“Oh, no?” Thomas’s brows rose. “Then what, precisely, does society imagine is taking place?”
“Society imagines a great deal that does not signify.”
“Very true. But in this case, society imagines you are paying your addresses to Miss Finch, and from what I observed yesterday in the park, society is not wholly unsupported.”
Owen endured this for perhaps a minute longer. Thomas teased with more delight than malice, but there was no chance of silencing him through mere indifference. He only took silence as encouragement.
“So, tell me, old boy,” Thomas went on, lowering his voice into a scandalized imitation of some drawing room matron, “when did the cold and rational Marquess of Westbridge discover he had a heart after all?”
“I have always had a heart,” Owen frowned. “It has simply not often been made into a public inconvenience.”
Thomas laughed outright. “Excellent. Then perhaps it incommodes you now.”
Owen looked at him levelly over the rim of his glass.
Thomas’s grin widened. “Come, man, have pity. You cannot expect me to let this pass. You, of all people. You who looked as if marriage were a civic punishment. And now here you are, solemnly attached before the season has properly found its footing.”
Owen set down his drink.
“Very well,” he sighed. “Since you appear determined to turn yourself into a fool if I leave you uninformed, I may as well spare us both the effort.”
Thomas blinked, startled by the shift in tone.
“It is not what it appears,” Owen spoke in a conspiratorial manner.
The grin faded, though not entirely. “No?”
“No.”
That single word, delivered flatly enough, was enough to sober Thomas almost at once. He leaned forward.
“What is it, then?”
Owen did not answer immediately. He glanced once about the room, though no one sat near enough to overhear. Even so, the habit of caution had taken root in him these last days.
“At the dinner,” he revealed at last, “Miss Finch told me more of the scandal attached to her family. It concerns … that old military affair.”
Thomas’s expression changed at once. Whatever lightness had animated him a moment earlier vanished. “The campaign report?”
“Yes.”
Harrow sat back slowly. “Good God.”
Owen gave a short nod. “She believes her father had begun investigating before he died. He left notes, fragments, names, scraps of correspondence. Among them is the name of a soldier: Sergeant William Carter.”
Harrow repeated it under his breath. “Carter.”
“The name struck me too, though I could not place it at first. Miss Finch and I spoke further. Langley and his daughter interrupted us in the park yesterday, and it became immediately apparent that if we were seen together too often, there would be gossip enough to harm both her and Miss Blackmore.”
“And so?” Thomas asked quietly.
“And so,” Owen continued with some reluctance now that he heard the words aloud, “I suggested society be allowed to believe I am courting her. It gives us freedom to continue our inquiries without raising more suspicion than the appearance itself explains.”
Thomas stared at him. Then, to Owen’s annoyance, a flicker of amusement returned to his face.
“You proposed a false courtship.”
“Yes.”
