Page 65 of The Wallflower Ruse

“You mean, he’s...?”

“It’s complicated,” Restive said ruefully, then suddenly loomed over her like a grim guardian. “I mean it, just leave him be.”

He looked so worried that she whispered, “Very well,” and wished she could reassure him properly. But that was impossible without giving the game away, so instead, she stamped her foot like a child in a tantrum. “I don’t need you to watch over me!”

The corners of Restive’s mouth curled up for an instant before he spoke. “I mean it, Lucinda. Do as I say, or I shall take you home immediately.”

“Nonsense. Mr. Pearce will take care of me.” She stormed back to the uneasy poet, just in time to see a very downcast Alfreda Wallace, now dressed properly, with Davis in his guise as Yolanda on one side, and Mr. Haraldson on the other. “Oh, good,” she breathed.

“What?” Mr. Pearce said. “Where is he?”

“Not he, she—Alfreda’s leaving, thank heavens.”

Alfreda noticed her and yanked her captors to a halt. “I hate him. I absolutely despise him.”

“Whom?” She glanced at the girl’s escort. “I’m sure Mr. Haraldson has your best interests at heart.”

“No, he’s just old-fashioned. I hate Lord Restive. I wish you joy of him.”

“For heaven’s sake, Alfreda, why must you persist in thinking I want him? He treats me like a child. I am so enraged at him that I could spit!”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Davis suppress a grin. Oh, drat—at Alfreda, or at her? If at her, why? She had made a point of keeping her foolish, wistful thoughts to herself. And yet, she and Restive had understood one another just now, even while playing their roles. Astonishingly, saddeningly so, so how could she help but have such thoughts?

“Now I’ll never, ever experience passion,” Alfreda cried. “I’ll be sent to the country to molder away for ever and ever, and it’s all your fault!”

“My fault? You’re the one who chose to dress like a strumpet,” Lucinda said. “You’re lucky Mrs. Haraldson is available to lend you some semblance of respectability when you return home.”

Alfreda burst into noisy tears as they moved away, and Mr. Pearce said, “Mrs. Haraldson is leaving? Surely not! She will want to stay, so as not to miss—” Guiltily, he stopped.

“To miss what?” Lucinda asked.

“A-a guest she particularly wished to meet,” he said. “Why is she leaving?”

“To take Alfreda Wallace home before she ruins herself. If you ask me, a year or two of moldering in the country would be good for her.”

“Mrs. Haraldson dislikes the country. She will never give up her salon, particularly now.” He resumed glancing this way and that, his gaze always returning to the doors.

I meant Alfreda,” Lucinda said. “They’ll marry her off to a country squire, I expect—although I pity the poor man.”

“Why can’t someone else take her home?”

“Because Mr. Haraldson is willing to do so, and his wife can serve as her chaperone,” Lucinda said.

Suddenly, one minute too late, she remembered what she needed to tell Restive.

Drat, oh drat! She couldn’t run after him and speak to him now without arousing suspicion. However, she could test Mr. Pearce. “Unless,” she ventured, “Mrs. Spence might like to do so?”

“Good God, no!” he cried. “Mrs. Spence must stay to— Ah! Here he is!”

~ * ~

An excessively portly Charles the Second strode into the ballroom. “Lord help us,” Restive murmured, as everything became clear.

No, not quite everything, but one thing at least.

Cymru. Wales. The Prince of Wales. Melrose Pearce’s cousin was an equerry to one of the Royal Dukes. That must be the tall, rigid-looking gentleman next to the Prince, dressed improbably as a court jester; he’d somehow managed to spirit the Prince away from his usual entourage tonight. Or aided and abetted him, possibly, for Prinny enjoyed a little private foolishness from time to time...

With a beautiful, spirited, intelligent young lady unhindered by propriety.