Page 27 of The Lady Plays with Fire

They had been exceeded.

There was nothing striking about Sir Henry Clearwater’s house on South Audley Street. It had been decorated to appease the tastes of a country squire who evidently came to Town most reluctantly, brightened here and there by touches in a light, modern style, a nod to the preferences and ambitions of his elegant, and considerably younger, wife.

Almost the whole of the first floor was taken up by a large drawing room, papered in shades of cream and gold, the row of silk draperies at the back shielding a wall of French windows that gave onto a balcony. He’d overheard one of the Misses Clearwater—he still had not learned to tell them apart—refer to it rather grandiosely as the ballroom, though tonight the space was filled with half a dozen tables for cards.

For the first hour, Graham was partnered with a neighbor of the Clearwaters, a white-haired General Zebadiah Scott, for a game of whist against Sir Henry and another neighbor, Lady Dalrymple. Mrs. Hayes was seated behind him at a different table, with Julia at her side. He thanked his lucky stars for the mirror above the sideboard that stood opposite, which gave him an occasional glimpse of her dark-brown head, bowed over Mrs. Hayes’s fan of cards as she directed that lady’s play rather than wield her own hand.

It would have been an insufferable hour, indeed, if Sir Henry had not been inclined to play deeper than was wise, and General Scott had not been cleverer than he appeared. Military life had given Scott a wide acquaintance and interesting conversation, and he inquired about Graham’s Highlands home without any trace of the superiority he often detected among the English.

Nevertheless, at any given moment, half or more of Graham’s attention was given to what passed at the table behind him. Julia offered whispered advice that Mrs. Hayes as often as not neglected, while her partner laughed good-naturedly at her mistakes, though they were surely costing him dear. Graham’s own partner was similarly patient, as if he suspected that Sir Henry’s guineas were not what had brought Graham here tonight.

Nor were they the reasons he had been invited, as he was forcibly reminded when, two tables over, one of the Misses Clearwater began to beg her mother to call for a footman to clear the tables while they were at supper so that the young people—he supposed, given the company, he was to be classed among them—might dance.

Graham rarely danced. Oh, he could. He’d been given a gentleman’s education, after all. But the prospect of standing up for even a quarter of an hour with one of the Misses Clearwater was hardly an appealing prospect. He would be expected to talk to her, and he had nothing to say that she would like to hear.

“As the guest of honor, my lord, you must choose,” Lady Clearwater called across the room to him, with one of her smiles that revealed just a little too much tooth to be truly flattering. He’d seen hunters with that expression, when they had at last managed to corner some wily beast they had tracked for days. She would be the envy of her social set, the first—though also, he fully intended, the last—to secure the elusive earl’s company at a dinner party, rout, or ball.

If they continued at cards after supper, then by the rotation of chairs Lady Clearwater herself had proposed at the beginning of the evening, he would be partnered with Mrs. Hayes next. And though he stood to lose the guineas he’d just won and more, he would bear it gladly for the prospect of a direct view of Julia’s rosy cheeks and the swell of her bosom, set off to perfection by her pale pink gown.

If they danced instead, might he secure Julia’s hand for a set?

He dared a glance at the mirror as he tossed his cards into the center of the table, curious to see if the shade of her blush would give some indication as to which course of action he ought to choose.

What he saw instead was the end of a whispered conversation between her and her employer, Julia’s fingertips pressed to her temple, as if pleading a headache. And then, followed by a worried look from Mrs. Hayes, she left the room.

Without thinking, Graham pushed back his chair and stood. Because he was the gentleman of highest rank present, those around him did the same, though supper hadn’t been announced and most of the card games were still in progress.

Lady Clearwater stepped to his side, ignoring Julia’s exit. “If you are ready to go up, my lord, let us lead the way,” she said and moved to take his arm.

He jerked away from her touch, then looked around for some convenient excuse for his odd behavior. His gaze fell on the French doors at the far end of the room. “I—I’d like a breath of fresh air first, ma’am.”

“Oh—of course, my lord. If you’ll—”

But he was already gone, stalking toward the wall of windows and brushing aside the draperies as he stepped into the night.

The air was damp and almost cold; the balcony was empty. Slowly, his eyesight adjusted to the dimness. Topiaries in stone pots cast eerie shadows from the feeble light of the drawing room. No one had lit the torchiers that lined the iron railing.

After dragging a few steadying breaths into his lungs, he laid his fingers on the door handle and braced himself to return to the assembled company.

Out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a flare of light, a candle being lit. Another set of French doors gave onto an unknown room.

He released the door handle and walked along the balcony with more measured steps. It might be anyone, of course. And even if Julia was on the other side of that door, she might not appreciate being found. Or being found by him in particular. She might have preferred any one of the other gentlemen below the age of forty present this evening: a pair of officers in dashing red coats, a barrister whose air could only be described as cocky, and a well-to-do mercer whose business acumen had recently earned him a knighthood.

She had done nothing more to acknowledge Graham all evening than to curtsy and to offer one of her mischievous smiles. She might assume that when it came to dancing or whatever else the evening promised, one of the Misses Clearwater had the superior claim on his attention.

She would be wrong.

Slowly, silently, he turned the handle on the door to the unidentified room. A rush of cool air swirled through the drapery and caused the room’s only occupant to turn swiftly toward its source.

Julia’s face was a pale oval, illuminated by the candle she held. Its flame swayed and flickered with the gust of air, threatening to extinguish itself. Graham stepped inside and shut the door behind him, careful to arrange the draperies so as to leave no sign of his passing that way and to allow no gleam of light to escape.

“Miss Addison?” He did not approach. Was it his imagination, or was she watching him warily, a kitchen mouse ready to flee the unexpected arrival of the cat?

Or perhaps library mouse was the more appropriate description, for the room contained a large oak desk and a wall of stately bookcases, though they were only half-filled with leatherbound volumes. A library in progress, then, or one designed merely for show.

“You’ll miss supper.”

“I’m not hungry. I told Mrs. Hayes I had a headache.”