“Mama,” Anne said, “I need your help. Whose crest features two wild boars?”
The Countess of Cheltenham heaved a dramatic sigh and looked heavenwards. “I tried. I really tried with you, Anne.”
“Do you know whose it is?”
Her mother shook her head. “I tried to get you to study DeBrett’s. But it’s difficult to make any progress with a pupil who spends all her time running wild with the boys—”
“I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“—more often than not wearing a pair of your brother’s old trousers so you could ride astride. Oh, yes. I knew all about the trousers.”
Anne sighed. “Please just tell me, Mama.”
“You cannot imagine my astonishment that my little tomboy is now regarded as the most respectable woman in all of London. You gave no indication of it growing up.”
“Lady Wynters!” a voice called. Anne turned and saw her first partner, Alexander Fitzroy, approaching.
“Please, Mama,” Anne said. “It’s urgent. Two wild boars. Whose is it?”
The countess fanned herself. “Had you spent even a quarter of the time I asked you to spend studying DeBrett’s—”
“Lady Wynters,” said Mr. Fitzroy. He was mere feet away, but a trio of passing debutantes impeded him.
“Mama!” Anne hissed.
“—then you would know that it is the Barons Gladstone whose crest features two wild boars,” Lady Cheltenham concluded.
Baron Gladstone.
It… it all made sense.
He was the secretary of the R.M.A. All of its correspondence would therefore go through him. Lieutenant Avery had requested help from the R.M.A. via letter.
Opportunity.
His estate was insolvent.
Motive.
And it was his carriage that had taken Nick and Johnny away.
Evidence.
And she was going to have to dance with him. In less than an hour, she would have to paste on a smile and dance with the man who had… who had…
“Lady Wynters.”
Anne all but jumped out of her skin as Mr. Fitzroy claimed her hand and bowed over it. She tried to disguise the shriek she’d just given as laughter.
Mr. Fitzroy did not seem to notice her discomfiture. As he led her away, Anne’s thoughts were a thousand miles away from the bright, sparkling ballroom.
Michael was annoyed to see that his friend Andrew Tomlinson was accompanied by not one, but two of Anne’s suitors, the very gentlemen they had been discussing earlier: Scudamore and Gladstone.
Delightful.
Scudamore had been two years ahead of Michael at Eton, and Michael had never much liked him. He was fairly certain the feeling was mutual. At Eton, it was a tradition for the younger boys to wait on the older boys, but in Michael’s mind there was a difference between asking someone to make your morning tea and forcing someone to spend all morning polishing your boots, then whipping them because they still weren’t shiny enough.
As to Anne’s claim that Scudamore had changed for the better, he would believe that when he saw it.
Tomlinson didn’t seem to notice the glare Michael was exchanging with Scudamore. “It’s deuced good to see you, Morsley.”
“And you as well,” Michael replied.
“Was that Lady Wynters you were just speaking to?” Tomlinson asked. “She’s caused quite the stir lately hasn’t she?”
Michael eyed him warily. Not Tomlinson, too. Was every man in this ballroom dangling after Anne? “What do you mean?”
“Well, wasn’t there an article in the paper about her the other day?” Tomlinson asked. “I didn’t see it, but it’s all anyone can talk about.”
“I fear I missed it, as I just returned from Canada,” Michael said.
“I read it,” Scudamore said.
“Oh?” Michael said. “What did it say?”
Scudamore’s grin was smug. “Oh, you know. This and that.”
Michael tried to mask his annoyance. He wasn’t about to give Scudamore the satisfaction.
Tomlinson screwed up his face. “What is it her charity does again?”
“Well,” Michael said, tugging at his cravat. Given that he hadn’t opened any of Anne’s letters, the truth was that he had no idea what the Ladies’ Society did, beyond his father’s assurances that it was a “magnificent success.” He knew the possibilities Anne had been contemplating before his departure, but he had no idea whether she had been able to found a model lodging house, as she had hoped, or had ended up starting with something more modest, such as a soup kitchen. “It’s, uh, a bit complicated,” he prevaricated.
