He straightened and released her hand. “You are quite gracious, Miss Blackburn. I am afraid my skills have been rather neglected as of late.”
“That was not at all in evidence, sir—”
Rose turned to Thomas. “Are you two going to do this all night?”
His mouth twisted in a bemused grin. “I was actually hoping Miss Blackburn would do me the honor of a dance.”
They both stared at him a moment before Ann squeaked, “Me?”
His voice pitched lower, if that was even possible. “If you would be willing.” He glanced once at Rose. “It’s a cotillion. Old-fashioned and quite proper.” His gaze cut back to Ann.
Ann’s eyes widened with doubt, and Rose let out a long breath, feeling resigned to this, that spear below her breastbone twisting again. “Heisa good partner.”
The doubt seemed to leave Ann, who looked back up at Thomas. He offered her his arm, and Ann took it, following his lead toward the other dancers.
Rose watched them go, that strange, painful pressure expanding in her chest. Not exactly jealousy—after all, there was nothing to be jealous of. Still, it hurt, and Rose wasn’t quite sure what to name it, much less what to do about it. Trying to ignore it, she watched as Thomas and Ann made their way through the crush—and Rose became aware that Thomas had not taken the most direct route to their destination. Instead, they had wandered by several clusters of men, who were suddenly following their progress to the center of the room. Twice, Thomas stopped near one such gathering and bent to whisper something to Ann, which had caused her to giggle and cover her mouth with her hand, her eyes bright with delight. He had to bend because he had more than a foot in height over the diminutive Ann. It brought even more attention to them, causing one of the dragons to raise her lorgnette to examine the couple closer.
“What are you doing, Thomas?” Rose whispered. She turned her focus to the people on the perimeter of the room. An extraordinary number of people were watching the Marquess of Newbury escort Miss Ann Blackburn onto the ballroom floor. His indigo and silver kit paired well with Ann’s simple but elegant gown of white and pale yellow gauze and silk, like an early spring daisy in a deep blue vase. Whispered exchanges occurred behind hands cupped to their mouths, while their eyes lingered on the couple. Matrons nudged each other, and widowers with grown children slipped off their spectacles as if they’d never seen either of them before.
The dancers lined up as the first notes of music wafted through the air. They bowed and curtsied and moved into the first steps. It was a good choice of dance for partners so differing in height. Rose started to stand, to get a closer look at their behavior toward each other, when a heavy weight dropped into Ann’s vacant chair, and a hand on Rose’s arm encouraged her to keep her seat.
Rose twisted to face Robert, whose grin was almost irresistible. Almost. “Lord Robert! What are you doing over here?”
He nodded at the dancers, his hand still firm on her arm. “They make a sweet couple, do they not?” He leaned forward to peer through the palm fronds. “My word, what a fabulous view you have! You can stare at anyone for hours and they would never know.”
“Robert—”
“Y’know, they remind me of my parents.”
Rose’s breath caught. “What?”
He held his free hand parallel to the floor just below his breastbone. “Our father has fifteen inches in height over Mother. Quite the unusual couple, those two, the giant blond Viking with the tiny Andalusian Moor. They do not dance much anymore—at least in public—but I’m sure they made quite the sight on a ballroom floor in their youth. But they always made it work. Back then, when they thought we were not paying attention, she sat in his lap a lot. I suspect she still does, but they have gotten better at knowing when someone’s around. There are a lot of her novels in his study.”
“Robert—”
He leaned a bit closer. “You know it’s not Miss Blackburn’s height that’s the problem.”
Rose stared at him. “How did you—”
“It’s the fact that the last time anyone danced with her, someone made sure the man was showered with a magnum of champagne.”
Rose growled. “The man was a reprobate who had already tried to ruin two women for their dowries. Up to his eyeballs in debt. He deserved it.”
A light lilt remained in Robert’s voice. “But his friends did not know those details. They only saw things through the lens of the man who was thwarted. They did not—and more importantly they do not—see the world through the lens of Lady Rose Timmons.”
Rose stilled, her expression bland, as Robert’s phrase echoed in her mind.Through the lens of Lady Rose Timmons.A phrase she had read only two days before in a missive from within the heart of Bill Campion’s hell. Awareness surged and her eyes widened. “Robert!” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. “Youare Robbie—”
His hand on her arm tightened and he raised a finger to his lips. “Shh. You are the public face of all our secrets.” His voice softened even more. “But it is rather vital that you keep them to yourself until they are needed.”
“How do you keep anyone from knowing?”
He leaned back a bit, the mischievous gleam in his blue eyes brightening them even more. “Because Robbie Green does not look like a nobleman. He looks like a floor manager, unshaven and in a bright green highland bonnet and a coarse wool suit with a tartan waistcoat that draws the eye here”—he pointed to the top of his head—“and here.” His finger went to his chest. “Not here.” He put his finger to his lips again. “And, as you so blithely said, ‘people believe what they think they see.’”
“No one would believe a duke’s son would be working as a floor manager in a gambling emporium.”
“It has allowed me to gather some rather beneficial information.” He finally released her arm. “But while I believe in your cause, your actions sometimes act as a double-edged sword.”
Rose swiveled back toward the dancers, a dismal understanding settling over her. “You think I’m the one who has destroyed Ann’s chances at marriage.”
