Always a Maiden (The Belles of Beak Street #5)(6)

Looking over the company, she searched for some gentleman she had yet to consider for his potential. One who wasn’t twice her age and had his own house, and preferably didn’t stink. But the men near her in age seemed much more interested in the newest crop of debutantes than in her.

Then she saw him.

Her chest felt odd, and the back of her throat went dry. Now to talk to him without her mother seeing. But she’d planned for this moment. Since she hadn’t seen him before now, her scheme was well thought through. First, she steered her mother toward one of her favorite companions and made certain the conversation was going strong. Never once did she look in Mr. Cooper’s direction.

Then she coughed. Her mother cast her an inquiring look.

Susanah coughed again and choked out in a froggy voice she’d rehearsed alone in her bedchamber at night, “Excuse me.”

The hint of a frown line appeared between her mother’s brows.

Susanah gave another cough, put her hand to her chest, and said in a strained-sounding whisper, “I need a drink.”

Her mother started to move toward her. Her chest tightened.

Susanah put a hand on her arm. “Don’t want to interrupt.” Cough, cough. “I’ll just be a minute.” She thumped her chest with her palm. “Won’t miss dancing.”

She fished in her reticule until she found her handkerchief and scooted away from her mother toward the dining room where refreshments could be had. The house was busy and well-lit. Her mother need not fear her getting swept into a private corner and accosted. She made herself cough again as she found the correct note—one she’d written earlier and folded into her handkerchief. She unwrapped it. Just outside the door, she pressed the note with a coin into a servant’s hand. “Please see that Mr. Cooper receives this straight away,” she said and moved along without a glance over her shoulder.

It proved deuced difficult not to look back and see if Mr. Cooper was still present. Or his reaction when he received the note. But her mother couldn’t know, nor could her father who probably had found the card room by now. It was bad enough that she had to involve a servant, but she didn’t trust any of her friends to be discreet enough that her mother wouldn’t catch on. And the man wasn’t one of her family’s servants who would tell on her.

Her hands shook as she entered the dining room where white-gloved footmen poured wine or lemonade into glasses for guests. They would by no means be alone, but there were open spaces in the room where a semi-private conversation could be had in full view of witnesses. But she’d known that before she arrived. She had a familiarity with most of the great houses in London. That’s what came of having season after season.

She would give him ten minutes. That ought to be long enough to tell him what she wanted. Her stomach swirled and her palms grew damp. That was if her courage didn’t desert her.



*

Evan was no stranger to the occasional billet-doux, but as the footman discretely slipped the small folded paper into his hand, he felt nothing. No anticipation, no joy, no eagerness. He just as discreetly tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. If it was from Theresa, he didn’t want to know. If it was from some other woman he’d shared a bed with in the past—well he didn’t have any inclination to revisit old amours. Nor would he be in town long enough to conduct a dalliance. He only returned to London to wrap up his affairs and pack his things.

Nothing good came of allowing himself to be pursued. Besides the only woman he had in mind to chase was strictly off limits.

He’d come to the ball to say his goodbyes to a few people. Although catching a great many of his friends in one place instead of calling on them individually was proving more troublesome than he’d expected. Not because they weren’t present, but because most of them didn’t understand why he’d leave town now to take up a position as his uncle’s steward when he’d—in theory—been performing those duties already. It wasn’t a time that required a lot in the way of land management. It wasn’t harvest or time to collect rents. Was his uncle unwell? Or was there some reason his cousin wouldn’t be able to help his uncle manage the estate?

He protested his uncle was well, his cousin was young, yet—too young to be of much help. Writing his friends of his change in circumstances would have been easier. Then he could have easily side-stepped the curiosity. Apparently, the people who knew his uncle supported him thought it was a token appointment to keep him from being destitute and thereby risking the family reputation.

In the middle of one particularly bothersome interrogation, he stopped it by pulling out the note and excusing himself to read it.

Oddly enough as he went to unfold the paper that was folded into a rectangle no bigger than a calling card he realized it was sealed. He stared at the perfectly round blob of wax trying to make out the stamp, but instead of seeing a crest or initials that might be found on a ring, he rather thought a button might have made the impression.

He popped it open and unfolded it. The writing was precise, the lines as even as if a ruler had been used to keep the words perfectly level. It couldn’t be a love note dashed off in haste. His stomach clenched as he read the words.

I need to speak with you. I am in the dining room at present.

While most billets-doux didn’t have signatures, there was usually an initial or reference to give a hint as to the identity. There was nothing. His first thought was that it was Theresa, but he’d had a couple of letters from her. They had been filled with overblown sentiment, the writing fast, wildly slanted, and the lines not so straight. But the very precision of the letters and brevity of the message scared him. Perhaps it was from her husband and he intended to challenge him. Although that didn’t make sense, either.