Someone to Love (Westcott #1)(15)

But it was at the people she looked most closely. Sitting in the row closest to the table were three young people and a more mature lady. The ladies were dressed in deep mourning. The young man—he was actually a boy more than a man—was wearing a dark green coat over white linen, but there was a black band on his sleeve. A brother and his sisters and mother? There was something about them that suggested a familial connection.

The six people in the row behind them were also in black, except for one young girl who wore white. The lady who had told the butler to remove Anna sat with regal dignity, her spine not quite touching the straight back of her chair. What sort of lady was addressed as Your Grace? Anna did not know. The only one of their number who turned a head to look back toward Anna after that first shocked glance from all of them was the younger of the two ladies who sat in the back row. She was not wearing mourning. She had what looked like a good-natured face, though she did not smile. The man next to her was broad shouldered and looked tall and well formed and very handsome, though Anna had not seen him on his feet or full faced after that first brief glance he had given her.

And then there was the man from the hall—the one who was standing against the wall. Anna almost did not look directly at him, though she had been very aware of him from the moment he walked into the room. She looked at him at last simply because she would not give in to cowardice. As she had sensed, he was gazing steadily back, a jeweled snuffbox in one hand, a fine linen handkerchief in the other. Almost—oh, almost she looked away. But she did not do so. Dignity, she reminded herself. He is no better than I.

He was of barely average height and slight of build. She was surprised at that. He had seemed far larger when she first set eyes upon him. He was as elegant as the handsome gentleman in the back row, but while the other man was quietly immaculate, he was . . . not. There was something exquisite about the folds of his very white neckcloth, about the close cut of his dark blue coat and the even closer fit of his gray pantaloons. There were silver tassels on his supple, shining boots, heavy rings on at least four of his fingers, which even from this distance she could see were perfectly manicured. There were chains and fobs at his waist, a silver stud in his neckcloth. His posture as he leaned against the wall was . . . graceful. His hair was fair—no, it was actually golden—and had been cut in such a way that it hugged his head neatly and yet seemed to wave softly about it at the same time, like a halo.

His face would have looked like that of an angel if it were not for his eyes. They were very blue, granted, but his eyelids drooped over them and gave him a slightly sleepy appearance. Except that he did not look sleepy at all but very keenly alert, and while Anna’s eyes had roamed over him because she would not look away as she was sure he expected her to do, his had been roaming over her. Doubtless he was gaining a very different impression of her than she was of him.

He looked . . . beautiful. And graceful. And exquisite. And languid. They were all feminine qualities, yet he did not even for one moment give the impression of effeminacy. Quite the opposite, in fact. He looked a bit like an exotic wild animal, waiting to spring with perfectly timed grace and lethal intent upon its prey.

He looked dangerous.

All because he had regarded her as though she were a worm beneath his boot and had tried to get her cast out of the house?

No, she did not think it was just that.

But there was no time to ponder the matter further. Someone was coming through the door and passing her chair—Mr. Brumford, the solicitor. She was about to discover why she was here.

So, she suspected, were all these people.





Four




Josiah Brumford spread his papers before him, laid his hands flat on top of them, and cleared his throat. If anyone had dropped a pin, Avery thought, everyone would have jumped a foot in the air even though there was carpet underfoot.

“Your Graces,” the solicitor began, inclining his head to Avery and the duchess. Fortunately, he did not then proceed to list all the other titles in the room. “I thank you for your hospitality and for providing me with this opportunity to address those gathered here on a matter of considerable concern to all. My services were engaged a few weeks ago to search for a certain young lady with a view to making a monetary settlement upon her from the estate of the late Earl of Riverdale.”

“Mr. Brumford!” the countess protested, her voice as cold as ice.

Avery raised his quizzing glass to observe the perspiration beaded upon the solicitor’s brow.

“Bear with me for a few minutes, if you will, ma’am,” Brumford said. “You requested that the matter be kept confidential, and wild horses would not have induced me to divulge this information to anyone else but you and His Grace had not unexpected circumstances compelled me to call this meeting.”

Abigail had turned her head to look inquiringly at her mother beside her. Everyone else continued to face forward. Avery lowered his glass.

Brumford cleared his throat again. “I sent my most experienced and trusted investigator to Bath,” he said, “in order to find a young woman who had been left at an orphanage there more than twenty years ago and supported thereafter by the late Earl of Riverdale. Until his death, that is.”

The very woman who was now seated behind everyone else, beside the door, if Avery was not very much mistaken. He turned his head to look at her, but her eyes were fixed upon Brumford.