Lady Sedford’s set.

‘Lord and Lady Cowdlin. Lady Hannah. Miss Hart,’ the butler announced.

Sloane turned to watch them enter and greet the host and hostess. Lady Hannah looked as delectable as a dish of cream and strawberries in a white gauzy gown decorated with red ribbon. Her cousin wore a much plainer gown, one done up in gold fabric that nearly matched her eyes and glistened under the candlelight.

Averting his head so as not to be so obviously gaping, Sloane observed Lord and Lady Cowdlin stop to converse with friends. Lady Hannah seized her cousin’s arm and propelled them both forward. Hannah glanced in Sloane’s direction, pretended to glance away, whispered something to her cousin, and led her gracefully across the room, making it appear as if it were mere chance that they came to where he stood.

‘Good evening, Lady Hannah, Miss Hart.’ He bowed.

‘How nice to see you here, Mr Sloane.’ Lady Hannah smiled up at him, showing her white, even teeth. ‘You must sit with us. I insist upon it.’

Miss Hart also smiled, but her smile seemed distant, almost sad.

He turned his attention to Lady Hannah. ‘Nothing would delight me more, my lady, but it might hint at partiality. I would not wish to make you the topic of gossip.’ If Sloane were perceived to favour Lady Hannah to the exclusion of other eligible young ladies, he would be forced to make her an offer. He did not wish to be forced into anything.

A fleeting look of disappointment crossed Lady Hannah’s face. She quickly recovered. ‘I have it. You shall sit next to Morgana and that will seem quite unexceptionable.’

He opened his mouth to reply, but her attention had already flitted away.

‘Oh, look,’ she cried. ‘Here comes your nephew, Mr Sloane. Perhaps he will join us as well.’

When the programme was about to begin, Hannah hurried them all in, and arranged the seating to her satisfaction. At one end sat Lord and Lady Cowdlin, then David, Hannah, Morgana, and Sloane. David made polite conversation with Lady Cowdlin, while Hannah looked about the crowd, waving to friends. Miss Hart studied her programme.

‘Do you enjoy music, Miss Hart?’ Sloane asked her.

She gave him a serious expression. ‘You must not consider yourself obliged to make polite conversation, Mr Sloane.’

His brow furrowed. ‘Are we back to not speaking, Miss Hart?’

Her face relaxed. ‘Oh, no. I did not mean that. Goodness! I must have sounded cross. I am vexed at my cousin, not you. She treats me as if I were a doll to be moved about at whim.’

His lips twitched. He leaned closer to her. ‘Confess, Miss Hart. You merely dislike being told what to do.’

She smiled. ‘You have the right of it, Mr Sloane. It is one of my abiding faults.’

‘Mine as well,’ he admitted. ‘Let us begin again. Do you like music, Miss Hart?’

Her ginger eyes came alive with expression. ‘I do like it excessively, sir.’

‘Do you play?’

She rolled her eyes, very unladylike, but charming none the less. ‘Badly, therefore, never in company, but I do love to bash away for hours on my pianoforte.’

‘Hmm.’ He pretended to study the programme. ‘I wonder how thick the walls are between our houses.’

She laughed softly. When he glanced at her again her eyes sparkled. ‘And you, Mr Sloane, do you play?’

He could not help himself. He gave her a wicked grin. ‘Not music, Miss Hart, but I play at other things very well.’

He watched, fascinated, as her pupils grew larger. Her smile changed from mirthful to inscrutable. Perhaps he’d gone too far. Reverted to his rakish ways. But she did have that effect on him. He averted his gaze.

Morgana looked away as well, resisting the impulse to fan herself. Had he been flirting with her? If so, it felt delightful. Very stimulating. She hoped her cheeks were not as flaming red as they felt.

She was glad Sloane did not dislike sitting next to her, though she still had no doubt he would rather be next to Hannah. Hannah had her head together with the younger Mr Sloane, who was obviously as captivated by her as his uncle.

