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‘Mademoiselle Ravenhurst, enchanté.’ Count Leon bowed over her hand, and this time he actually kissed it. Elinor bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself ginning. That she, of all people, should be having her hand kissed was too ridiculous. Still, it would not be long, once he had discovered she had no talent for social chit-chat nor a tendency to sit gazing at him admiringly whatever he said, before he was treating her as simply her mother’s companion. It was to be hoped that, in the meantime, Theo did not become territorial again.
‘Lady James.’ He bowed. ‘May I introduce you to our other guests? The Marquesa de Cordovilla, an authority on art.’ The marquesa bowed, Lady James inclined her head. Elinor struggled with the precedence in her head: the daughter of an earl, daughter-in-law of a duke versus the widow of a Spanish marquis. Yes, Mama had it right.
‘Sir Ian and Lady Tracey. English connoisseurs of the fine arts.’ Elinor curtsied, her mother nodded and smiled, the Traceys made their bows. He was an athletic-looking man in his late thirties, she was tall for a woman, slim and dark with an alertness that intrigued Elinor. Could these two really be conniving adventurers? Her antipathy towards the marquesa inclined Elinor to suspect her, but it could be dangerous to overlook other possibilities.
The countess took over the introductions, presenting an elderly cousin, whose name Elinor did not catch, Monsieur Castelnau, the countess’s widowed brother-in-law, and two girls, five or six years Elinor’s junior, who were introduced as nieces. ‘Laure and Antoinette. I am sure you young ladies will have much to talk about,’ the countess said firmly, leading Elinor over to where they sat side by side on a sofa opposite Julie.
Mademoiselle de Falaise appeared as pleased to find herself sitting next to Elinor as Elinor was, and rather less adept at hiding the emotion. Elinor smiled brightly and did her best with small talk in French. There was no sign of Theo.
The large room was arranged with sofas grouped facing each other. Out of the corner of her eye Elinor could see her mother was talking to Sir Ian while Lady Tracey was chatting animatedly with Monsieur Castelnau. The count could be heard discussing Venetian painting with the marquesa while his mother watched them. In her corner the elderly relative appeared happily engaged with her tatting.
‘Yes, I have been out for several years,’ Elinor answered Laure’s question. Or was it Antoinette? They appeared indistinguishable: both blonde, both blue eyed, both animated. ‘Did you both remain in France during the Revolution?’
It appeared they had spent the years of the Terror in Scotland with relatives, but had learned very little English. Elinor told herself it was good for her to practise her French and soldiered on. Beside her she was conscious of Julie, her eyes on the count, while his attention was fixed on the marquesa.
Then the door opened, drawing every eye in the room, and Theo walked in. ‘Madame.’ He went straight to the countess. ‘My apologies for my tardiness; I have to confess I became completely lost and had to be rescued by one of your footmen. What a fascinating building this is.’ He turned and regarded the rest of the company. ‘I must apologise also to the ladies for my somewhat battered appearance—I fell down the stairs two days ago.’
Elinor was conscious of a subtle shifting of attention in the room. Both the young ladies beside her sat up and smiled brightly at the sight of another man, even one who was black and blue. Julie stared at the count, a small smile on her lips. The marquesa turned her head languidly and directed a smile of unmistakable intimacy at Theo and the count got to his feet, bowed to Theo and made his way over to stand beside Elinor.
Sir Ian rose slowly. ‘Your sense of direction deserting you again Ravenhurst? The directions you so kindly gave to my coachman on the last occasion our paths crossed led us sadly astray.’
‘I am sorry to hear that.’ Theo strolled across and bowed to Lady Tracey. ‘My apologies, ma’am, although the instructions I gave him were clear enough—what did he have to say for himself?’
‘As he vanished into the countryside five minutes after our axle broke, I have no idea.’ To Elinor’s surprise, neither of the Traceys appeared as angry as one might have expected. Almost there was a sense that they had been beaten fair and square at a game. How very English, she thought with amusement. Perhaps her instincts were correct and they were not the villains of the piece.
Theo, apparently happily unconcerned by the fact that eight of the nine women in the room were watching him, drifted across the vast Aubusson carpet, took a seat next to the elderly cousin and began to compliment her on her tatting in loud, clear French.
The youngest ladies pouted, Lady Tracey went back to her conversation, Julie directed a look of spiteful amusement at Elinor and the marquesa smiled a sphinx-like smile that made Elinor uneasy. Irritated with her company, she got to her feet and went to sit next to Sir Ian. ‘I did not realise you knew my cousin,’ she began, crossing her fingers at the untruth.
‘Oh, yes, we are rivals of old,’ he said readily. ‘Having been outwitted once recently, I am hoping that I can even the score eventually.’
Elinor asked him about his particular field of collecting and realised with surprise ten minutes later that they had been having a perfectly sensible and intelligent conversation without him once patronising her.
Theo was still deep in the intricacies of tatting, his elderly companion having had the amusing idea of teaching him how it was done. The sight of a large flame-headed man in impeccable evening dress with his big hands wielding a shuttle and a mass of fine white thread gradually drew the attention of everyone.
Eventually the marquesa got up and went over. ‘Teó, show us what a tangle you are making.’
Theo looked up and smiled. ‘How could I make a tangle,’ he said in French, ‘when I have such a skilled teacher?’ He opened his hands and there, hanging from the shuttle, was an inch of fine lacy tatting. Amidst general applause he handed the shuttle back to the old lady.
‘Oh, Monsieur Ravenhurst, will you give me your tatting?’ It was Laure, blue eyes wide.
‘But, no, it is unworthy to trim your handkerchief, mademoiselle. Here, take my seat and allow madame to show you how to do it yourself.’
‘Wicked,’ Elinor murmured as he stood by her side to admire the sight of a petulant young lady trying to look pretty whilst getting in a tangle.
‘Aren’t I just?’ he murmured back. ‘How are you getting on with Tracey?’
‘I can’t believe it is he.’ Theo raised a brow. ‘He is too sporting about your ruse.’
‘And he treats you like a human being with sensible opinions,’ Theo countered. Apparently his attention for the last half-hour had not been entirely on learning tatting. ‘Don’t be flattered into dismissing him, Nell.’
Irritated that he did not accept her judgement, Elinor turned away, only to encounter the marquesa’s interested stare. Impulsively she turned back, laid her hand on Theo’s sleeve and looked up into his eyes. ‘I am sure you are right,’ she said softly, holding the green gaze for a long moment.
Unholy amusement flickered in the depths of his eyes. ‘Just be guided by me, Nell,’ he said, adding under his breath. ‘Now go and make friends with her.’
‘Who?’
‘Lady Tracey. Not Ana, not unless you have all your wits about you.’ Under her gloved hand his arm was steady and warm. She bit her lip and saw his pupils widen. Inside, something reacted to that look. Something primitive and female. ‘You look very lovely in that gown and with those jewels.’
