The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(47)
And then he saw Lord Northrup and his step markedly slowed. He recognized two other women, as well, friends of Alice’s whom he’d last seen at Joseph’s funeral—Harriet and Eliza.
Stopping short, he debated simply turning about and praying no one in the party would recognize him. Luck was not on his side and why should it be?
“Mr. Southwell? Is that you?”
This was a fine kettle of fish. He could hardly pretend not to hear Miss Anderson nor pretend she was mistaken, so he resisted the urge to close his eyes in frustration and instead plastered a wholly unconvincing smile on his face. Though he focused his attention on Harriet, who had ducked her head as if horrified to have called out to him, he could see Alice stiffen and turn slightly away. What must she be thinking? That he’d followed her out here? He was thankful for only one thing, that the red on his cheeks could be blamed on the bracing wind and not his complete humiliation.
“I thought you’d left.” This from Lord Northrup, looking just so excited to see him.
“I have not concluded my business here,” Henderson said.
“What sort of business is that?” Northrup seemed amused that he would have business in St. Ives.
“He’s seeking support for famine relief from Lord Berkley,” Alice said.
Lord Northrup’s brows rose in surprise. “Are you really? How interesting. I hadn’t realized Lord Berkley had an interest.”
“He hadn’t until I visited him,” Henderson said with a tight smile.
“Famine is such a dreary topic,” interjected the fifth person in their little crowd, a gentleman with a pencil thin mustache who was impeccably clothed despite the wind that tore around them. “Allow me to introduce myself. Frederick St. Claire.”
“Henderson Southwell. It is a pleasure meeting you, Mr. St. Claire.”
St. Claire looked at him as if mentally determining whether Henderson was worthy of his time, and Henderson could almost picture his surname swirling about the man’s head as he searched his memory for a Southwell worth conversing with.
“He was a dear friend of my late brother, Joseph. They went to Eton and Oxford together and Henderson often spent the summers here in St. Ives.”
St. Claire shot a quick look to Northrup, and Henderson had the distinct feeling the two had discussed him. “Ah.” Such meaning in that small syllable.
To Henderson’s surprise, Northrup turned to him and said, “I’d like to know more about your efforts, if you wouldn’t mind, Southwell. I’ve read of the atrocities in the Times, of course, but I would like to know what your plans are.” And turning to Alice, he said, “You didn’t tell me why Mr. Southwell was here, my dear.” He shrugged in a self-effacing way. “I suppose you hadn’t known about my interest in the famine relief effort.”
“No, I hadn’t,” Alice said, studying Northrup as if she’d never seen him before. And Henderson, rather cynically, wondered if the viscount was simply trying to get into Alice’s good graces.
“I do. I’ve petitioned Lord Lytton myself, not that it did any good. I’m afraid my influence in political matters is quite meager. Berkley’s father, on the other hand, had a great deal of clout; his name alone may lend some influence.”
Despite himself, Henderson was impressed that Northrup actually knew what he was speaking of, and if he had petitioned Lord Lytton, he was an ally, indeed. “That is my hope, my lord. I would welcome any assistance you can offer. Lord Berkley and I are meeting this evening and I shall let him know we have found another interested party, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not. It will be my pleasure.”
Henderson was keenly aware of Alice’s interest in their conversation, and he hated that she was looking at Northrup with admiration, hated that she was looking at the other man at all, to be honest. He wanted to loathe Northrup, to put him in the category of enemy, but how could he do that now when the fellow had so generously offered to help him when so many men had not?
“Would you two stop talking politics,” St. Claire said impatiently. “I need to complete my masterpiece.” He held a hand out to a painting, anchored to a sturdy tripod with two iron clamps, that was decidedly not a masterpiece, and the three women giggled, Eliza the loudest of all. “You wound me, ladies. I thought it was a fair rendering.”
“Your seagull is rather lovely,” Eliza said softly, her cheeks blushing.
“Is that what that thing is in the sky. I thought perhaps it was an oddly shaped cloud,” Northrup said, and they all laughed easily.
Henderson began to distinctly feel unwanted, and while the others turned their attention to St. Claire’s awful painting, he took the time to look over at what Alice had been working on and was pleased to see hers was quite good.
“What do you think?” she asked quietly, seeing where he was looking. “I’m not nearly as proficient with oils as I am with watercolor.”
“I didn’t know you were here,” Henderson said, his voice low so the others could not hear. “I was walking to forget last night.” He searched her face, his eyes drifting down to her plush mouth, and wished they were alone, for the desire to kiss her was nearly overwhelming. The last he’d seen her, she’d been naked, running across the room to gather her night clothes. It had been a glorious sight and one he never wanted to forget, despite his words to the contrary.