Page 54 of Gentleman Jim

Inside the ballroom, the servants who had been eavesdropping scattered in his wake. St. Clare paid them no mind. He’d said nothing that couldn’t be repeated.

No. It was Lionel who had provided the gossip. An outright accusation that St. Clare wasn’t who he said he was. It was only a matter of time before that accusation made the scandal sheets. An unambiguous charge made from one member of the Beresford family against another.

His grandfather would want to know.

St. Clare didn’t look forward to the conversation. Not tonight. He had other things on his mind. Maggie and Frederick Burton-Smythe for one. He nevertheless descended the stairs leading down to the dining room. At the foot of them, he found George and Jane Trumble, their heads bent together, deep in whispered conversation.

Miss Trumble straightened at the sight of him. “Lord St. Clare. Good evening.”

Her brother inclined his head in a stiff greeting. “St. Clare.”

St. Clare looked between the two of them. A frisson of uneasiness went through him. “Is something amiss?”

“Not at all,” George replied.

“It’s Miss Honeywell,” Miss Trumble said at the same time.

St. Clare’s pulse leapt with something like alarm. He took a step forward. “What about Miss Honeywell?”

“Jane,” George whispered a warning.

“It’s all right,” Miss Trumble whispered back to him. “He’s Margaret’s friend.” She looked up at St. Clare. “Mr. Burton-Smythe insisted on taking her back to Green Street in his carriage.”

St. Clare’s alarm grew exponentially. “Alone?”

“No, no,” Miss Trumble answered quickly. “Nothing like that. My Aunt Harriet has gone with them as chaperone.”

The same elderly, enfeebled aunt who had been asleep on every occasion that St. Clare had chanced to meet her? What kind of chaperone was she? No chaperone at all, as far as he was concerned.

“We offered to take Miss Honeywell home ourselves,” George said, “but she wouldn’t allow us to suspend our pleasure on her account.”

“I’m sure everything’s fine,” Miss Trumble said. “She can look after herself. It’s only that…Mr. Burton-Smythe was in such a temper, and it’s such a long drive back to Green Street.”

It was fifteen miles, in fact. Fifteen long miles of dark, isolated road.

St. Clare’s chest tightened with apprehension. Maggie was, indeed, more than capable of taking care of herself. But Fred had been pushed to his limit. He’d grabbed her roughly on the terrace and crudely ordered her about. And that had been in full public view.

What might he do to her when the two of them were, effectively, alone in a darkened carriage?

St. Clare wasn’t going to wait to find out.

Maggie drew her wrap more firmly about her shoulders, mindful to conceal her gown’s low décolletage. Beside her in the carriage, Jane’s aunt Harriet snored softly. The motion of the coach, rolling steadily down the deserted road, had lulled her to sleep only moments after they’d set off from Chiswick.

“There’s something familiar about the man.” Seated across from Maggie, Fred’s face was lit by a single carriage lamp. It cast his ruddy complexion in a pattern of shifting shadows. “Something I can’t quite put my finger on.”

Maggie had blown out the candle in the other carriage lamp so as not to disturb Aunt Harriet’s slumber. It had seemed a courteous thing to do, initially. Now, however, alone in the semidarkness with Fred, she had cause to regret her decision. The shadowy interior of the carriage lent an intimacy to their discussion that she neither wanted nor welcomed.

“In what way familiar?” she asked.

“Something about his eyes. When I saw you dancing with him…” Fred’s mouth hardened into a disapproving line. “If you can call it dancing.”

She flicked a glance out the velvet-curtained carriage window. The starless midnight sky was black as pitch, and there was no full moon to light their way. Had they left the ball at the same time as the rest of the guests they might have benefited from the blaze of lamps swinging from the dozens of carriages returning to town. Now, however, there was no traffic at all. Nothing ahead or behind them save a long, lonely expanse of dark road. It was impossible to see a thing.

Perhaps it had been unwise to allow Fred to accompany her home early.

He’d insisted on doing so, and at the time, she’d thought it easier not to argue with him. He’d been in such a foul mood. On the verge of making a scene. Besides, she hadn’t relished the thought of remaining at the ball. Of seeing St. Clare dining with Miss Steele. Dancing with Miss Steele. Not after Maggie had danced with him herself.

But Fred’s anger hadn’t been assuaged by her compliance. Indeed, since she’d climbed into the carriage with him, his sullen mood had grown worse.