It did not matter, Morgana assured herself, that Hannah drew the attention of men so easily. She was glad someone distracted Hannah from her chief prey. Morgana needed this opportunity to speak to Sloane. She opened her mouth again, but there was a signal that the music was about to begin.

Lady Sedford had achieved the coup of engaging Camporese for the evening. When the soprano stepped out in front of the musicians, she looked much taller and more slender than she’d appeared on stage at the King’s Theatre, perhaps even as tall as Morgana herself.

Camporese reprised her solos from Penelope, to much applause. Morgana noticed that Hannah attended more to the guests than the music. Her uncle, quite the opposite, dozed, his chin drooping to his chest. Morgana smiled at that and glanced at Sloane, who caught her look and held it a moment before turning his eyes back to the soprano. The contact had been fleeting, but it somehow warmed Morgana all over. She did fan herself this time.

When Camporese finished her part of the programme, the room erupted into applause and shouts of ‘Bravo’ and the soprano gave a deep curtsy. Lady Sedford announced a brief interval and everyone left their seats to mingle. Morgana watched Sloane converse with Hannah and his nephew.

A gentleman and lady approached her. Morgana recognised them as Sloane’s brother and sister-in-law, Lord and Lady Rawley. Her aunt presented her to them.

Lady Rawley gave her an inquisitive look. ‘I see you are acquainted with Cyprian, Miss Hart.’

Remembering that Sloane was estranged from his family, Morgana regarded the woman with some interest. ‘I am, ma’am.’

‘What do you know of him, my dear?’ Lady Rawley’s question was phrased in ominous tones.

Morgana immediately leapt to Sloane’s defence, though the notion he would need her protection was ludicrous. ‘He is often in the company of my aunt’s family. He is acceptable to them, and that is all I need know.’

Lady Rawley leaned in closer. ‘My husband says there is more to it, Miss Hart. Cyprian has the most shocking reputation. I implore you to beware of it and inform your cousin before she makes a terrible mistake.’

Morgana’s indignation caught fire. How dare this woman presume to spread tales of Sloane to someone she had met not one minute before? She would not stand for it!

She favoured Lady Rawley with her most innocent look. ‘I fear Lady Hannah will demand the details before giving any credence to my words. Would you please tell me exactly what Mr Sloane had done to earn his shocking reputation?’

‘Why… why he is a womaniser, for one thing,’ the lady responded.

‘Indeed?’ Morgana feigned interest. ‘With whom has he been linked? I am sure my cousin will wish to hear names.’

‘I do not precisely know,’ admitted Lady Rawley. ‘But I have it on good authority—’

‘Oh, Hannah will not credit that at all, I’m afraid.’ Morgana feigned being thoughtful. ‘But I suspect there are many gentlemen who claim success with the ladies. That would not be enough to concern Hannah. What else has Mr Sloane done?’

‘I do not know, but it was very bad,’ Lady Rawley said with spirit. ‘Something during the war, I think.’

Morgana pretended to consider this. ‘I believe I must inform my uncle of this shocking information. He is responsible for Hannah, you know.’

‘I am sure your uncle knows,’ admitted the lady. ‘Everyone knows.’

Morgana smiled. ‘Then it must be a mere hum, because Mr Sloane is invited everywhere. He even has vouchers for Almack’s.’ She acted as if she were just struck by a thought. ‘I suppose I could alert Lady Sefton or Lady Castlereagh. I shall tell them you have informed me.’

Lady Rawley paled. ‘No, no, do not do that. I would not trouble them. I am sure if Cyprian has vouchers, it must be quite all right.’

‘Yes.’ Morgana nodded firmly. ‘I am certain such rumours are none of our affair.’

The guests began returning to their seats for the second half of the programme, and Morgana had an excuse to escape Lady Rawley.

When she again took her seat next to Sloane, he said, ‘I see you met Lord and Lady Rawley.’

