In the Arms of a Marquess(17)

A weary crease shaped his brow. Styles imagined he had an interest in politics, perhaps that he was trying to work his way into society’s good graces by pleasing his fellow lords and tradesmen at once.

Ben’s old friend hadn’t any idea of the truth. For seven years, even longer, Ben had worn the secret of his life’s work like an invisible yoke about his neck.

“Sir,” Creighton said, “about that letter you dictated to me yesterday, to the governor of Madras . . .”

“Complete it, allowing for the transfer of funds to the army if he agrees to the terms.”

“Yes, my lord. And the Malta issue?”

“It may work itself out without interference, and we will not know for some time yet.”

His secretary scribbled upon the ledger.

“Creighton, I need you to pen some invitations.”

Creighton’s head snapped up. “Invitations?”

“A dozen or so, for a sennight of shooting at Fellsbourne.”

“Shooting.”

Ben leveled a clear stare at his employee.

Creighton cleared his throat. “Of course, sir. To whom should I send them?”

“The Leadenhall Street set, but exclusively titled men. Nathans, Styles, Crispin, the others. Include their wives.” He turned toward the gangplank.

“I don’t believe there’s more than a handful of lords involved with the Company at this time.”

“It is a modest group indeed.” All fairly well known to each other. All with business interests in the same far distant waters and upon the same eastern coasts. All with fortunes to lose should Parliament decide to further tighten its control over Company purse strings and trade practices. Since the bill of 1813, government had been holding the ribbons, driving the Company in a new direction. Some proprietors chafed at the bit, remembering days not long past when Company officials acted independently of Whitehall and made a hefty profit any way they saw fit.

A man who saw his business autonomy dwindling might have any number of reasons for blackmailing a fellow trader who was also a lord and had a voice in Parliament.

“And, Creighton, make certain St. John Pennworthy and Abel Gosworth are on the list.”

“Mustn’t be the only gentleman there whose fortune is stable, my lord?” Creighton’s face shone with pride.

Ben made his way to his horse, and home to change clothing for Lady Ashford’s gathering. A few hours in the company of clear-minded people was just the thing he needed to prepare himself for the journey into his old manner of living he was about to embark upon with this house party. All for a woman who meant nothing to him any longer.

Sometimes the sense of responsibility that had been hammered into him from childhood astounded even him.

Tavy dressed for the evening then held Jacob while a maid arranged Alethea’s hair. She handed the infant into her sister’s snug embrace, who then handed him into Nurse’s arms with teary eyes. St. John met them at the carriage.

The street before the Viscount and Viscountess of Ashford’s town residence was lined with elegant vehicles.

“I thought Valerie said it would be a small party.” Alethea chuckled as St. John handed her out. “Didn’t she, Octavia?”

“I—I hardly know.” Tavy’s heart raced. The curricle parked beside them bore upon its sleek, black door a crest she knew better than any other noble family’s. It had adorned the carriages of their next-door neighbors in Madras.

She laid a hand on her brow. “Thea, I feel a megrim coming on. Would you mind very much if I went home now and sent the carriage back for you?” She despised herself for being craven, but she could be brave later. Dear Lord, was this how it would be now? Would she always wish to flee from him?

“Lady Ashford is expecting you, Tavy. She told me so most particularly this morning when she called.”

“Oh, of course. My discomfort will no doubt pass,” she mumbled and avoided Alethea’s curious gaze.

Inside, dozens of people filled the drawing room and adjacent library. Tavy’s gaze darted about. The Marquess of Doreé was not present. Perhaps she had imagined his crest on that vehicle, further proof that she needed diversion from unprofitable thoughts.

“Octavia, you are stunning.” Valerie bussed her on both cheeks then stepped back to survey her gown. “Gold suits you beautifully. Thin as tissue and quite daring. Parisian design but Indian silk, I think, or Chinese?”

“Indian.” Always. She was an open book, if anyone ever cared to read it. Marcus Crispin did, of course, but with the cover merely ajar.

“That puts me in mind of someone you will be delighted to meet.” Valerie grasped Tavy’s arm and drew her toward the library. Books lined the recessed shelves from floor to ceiling. Mementos of Lord and Lady Ashford’s travels decorated tables and walls—a beaded mask, a pair of alabaster elephants, a model ship. Tavy glanced away from the shelves and her pulse ground to a halt.

“You and he were neighbors of a sort in Madras,” Valerie said as Tavy’s regard met the secret preoccupation of her thoughts for the past three weeks. And seven years. “Octavia, may I present to you the Marquess of Doreé? Oh, how lovely, clearly you have already met.”

Met. Laughed. Touched. Fell into sweet ecstasy.

Tavy barely managed to rise from her curtsy on jellied knees. After his unkindness at his house, she had not imagined merely encountering him in society could distress her.