The Bad Luck Bride (The Brides of St. Ives #1)(62)
As he entered the home, brightly lit with glittering gaslight chandeliers, he was struck by how many people were already inside. The house buzzed with conversation, punctuated with laughter, and Henderson took a fortifying breath. Although he had spent many summers in St. Ives, he didn’t know many people outside their small circle of friends, and now Henderson found himself amongst a crowd of strangers. He searched for a familiar face, and went still when he recognized Gerald Grant. Four years hadn’t changed him all that much. He’d been a bit younger than the rest of them, and he still looked like a schoolboy. One look at him and Henderson almost laughed aloud at the thought that Gerald, who at best reached his chest and was as slight as a bean pole, could have been responsible for the deaths of four robust men. He’d forgotten how diminutive he was, a wiry, ginger-haired man with pale blue eyes who seemed about as threatening as a puppy.
Still, it did not hurt to speak to him, for old time’s sake.
“Hello, Mr. Grant. It’s been a long time and I see the years have been good to you.”
“My word, Henderson, is that you? As I live and breathe, I cannot believe my eyes. How long has it been?”
“Four years, give or take.”
“What are you doing here?” It was a simple enough question, but given his mood, he thought he heard just the slightest emphasis on the word “you.”
“I was invited by the hostess’s daughter, Miss Eliza Lowell.”
Gerald grinned. “Get that chip off your shoulder, Southie, I meant what are you doing here in St. Ives?”
Henderson remembered that old irritation he had felt whenever the lot of them had included Gerald in their plans. No one had called him Southie but Joseph, and the fact that the other man did so now was profoundly annoying. “No one calls me Southie anymore. And I’m here on business with Lord Berkley.”
“Business. Ah. Have you heard about Sebastian? Tragedy that. Thought it might be murder, but I hear the coroner just today called it an accident.”
“I saw him the night before he died. In fact, I was there when his body was found.”
Gerald’s eyes widened. “You don’t say. The night before? I suppose in a way that’s a good thing. You got to see him, say good-bye. Get caught up, all that.”
They stood together in awkward silence, Gerald rocking from heel to toe as he looked over the crowd. “He didn’t mention a Mr. Stewart?”
Now, that was odd. Sebastian had asked him the very same question. Joseph ever mention a chap named Stewart?
Schooling his features, Henderson tried to act bored, as if that question didn’t leave him reeling. “Stewart? No, why?”
Gerald shook his head. “No reason. Just an old school chum.” He turned fully to Henderson and smiled, putting out his hand. “It was good seeing you again, Henderson. Perhaps before you return to wherever you came from—ha ha—we can get together and catch up.”
“Of course. It was good to see you, Gerald.”
Henderson watched the smaller man walk away, his curiosity more than piqued. Who the hell was Mr. Stewart?
His thoughts were interrupted when he saw Lord Berkley coming toward him, looking none the worse for having loaned his valet out.
“I see Mr. Carter made himself useful,” Berkley said, referring to his valet.
“I think I’m finally seeing the value of having a valet,” Henderson said on a laugh. The two men hadn’t seen each other since their visit with the Hubbards, after which he’d expressed his gratitude to his new friend. Berkley had waved his thanks away, saying the entire campaign was a welcome distraction.
“The Hubbards are here already with Northrup trailing behind them like a puppy, and Lady Hubbard has been trying to catch my eye for about an hour. I do believe she has completely misunderstood my interest in them, so I will endeavor to do a better job of pushing their interests toward you.”
Henderson saw Alice with Northrup on the opposite side of the room and felt a sick twist of nausea at the thought of failing in his quest to win her hand. She wore a light blue gown that exposed her back and shoulders, and the thought that the other man might actually touch her, lay his hand upon that impossibly soft skin, made him a little mad. Berkley’s low chuckle pulled him from his thoughts, and he felt his cheeks blush to be caught staring so intently at Alice.
“I think you should learn better to school your features, Mr. Southwell. If her father saw you looking at Alice just now, I fear he would have thrown you from the room. My God, you really do have it bad. She’s completely ruined you.”
Dragging his eyes away from Alice, Henderson took a deep breath. “I love her with all my heart.”
“Then it’s very good you found me.”
“I am grateful, but I still don’t understand why you are going to such lengths to help a stranger.”
Berkley shrugged and wiped a bit of lint from his jacket. “If I wasn’t here, I’d be in that horror of a house I own.”
“You cannot renovate?”
“My lovely late wife destroyed all records pertaining to the home. My father loved Costille, one of the few things we shared. After a small fire ruined one of the rooms, he commissioned an artist to make a catalogue of all the rooms to record every last detail. He was obsessed with maintaining the history of the old girl, and now it’s all ruined.” Berkley shook his head. “I do not care to discuss this, if you don’t mind, Southwell. The reason I came to this ball was to forget about what was destroyed and lost, not to brood upon it. I do enough brooding when I am home.” Berkley’s voice faded away as if something, or someone, across the room had gained his attention.