She gave him a warm smile in return before turning her full attention back to Olivia.
Richard watched them disappear through the French doors before he turned away and threaded his path through the crowded ballroom. His gaze roamed over the room until it settled on a familiar face near the refreshment table.
Lord Alcott stood chatting with his sister, Miss Winslow, who was absently swirling the champagne in her glass.
Alcott spotted Richard first and lifted his glass in greeting. “Good evening, Wilton.”
Richard nodded in acknowledgment and gave a curt bow to Miss Winslow. She offered a polite smile but quickly looked away, more interested in her drink than the men’s conversation.
“Have you seen my mother?” Richard asked, his tone clipped as his eyes scanned the crowded room once more.
“I believe I saw her last with Lady Warwicke—near the east alcove,” Alcott replied.
“Thank you.” Richard was about to move on when Alcott’s voice stopped him.
“Before you go, I couldn’t help noticing you danced with Miss Theodosia Smith,” he said with a glint of mirth in his eyes. “You appeared rather taken. I take it your circumstances have changed?”
Richard grew rigid. “You are mistaken. I am not ‘taken’ with Miss Theodosia.”
“Ah, my error,” Alcott responded. “Perhaps I should have said you were enchanted. Or captivated. Beguiled, perhaps?”
He lowered his voice. “Miss Theodosia is my sister’s companion. And I do not trust her.”
“Interesting,” Alcott said, folding his arms. “Because men of our standing do not typically dance with companions unless they have a compelling reason.”
“My mother requested it.”
“A terrible reason,” Alcott quipped. “Especially considering that half the ballroom is buzzing about her. Rumors are swirling, and no one seems to know who she really is. Yet there she was, in the arms of Lord Wilton himself.”
Richard’s lips thinned. “I’ve no patience for gossips.”
“Even when you’re the subject?” Alcott asked with a chuckle. “That’s admirable. Foolish, but admirable.”
“I’ve no time for this,” Richard snapped. “I need to find my mother and leave.”
Alcott shrugged. “Very well. I wish you luck with both endeavors.”
Without another word, Richard turned on his heel and strode away. But Alcott’s words stayed with him, irritatingly persistent. Rumors. Whispered suspicions. And worse—his own betrayal of emotion during that dance.
He could not afford to lose control.
Not overher.
The interior of the coach was cloaked in shadows, broken only by the occasional flicker of a gas lamp they passed. Theodosia sat in silence, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Across from her, Lord Wilton stared unseeingly out the window, and his mother sat beside him, casting furtive, worried glances at her daughter. Olivia sat stiffly at Theodosia’s side, dabbing her eyes with a damp handkerchief, her expression one of composed despair.
No one spoke. And the silence was deafening.
At last, the coach pulled up in front of the townhouse. Lord Wilton was the first to step out, turning back to assist each of the ladies with solemn care. When Theodosia reached the gravel drive, she withdrew her hand from his arm but lingered beside him.
He leaned slightly towards her, his voice low. “What can be done?”
She hesitated, watching Olivia from the corners of her eyes. “She’s always found comfort in chocolate. I can ask the cook to prepare some.”
He gave a faint nod. “A small kindness might help.”
“I can hear you,” Olivia stated, her voice startling them both. She didn’t turn around. “And I wouldn’t object to some chocolate, but I want it sent to my room.”
“I don’t think that’s wise,” Lord Wilton said. “We should speak and try to make sense of this.”
