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When Lady Honoria entered, her lady’s maid in tow, he rose and bowed in greeting.
“Did you attend the Duke of Ashton’s masquerade last evening?” she asked.
Timothy expected to hear censure in her tone, but found it absent. “I did. Did you?” Guilt swirled in his gut that, by all rights, if she had attended, he should have recognized her. “I’d hope to request a dance. But alas, I’m horrible telling people apart when disguised.”
Not entirely a falsity, and he prayed she would excuse him if he’d slighted her in any manner.
“No. Unfortunately, Papa developed a terrible cough, and I insisted on staying to care for him. The duke and duchess are such gracious hosts. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed myself when attending in the past.”
“Has your father’s physician attended to him? If not, I could examine him.”
“Yes. Dr. Mason came by last evening.”
Dr. Mason.Concern rose in Timothy’s mind. Harry had dismissed Mason from the clinic, and Timothy had taken his place. “A second opinion is often recommended. If your father would permit, I could examine him.” He left it at that, hoping Lord Stratford would agree, and more so that Mason had not done further harm.
“He’s resting at the moment, but I will ask him before you leave.”
Timothy nodded, accepting it was the best he could hope for at the moment. As for the other matter and his principal reason for his call, he hoped for a more definitive and positive result.
“Tell me about the ball,” she said, providing him the perfect segue into the topic he planned to discuss.
“I had a most unusual encounter. With Miss Priscilla Pratt.”
She blinked twice. “Oh? How is it you recognized her at a masquerade? You mentioned you have difficulty identifying people when they’re disguised.”
Although no tone of accusation tinged Honoria’s words, Timothy cringed internally how his own words had tripped him. Obviously, she’d paid more attention to their conversations than he did. He studied her face, finding no anger, only eyes wide with curiosity.
“I stepped out of the ballroom to get some air and heard weeping coming from a small parlor. Miss Pratt had removed her mask. She asked for my assistance.”
Honoria’s head tilted, and try as he might to find the curve of her neck alluring and seductive, he could not. It was but a neck, and he studied it with dispassionate medical interest. He had no desire to dip his head and kiss the delicate skin as he had with Emma—err—Miss Pratt. Damnation if he needed to not only stop thinking of her as Emma, but stop thinking of her altogether.
“Assistance with what, pray tell? Was she harmed? Injured?” Honoria asked, drawing his attention back to the present. Genuine concern shone on her face.
“Not harmed physically. Apparently, she overhead rather unkind words about her. She requested my assistance to redeem herself with society.”
It bode well that Honoria didn’t scoff or scrunch her face up in disgust. Perhaps she would be amenable to the idea.
He pressed forward. “She’s quite remorseful over what happened with the Duke of Ashton. However, society has not been forgiving. She suggested being seen in our company might smooth the way for her to be accepted once again and help her secure a favorable marriage.”
“But why you? Do you have a former acquaintance with Miss Pratt?”
He listened for the telltale sign of jealousy in her tone or demeanor, but found none. Lady Honoria remained a perfect example of aristocratic decorum. This would be much harder to explain. But if he proceeded with his plans to make Lady Honoria his wife, honesty seemed the best path, even if he couched the truth in a fog of vagueness. “Our paths crossed on my way back to London from Edinburgh.”
“I see.” Sharp intelligence shone in Honoria’s eyes, and Timothy had to respect her for not asking the question she no doubt pondered.
Yet he sought to ease her mind. “There is nothing between us, my lady, if that is your concern.” How was it that the lie tripped so easily off his tongue? For there was indeed something between himself and Miss Pratt, albeit innocent enough.
Honoria’s green eyes narrowed the tiniest amount. “And it isyourwish to assist her in this quest? There is no coercion on her part?”
“None whatsoever. She’s thrown herself at my mercy.” Drat his poor choice of words.
“I still fail to see why she’s singled you out from others who might prove helpful.”
He took a deep breath. It would seem his intended was harder to convince than he’d thought. “When we met outside of Grantham, she gave me the name Emma because she feared if I knew her true identity, I would judge her harshly. I only discovered it at the ball last evening. Of course, her deception outraged me, so I demanded an explanation. She is most contrite and confided in me she is doing her utmost to escape an unwanted marriage proposal. She feels she has no one to turn to here in London, and because we had a . . . friendly exchange when she presented herself as Emma, she implored me to come to her aid.”
He studied her face, gradually softening as she heard Miss Pratt’s tale. He waited but a heartbeat longer. “You and I spoke recently of your desire to assist those in need.” He lifted his hand when she opened her mouth, no doubt to protest she’d meant the poor. “Is Miss Pratt any less deserving of compassion and aid simply because she is not destitute?”
For a moment, she wrestled with his challenge, but he could tell the instant she conceded. “I suppose not.”
