A Lady's Guide to Fortune-Hunting(62)

Kitty was just deciding whether to nibble on a sweetmeat – to gather some much-needed strength before seeking out Mr Pemberton – when a low voice spoke in her ear.

‘I would have thought you too busy orchestrating your own engagement to make other matches,’ Radcliffe murmured.

‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,’ Kitty said guilelessly, choosing a delectable cake, and moving over to stand beneath a portrait of King George II. Radcliffe followed, looking down at her curiously.

‘You did not have to do that,’ he said, in a strange voice. ‘For Mr Crawton – I had quite thought him one of your suitors.’

She nodded. ‘His heart lay elsewhere. It didn’t feel right, to take advantage of two persons’ shyness – not when I could do something about it.’

‘You surprise me, Miss Talbot,’ Radcliffe said honestly. ‘I had thought you too heartless for such kindness.’

It was as much an insult as a compliment, but she was not offended. His words were so close to where her own thoughts had been tonight that she felt sure, suddenly, that he had understood what tonight’s actions had cost her, how far she’d had to lean against her natural instincts. She felt very seen, all of a sudden – and it was not an unpleasant sensation.

‘So did I,’ she said simply.

Before they could continue, they were interrupted. A tall young woman, with an intricately braided tower of hair balanced atop her head, knocked into Miss Talbot roughly as she passed. Kitty hoped she would soon move on, but alas, she recognised Radcliffe with a start and as the memory of his worth and title washed over her face quite transparently, swept into a wobbly curtsey. She was beautiful but, as she rose upwards with a slight stagger, also a little foxed. Kitty looked at Radcliffe out of the corner of her eye. Was this the sort of woman he was destined for? She was obviously wealthy, and terribly fashionable, her hair and dress the sort of outlandish get-up only the truly high-born could get away with, but if Radcliffe was pleased to see the lady, he hid the fact remarkably well.

‘My lord, it has been too long!’ she declared, offering a bejewelled hand to him and ignoring Miss Talbot.

Radcliffe gave a shallow bow over her fingers, with a polite murmur of greeting, but his eyes were cold. Remembering her first encounter with Radcliffe with a shiver, Miss Talbot was glad that – though they had shared a fair few squabbles – she had not been exposed to such a look in quite some time now. The woman tried in vain to begin a conversation, but Radcliffe was obstinate in his refusal to engage, returning her questions with answers of such brevity that he was only one syllable away from being unconscionably rude.

‘It has been an age, since we last met,’ the lady was saying now. ‘I hear you outfitted yourself quite admirably on the Continent. You must tell me about the Waterloo.’ Radcliffe, it seemed, did not feel he must, giving no answer and instead settling a serpentine smile upon his face. But the lady was not to be put off, continuing in the same flattering gush. ‘My sister was there, you know. At the Duchess of Richmond’s ball. She said the sight of you all riding off to battle was magnificent.’

‘The sight of us returning decidedly less so, I’m sure,’ he said, coldly. ‘Given that so very many died that day.’

This at last seemed to convince the stranger of her lack of welcome, and she left with a hurried curtsey, shooting Kitty a nasty look as if it were Kitty’s fault she was so painfully tone-deaf. They watched her leave in silence, and as the chilly expression had not left Radcliffe’s face, Kitty turned back to examine the portrait above them.

‘It must be strange,’ she said, quietly, ‘to have been there, and now back here.’

Neither of them looked at each other, their eyes still fixed on the painting. She did not turn her head to voice this thought. The moment felt too fragile for that, as if they were under a spell that, for a brief moment, allowed them to be still and truthful with one another – rather than snarling like street cats.

‘Very,’ he agreed, also quietly. ‘It has taken me some time to recollect my peace, after … after everything.’

‘Did you have nightmares?’ Kitty asked.

At this, Radcliffe looked sharply over, his eyes searching her face as if checking for mockery.

‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘How did you know?’

‘Mr Swift in Biddington served in the navy,’ she said. ‘He was most afflicted, after.’

Radcliffe nodded, and silence fell again, but it was not tense, and Kitty felt no nervousness in breaking it.

‘Has London changed, since you were away?’

‘… Yes and no,’ he said, appearing to consider this. ‘In many ways, London feels untouched by everything that went on. As though it never happened. And there are moments, here, when I almost believe that too.’

He said this without guard, only honesty in his voice. It was as if, somewhere in the last few minutes, they had crossed a sort of border with one another – one that allowed them, now, to lay bare such vulnerabilities while the ball and its inconsequential guests faded away to the periphery.

‘Is that … a comfort?’ she asked, and the question was followed by a pause so long it did not seem he would ever answer.

‘For the longest time, I have hated it,’ he said. ‘It is why I have kept away. I used to love all the frivolity – loved gambling, and drinking, and flirting. But after, I found myself quite done with all the silliness, all the ridiculous rules we have to live by. As if that matters, after – after the things that happened out there. The people we lost.’ He gestured to the other side of the ballroom, where Captain Hinsley was spinning with the dancers. ‘Hinsley is the bravest man I know; I only fought in the hundred days, while he spent years on the Continent – and yet it was he who kept me sane when we got back to England. And yet, in a ballroom, none of that seems to matter – his life is dictated only by his wealth or lack of it, not his merit.’