In private, Jane used Christine’s given name, rather than title. The two women had been friends for so long that it seemed natural. Christine tried to follow Jane’s instructions, though her corset had been let out once already. The gown was older than fashion permitted, a shade faded from its first brilliance, but it was her best. She smoothed her palms down the pale green silk and frowned.
“No one will be deceived. They’ll know it’s not even last Season’s.”
Jane cocked her head, stepping back to survey her handiwork.
“Then let them know it. You’ll look twice as fine as those painted sparrows, because you have purpose. Men prefer a woman with a bit of fire.”
Christine laughed nervously, tugging the cloak about her shoulders.
“A bit of fire, perhaps. But not a full blaze.”
“Oh, I’d hope for a full blaze,” Jane said, wickedly. “Lord Bingley won’t stand a chance. Lower your voice when you speak to him. Men lean in when they have to strain to hear,” she leaned close, whispering, “and that’ll give him a close-up view of your bosoms. That’ll carry the day if nothing else.”
Christine flushed. “Jane! Where do you learn such things?”
Jane only smiled. “I have eyes and ears.”
There was no space for a mirror in Christine’s room. Jane’s eyes would have to serve. Christine did not think she could possibly look as attractive as the other ladies who would be present. She hoped that what she had would be enough to win over Lord George Bingley.
It had better be. I have no intention of going to Oxford Street, and when that is discovered, I will have burned my bridges with Lady Gillray.
“Lord Bingley is always early. He cannot abide being late. Even fashionably so. If I leave now, I stand a chance of getting to him before some other, prettier woman,” Christine said.
“No such thing,” Jane said emphatically.
Christine smiled, catching her friend in a fierce hug.
“Thank you for everything, Jane.”
Tristan moved through the glittering guests. They twinkled almost as prettily as the chandeliers that hung from the massive, ancient beams of Greystone’s great hall. He suppressed a yawn, forcing himself to meet the eyes of the other guests he passed and give the expected polite smile. He was followed by rippling waves of whispers.
The word Wolf featured more than once; he was sure. Occasionally, he allowed his polite smile to widen into a grin that showed teeth, just to see the sheep blanche.
You are a fool, Duskwood! No revenge is worth indulging with such people.
He kept his anger in check. It was born out of resentment. He did not enjoy socializing with those who could be termed the ton. He was contemptuous of their ridiculous customs and unspoken conventions. Their company was, with a very few exceptions,tedious and unwelcome. The crowd around him felt as though they were as insubstantial as ghosts. Very few had the merit of solid character. They were froth, soap bubbles. Bright but empty.
Yet to trace a man who was once considered one of them, it is necessary to move in their circles. Damn that so-called investigator!
Tristan had paid the former Bow Street Runner a hefty sum to find the one he sought. And been told that Tristan himself could move in circles that the commonly born Runner could not. So, when the invitation arrived from the Dowager Duchess of Greystone…
“Your Grace!” a familiar voice sang out.
Tristan turned, his smile becoming one of genuine feeling. Ernald Thynne, the Earl of Newton, was grinning at him as though they had not seen each other in years. It had been a matter of weeks. No, perhaps months. Tristan realized that he could not recall precisely how long.
“You look half-starved,” Thynne declared, “come and eat while Elizabeth is socializing. It is the only time I have to eat without her disapproving eyes on me. Imagine trying to separate a man from his food.”
He slapped an ample stomach, grinning disarmingly.
“I’ve no appetite,” Tristan said, though he let himself be steered towards the refreshment tables.
Thynne was already piling a plate high with cold meats, bread, and jellies, chattering all the while.
“What wind brought you here, eh? Greystone is hardly your usual hunting ground. I thought you avoided these gatherings as though they carried plague,” Ernald said as he led Tristan to a vacant table.
Tristan poured himself a glass of claret before following. He answered with deliberate indifference.
“Perhaps, I have decided it is time to be more social. Put down the Wolf. Reassure society that I am no monster lurking in the woods.”
