In the Arms of a Marquess(10)

He patted her hand. For the second time that evening. Tavy had the urge to remove her fingers from beneath his and throw her gaze across the theater.

The actors retook the stage, and she pinned her attention to them until the applause ended and Marcus escorted her to the carriage waiting along the crowded block.

“There you are, dear girl.” Lady Fitzwarren’s multiple chins bounced, her violet taffeta skirts billowing as she strode toward them at a clip far too rapid for a woman of her ample girth. “Crispin, you are gracious to see my charge to our carriage.”

He handed the dowager up, a rumbling fit of coughs and snuffles accompanying her ascent. She waved a scented kerchief and settled onto the squabs.

“You must join our party at Vauxhall tomorrow evening.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” He smiled, but the expression did not reach his eyes, and his gaze shifted about the street. Gaslights burned amber halos across the pavement, heavy mist swirling about the people departing the theater like ghosts in a dream.

“Marcus,” Tavy said quietly, “won’t you tell me what distresses you?”

“My dear,” his brows knit, “if we are to get along well together you must leave the minor unpleasantries of business to me and content yourself with being beautiful and charming.” He took her hand. “Simply having you by my side relieves all foolish displeasures, I assure you.”

Tavy nodded, but conviction settled. This could be her project. Marcus had trouble with a dishonest man of business. He would not share the problem with her. But if her future lay with him, she must do what she could to help. And she was fortunate to be perhaps the single lady in London who knew where best to seek assistance with this sort of challenge.

A frisson of old doubt mingled with new certainty glistened up her spine. Pushing the sensation away, she took a step up, lifted her gaze past his shoulder, and her breath failed.

As though it were yesterday and not a lifetime ago, in a street crowded with market stalls instead of carriages, bathed in sun rather than misty midnight rain, Lord Benjirou Doreé stood at a distance, watching her. Perfect, clear awareness shone in his dark eyes.

She stared back and his regard did not falter.

“Why do you keep that man in your service?”

She dragged her gaze away and followed Marcus’s up to the coachman’s box where Abha sat beside Lady Fitzwarren’s groom.

“He—” Tavy caught up her breath. “He has been with me for years.”

“It is unseemly for a lady to go about London with a manservant of that sort.”

She slid her fingers free. “Thank you, my lord. I will take that under advisement. Good evening.” She stepped into the carriage. The baron bowed and shut the door. Tavy sat back and closed her eyes, fingers clamped about her reticule.

“What a splendid outing,” Lady Fitzwarren exclaimed. “I daresay I’ve never met with so many friends at one theater production. I’m simply exhausted from talking.” She chuckled liberally. “But you wouldn’t know a thing about that, you are such a demure lady now. Don’t remember you being like this when you were a girl. How you used to kick up a lark wherever I took you and St. John’s sisters about town. Must be that horrid East Indian sun. Bakes a girl’s head until she ain’t got two thoughts in it to rub together.” She cracked a laugh, then her voice sobered. “Or perhaps it was that awful Imene Stack. Wretched woman. Don’t know why your mother let her have the care of you, though it ain’t charitable to speak ill of the dead, of course.”

Tavy bit her lip and reached for Lady Fitzwarren’s fingers.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for all those larks years ago.”

Taffeta rustled. The dowager surrounded her hands.

“Dear girl—”

“It was not the East Indian sun.” She could not open her eyes. The image behind them was too fresh yet far too familiar. “Although it may have had something to do with Aunt Imene.” Her lashes parted and she met the dowager’s concerned gaze. “But I think perhaps I am through with it now.”

“Through with what, dear girl?”

Tavy smiled hesitantly. “Pretending.”

Chapter 3

MAGNETISM. The quality or constitution of a body . . . a transient power, capable of being produced, destroyed, or restored.—Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine

“Who was that lady last evening at the theater, Ben?”

He turned from the drawing room window. “Which lady, Constance? I spoke with several. Lady March, Alverston’s wife, the Countess of Savege. I believe you are acquainted with them all.”

Constance tilted her head, the diamonds threaded through her hair-ribbon glinting.

“You did not speak with her.” Her light brogue lilted across the chamber. “But you may as well have. A great deal was communicated in that exchange of glances, I think.”

He returned his gaze to the street traffic. Tradesmen mostly, thin at this early hour.

“I haven’t the foggiest what you are hinting at, as is often the case, my dear.”

She made a clicking sound of displeasure with her tongue.

“Communicating with me like one of your prized horses, Connie?” he drawled. “I am flattered. Truly.”

“Don’t patronize me. We have known each other far too long.”