‘Oh, yes,’ she said brightly. ‘Charming woman. She could not say enough about you.’

He laughed, that deep sound that seemed to resonate inside her like the bass notes of the music. ‘I hope you defended my honour, Miss Hart.’

She looked him directly in the eyes. ‘I did.’

Hannah leaned over her to ask Sloane something about the music. Soon the second half commenced, several selections from Haydn, guaranteed to please everyone.

It was not until the supper after the performance that Morgana found an opportunity to speak with Sloane again. He had not remained with their party for the meal, but joined some others, to Hannah’s complete dismay. Morgana noticed him walk over to the buffet table to fill his plate and so joined him.

‘May I assist you, Miss Hart?’ he asked politely.

‘How kind of you.’ She seized this chance, keeping her tone casual. ‘I have been meaning to ask you, Mr Sloane. There is a service you might do for me, if you would be so good.’

He cast her a suspicious look. ‘What is it?’

‘Nothing of consequence,’ she assured him. ‘I wish to contact Harriette Wilson, and I wondered if you might give me her direction so that I might pen her a letter.’

‘Harriette Wilson?’ His voice barely managed to remain a whisper. He moved closer to her and put a small round potato on her plate. ‘Why the devil do you want to correspond with her?’

‘Oh,’ she said lightly, ‘that need not concern you. I only need to discover where she resides, and because you are acquainted with her, I thought you would help me.’

‘What are you up to, Miss Hart? Does this have anything to do with that infernal glove shop?’ he asked in a fierce whisper.

‘No,’ she said, pointing to a small sausage, and again not entirely telling the truth. ‘I wish you might forget that episode.’

‘And the scrap in the park? And what else? I do not need to be involved in your schemes, Miss Hart.’ He pointed to a parsnip and she shook her head.

‘Then I am sorry I troubled you. I thank you for providing my meal.’ She reached for the plate.

He did not let go. ‘I will carry it for you.’

They walked across the room, both with stiff expressions on their faces. When Hannah spied Sloane, she insisted he join them, sitting him next to her, of course. He looked distracted and annoyed, even as he listened to Hannah’s chatter.

Morgana, blood still boiling at his scold, could barely muster a word of conversation with her aunt, whose favourite topic of the moment was how splendid Mr Sloane was, and how kind he’d been to attend to her dinner. On the other side, her cousin Varney mumbled to her about how he did not care if Sloane was worth more than ten thousand a year, he did not like him paying his addresses to Hannah.

Lady Cowdlin leaned over both Morgana and Varney to speak to the Poltrops. A moment later she insisted to Sloane that he share their carriage after the musicale.

* * *

When the party had ended, Morgana stood at Sloane’s side while they waited for the line of carriages to move.

Sloane pretended not to notice as Morgana tapped her foot impatiently. True, he was also tired of the wait, and Hannah’s constant chatter had worn very thin. He could have walked home twice already and the carriage was not yet in sight.

What the devil was Morgana up to this time? He swore it must have to do with that female Lucy. Had not the altercation in the park shown her how dangerous the dissolute world could be? Harriette Wilson, indeed. Harriette was just the sort who would spread in every gentleman’s ear that Cyprian Sloane’s acquaintance Miss Hart had corresponded with her. He would be blamed for whatever mischief Morgana Hart was plotting.

The carriage finally pulled up. Even though he was thoroughly vexed with her, Sloane could not help but relish the feel of her hand in his as he assisted her into the carriage. He took the seat next to her, her perfume filling his nostrils, the heat of her body warming him. She sat stiffly and turned her head to look out of the window into the dark night.

When the carriage arrived at Culross Street and good-nights were said, Sloane helped Miss Hart from the vehicle. The coachman drove off and Sloane walked her to her door.

When she reached for her door knocker, he stilled her hand. ‘Not so hasty, Miss Hart. I would speak with you first.’