Right now, Clara was dancing with a Mr. Vale, a young man of good family and tolerable manners. Clara smiled when necessary, answered when addressed, and moved through the steps with grace, but her gaze drifted toward Captain Harrow, who stood across the room speaking with Lord Westbridge.
Aurelia tried not to look for him too often that evening. He was standing near one of the tall doorways, with his dark coat severe among the brighter fashions. Once, across the room, their eyes had met. He bowed slightly, and she inclined her head. The exchange, occupying less than two seconds, had warmed her more than the overheated room.
This was becoming dangerous.
She excused herself from Mrs. Anstruther and made her way through the edge of the crowd, avoiding a cluster of young ladies who had lowered their voices at her approach with insufficient speed to disguise that she had been their subject. Such things no longer surprised her.
The passage beyond the ballroom was cooler and less brightly lit. Aurelia moved toward the small conservatory she had noticed earlier, where potted orange trees and damp earth promised relief from perfume and scrutiny.
She had taken only three steps inside when a man’s voice called out to her. “Miss Finch.”
She stopped. General Langley stood between her and the farther door. For one absurd instant, Aurelia thought of retreating without reply. But to turn and hurry away would be to confess fear, and if there was one thing her mother’s history had taught her, it was that men like General Langley fed upon fear as surely as society fed upon scandal.
She inclined her head. “General Langley.”
The conservatory was dimmer than the passage, lit by only two lamps whose light caught upon the glossy leaves and left the corners shadowed. The air was moist and close, smelling of soil, greenery, and the faint bitter scent of orange blossom.
“I had hoped for a word with you,” he said.
“How fortunate for you that hope has been so swiftly gratified.”
His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, while his decorated breast was supposed to be giving him the appearance of public honor. Yet his gaze was devoid of honor’s warmth. It was sharp, assessing, and coldly certain of its own right to judge.
“You have your mother’s tongue.”
“I have been told I have my father’s eyes. It is pleasing to learn both parents contributed something.”
“Pride also, I think.”
“That, General, may be my own.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
“You have been asking questions,” he said.
Aurelia felt the first true movement of fear then, not because the words were unexpected, but because they were not. She had known, in some chamber of her mind where dread sat patientlyawaiting confirmation, that Charlotte’s interest had not been idle.
“I have been conversing with acquaintances of my family,” she replied. “London society generally considers conversation one of its safer amusements.”
“Do not be clever with me, Miss Finch.”
“I was not aware cleverness required your permission.”
He stepped a little nearer. Aurelia did not move back, though every instinct urged it.
“My daughter tells me you have shown a renewed interest in old matters.”
“Your daughter shows a renewed interest in many things that do not concern her.”
He frowned. “Matters touching upon the honor of the army concern every loyal family in England.”
“And matters touching upon the ruin of one’s mother may be permitted to concern a daughter.”
There it was. The line had been crossed, though by which of them she could not have said. The civility that society laid like varnish over uglier substances had cracked, and beneath it something dark looked out.
“Your mother,” he warned, “was a foolish woman who mistook agitation for principle and paid for the error.”
Aurelia’s throat tightened, but her voice, when it came, was steady.