“They knit scarves for the poor,” Scudamore said.
“They what?” Michael’s head jerked toward Scudamore. The man was regarding him evenly.
“They knit scarves for the poor,” Scudamore repeated. “Isn’t that right, Gladstone?”
“What?” Gladstone blinked at Scudamore three times. “Oh, right—Lady Wynters runs a knitting circle. Of, er, great esteem.”
Michael made an effort to relax his brow, which he realized was furrowed. A knitting circle? Anne had never expressed any interest in that sort of thing. “Is that all they do?” he asked, striving to sound casual.
“Of course not,” Scudamore said. “They also knit stockings and caps. And every year at Christmas, they distribute plum puddings to the poor.”
Michael was studying Scudamore, trying to decide if he and Gladstone were bamming him, when Tomlinson perked up. “That’s right, there was an item in The Gentleman’s Magazine about the plum puddings last Christmas. I did read that one.” He laughed. “My godmother, Mrs. Wriothesley, is on the board of her charity. That explains why she’s constantly knitting.”
“I… I see,” Michael said. He didn’t trust Scudamore and Gladstone as far as he could throw them, but Tomlinson wouldn’t lie to him.
It must be true. Anne ran a knitting circle.
He felt a keen disappointment for Anne, who had dreamed of accomplishing so much, and had clearly had to settle for something much more modest. Of course, it must be difficult to start a charity out of nothing. Michael was sure Anne was doing the very best work she was able to do, given the circumstances she had encountered. And if the most she’d been able to accomplish was organizing a ladies’ knitting circle, there was no shame in that.
The orchestra started to tune up. “Well,” Tomlinson said, slapping him on the shoulder, “I’d best go find my partner. Welcome back, Morsley.”
Scudamore and Gladstone had turned their backs on him and were already walking away. Well, the feeling was mutual—it wasn’t as if Michael wanted their company.
Yet he found himself stuck directly behind them as a small crowd formed before the doors to the ballroom.
“So,” he overheard Scudamore say to Gladstone, “which dance do you have with her?”
“The third,” Gladstone returned.
Scudamore grunted. “I have the fourth.”
Michael realized they were talking about Anne. He’d seen her dance card, after all.
“Ha,” Gladstone said, “looks like I’ll get to ask her first.”
Ask her? Michael didn’t like the sound of that one bit.
“She won’t accept you, you know,” Scudamore countered. “Not with the debts your father ran up.”
Gladstone shrugged. “Probably not. Still, it’s worth a try. There aren’t many girls who come with thirty-five thousand pounds who can fill out a dress like that. Believe me, I’ve looked.”
Scudamore wagged a finger. “Have a care. That’s the future Viscountess Scudamore you’re talking about.”
Michael fumed. The hell Anne was the future Viscountess Scudamore.
“You mean to ask her tonight, then?” Gladstone asked.
Scudamore nodded. “I do. Have you seen the way Morsley looks at her? Like he wants to eat her. I’ve got to get in there before he does.”
The throng before them shifted, and they made their way through the ballroom doors. Gladstone and Scudamore drifted away, unaware they’d been overheard.
God. He’d told himself he was being absurd, worrying someone would propose to Anne in the next hour, but here was confirmation that not one but two men were planning on doing precisely that!
He felt his throat constrict. He’d lost her once to Wynters. If he lost her again…
Darkness rose up and threatened to consume him. Suddenly his heart was racing, and the back of his neck felt sticky with sweat. He couldn’t lose her again. He just… couldn’t.
He gazed across the room and was annoyed to see Alexander Fitzroy kissing her hand as they took up places near the top of the set.
His jaw clenched. He was going to have to watch Anne like a hawk.
He needed to formulate a plan. That, and find some way to pass the next hour without losing his bloody mind.