“His title is Neville. A fifth-generation earl. Related to Harbury on his mother’s side.”
“I am well-acquainted with Neville.”
“Disapprove of him, do you? And yet is he not the opposite of his cousin Harbury? Conscientious? Proper. Gentlemanly. I’m certain he would always take his wife’s needs into consideration.”
“Yes.” Likely, he would. He would also be a complete, insufferable bore. She made up a reason to refuse him. “He is…too close a friend to my godmother’s son, Lord Asquith.”
“Moving along, then. Next to him is Baron Blackwell. But, also, I believe, a confidant of Asquith’s?”
“Yes.” And the object of her youngest sister’s unrequited affections. Poor Annette. “Lord Blackwell will not do, either.”
Her gaze traveled over the room, searching for a man who looked as if he might be congenial. She discarded several possibilities. Too old. Too stiff. Too stuffy.
Finally, she returned to the original group.
One man among them, she did not know. He was young (influenceable?) and handsome (not strictly necessary, but nice) and his mannerisms appeared polished. She felt nothing like the draw she’d felt toward the marquess, but he seemed acceptable enough.
“Who is the man in conversation with Blackwell? Is he a gentleman?”
The widow appeared not to breathe for a second. “Yes. Jonathan Vane is a gentleman. He was raised abroad by English parents and only recently returned to our fair shores.”
The widow glanced between Eliza and Mr. Vane, clearly calculating.
“If you like his appearance,” she continued, “we will consider him. A solid choice, in fact. No title, and not well-connected, but he has recently purchased an estate of considerable size and is perfectly respectable, congenial, and polite.”
If this Mr. Vane were trying to make his mark in Society, he would value her familial connections, would he not?
“Where was he raised?”
“Switzerland. His father was a respected diplomat. He passed several years ago. Not much is known about his mother. Reclusive, I understand. She, too, died a few years past.”
So, like her, Mr. Vane was an orphan. Eliza eyed him carefully. But for his shirt, every article of clothing the man wore was a shade of brown. Everything about him, in fact, said steady. Reliable.
With him, she would not have to experience any messy, chaotic emotions like she’d just experienced with Redver. Noheady mix of fury and passion. No confusing, inexplicable sense of connection.
“Vane,” she repeated, testing the name. “Mr. Jonathan Vane.”
“Shall we return to the office?”
She followed the Black Widow into her office and reclaimed her chair. Once they were both settled, she asked. “How soon could you facilitate a marriage to Mr. Vane?”
“Is that what you wish?”
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon, you pointed out that to wed is the quickest, safest path to back to respectability.”
“I did,” she agreed. “But let us be honest with one another.”
“Honest?”
“What happened earlier in the evening affected you deeply. You can see you are angry…but are you not also a bit intrigued?”
“How could I not be angry?” Eliza’s words came out in a rush. She did not understand how expulsion from Almacks could be intriguing. “Harbury’s thoughtlessness ended my sister’s marital hopes.”
“Anger seeks to devour, Miss Wainwright. And anger without action is dangerous, indeed. Anger, turned inward, festers, eventually consumes. But the same sentiment, when used wisely, can precipitate change.”
Eliza frowned. Anger, she’d always been told, was best throttled.
Avoided.
