James leaned back. “Forgive me, but you don’t sound unmoved.” He hesitated for a moment. “Are you all right?”
Arthur gave a short laugh. “As well as one can be when reminded of former idiocy in love. It’s the memory of the thing that stings. Not the woman herself.”
James didn’t press him, instead settled back into his chair with a quiet hum of acknowledgment. They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the fire crackling softly between them.
At last, Arthur leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice low.
“There’s something else.”
James arched a brow.
Arthur stared into the fire. “The courtship. With Miss Darlington. It’s not real.”
A moment passed before James replied. “Not real? Oh, good,” he said. “We haven’t had a proper scandal in weeks.”
“It’s a ruse. An agreement between us.” Arthur glanced toward the doorway, ensuring no one lingered nearby. “We made a pact—to shield ourselves from social pressures, to satisfy family expectations. Nothing more.”
James gave a slow, incredulous chuckle. “You’re jesting.”
“I assure you; I am not.”
“Oh, Heavens,” James said, shaking his head. “And here I was beginning to think you’d genuinely softened.”
Arthur grimaced. “That’s the problem. It was supposed to be clean. Practical. But I find myself—”
He hesitated, the firelight catching in the glass he still held. “I find myself... enjoying her company. More than I intended. More than is advisable.”
Arthur ran a hand over his face. “Now I find myself looking for her. Listening more carefully than I ought. I know when she’s in a room before I see her. She says things that stay with me. Days later, I’m still thinking about them.”
James gave him a long look, then leaned forward. “Then the arrangement is no longer harmless.”
“No,” Arthur said quietly. “It’s not.”
“I never intended for it to become real,” Arthur said.
They sat in silence once more, the fire the only sound between them.
Unbeknownst to either gentleman, seated just beyond a high velvet screen on the far side of the room, a third party had taken particular interest in their exchange. Just beyond the reach of the firelight, concealed behind a wide column near the reading alcove, the man sat in silence with his back to the wall, a newspaper folded idly in his lap. His expression gave nothing away. But his eyes were sharp. Watching. Listening.
Edward Colton had arrived at the club half an hour earlier and, spotting Arthur and Fitzwilliam engaged in private conversation, had taken up a quiet post in the shadows. He had not initially intended to eavesdrop. But once he heard the cadence of Arthur’s voice, low and confessional, and caught the word “ruse,” he found himself motionless, his ears pricked.
And when Arthur spoke of the ‘agreement’ with Miss Darlington, of enjoying her company more than he ought, Edward’s eyes lit with slow, gleaming satisfaction.
Of course, he had heard on the grapevine of their little stroll through Hyde Park and their public appearance at the tea room, but it hadn’t fazed him in the slightest, so confident was he of his own success with Miss Abigail’s mother. It was always the mamas of the ton that held supreme power in these situations, and he very much doubted Lady Harriet would be satisfied with Arthur Beaumont as a suitable match if he was the alternative.
It had been an annoying little glitch in his plan that he intended to smooth over quickly and efficiently. After all, Arthur was hardly a threat. And now he was discovering that it had all been a performance. The lingering glances, carriage rides, and promenades—it had been nothing more than a charade. A fabrication designed to mislead society, no doubt with the complicity of the girl herself.
He briefly wondered what pressures had prompted the initiation of this little ploy, but quickly lost interest, finding the whole concept rather boring. Whatever their reasons, they weren’t his to care about. It would be a fleeting interest, a passing flirtation which hadn’t been entirely real in the first place.
And yet… it sounded as though at least one of the pair was beginning to experience a fondness. Arthur had expressed enjoying Miss Darlington’s company, and Edward would need to put a stop to any reciprocal feelings if his plan ought to succeed. Not that he thought Abigail would be even vaguely impressed with the likes of Beaumont as a suitor.
He could scarcely resist clapping his hands together. This was the leverage he needed, but did he know how to utilize it to its best effect?
The knowledge that the Viscount of Westbrook had orchestrated a false courtship, and that Miss Abigail Darlington had been party to it, was more than idle gossip. It was a scandal in waiting. And should the right people be made aware of it—should the whispers be directed carefully, strategically—it would unravel their little game with devastating precision.
But Edward did not intend to simply expose the pair.
No, his ambition stretched further.
