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“With what money? If you think I had any access to money in that household, you do not understand Crewood. Or the integrity of Dr. Havers.”
More bodies edged closer. Near the edge of the dance floor, Matthew had stopped, now watching and listening as Sarah went on. “Lady Catherine, you may find our appearance here inappropriate, but the duke and I only desired to see old friends and dance a few times before he joins the Duke of Wellington in France as one of his aides. He wishes to do his duty to his country, and I merely wish to live in peace. You are, of course, to believe anything you wish, however dull-headed it may be.”
A snicker from a nearby cluster of gentlemen sounded almost like a pistol shot, even in the buzz of the surrounding conversation. Lady Catherine’s cheeks pinked. She gestured at Sarah’s scar. “You are an abomination.”
“Lady Crewood?”
They both turned. Emerging from the copse of men, Lord Blackwell nodded at Sarah. Tall, stately, and as elegant as anyone on the floor, Lord Blackwell had been a privy advisor and ambassador for King George III and an important voice in Parliament. He and his wife—who had been with the Almack’s patronesses in the park—held one of the most important balls of each season, and he still had the ear of the Prince Regent. Everyone around Sarah and Lady Catherine went silent as both women curtsied.
“My lord,” Sarah said.
Ignoring Lady Catherine, he held out his hand. “May I have this next dance?”
It was the very imprimatur Sarah needed, and her hands shook as she offered him her dance card. He signed his name, then crooked his arm, and he escorted her to the edge of the floor. They waited as the music for the current dance, a reel, ended with a flourish.
He smiled down at her. Although he was well past sixty, his posture remained straight, his eyes clear. “I would have asked sooner, but I am not up to a reel any longer. My wife fears for my joints.”
She returned the smile. “It provided time for a most interesting discussion, my lord.”
“So I heard. Lady Catherine does seem to be a bit... spirited... would you not say?”
Sarah pressed a finger to her lips. “I am afraid my thoughts were far less polite, my lord.”
His eyes twinkled. “Whatever his motives, Embleton has chosen well.”
Eyes wide, Sarah stared at him. “His motives, my lord?”
He closed his hand over hers. “His father’s death startled us all, Lady Crewood. We all assumed it would be the younger Embleton who would die first, flinging himself as he did into the midst of Wellington’s fiercest battles. No one thought we would see him in Parliament.”
“But why would he want to do that?”
His gaze turned gentle. “Because some men will do anything to escape a broken heart.” He looked up. “Ah, a cotillion. Excellent. Shall we, my lady?”
Chapter Nine
Thursday, 28 July 1814
Embleton House
Half past nine in the morning
Matthew sat behindhis father’s desk, folding and unfolding a brief message from Hiram Lewis, his mind circling through a list of topics, finding no resolution to any, which annoyed him to his very core. Fortunately, no one else in the house had emerged from their slumber yet, even the youngest boys, which gave him time to ruminate over each irritant and growl only at his valet and the footman who brought him tea.
The note in his hand, for instance, had been waiting for him when he returned early this morning, asking for a meeting as soon as possible. He had responded, setting an appointment for ten, even though that meant having his valet jostle him out of bed after only four hours of sleep. He and Sarah had stayed at Almack’s through the midnight supper—an awful spread primarily consisting of day-old bread with butter, marmalade, and weak tea—and as morning went on, she had danced with several gentlemen. Lord Blackwell had been the first, and Matthew did not know what Blackwell had said to her, but Sarah’s demeanor had changed. She had been more confident on the floor but somewhat more wary around him—and silent on their way home. He already had a list of questions he wanted to ask during his visit later today.
His own experience had been far more chaotic. His plan to spend most of the time with other men had been thwarted by an extraordinary number of young women who had found some excuse or other to linger at his side, forcing him either to converse or be unforgivably rude. And Matthew had warded off any number of women seeking his companionship for their daughters, finally acquiescing to dance with a few. They had been pleasant enough young women, but the conversation restrictions of Almack’s patronesses—which they dare not violate—meant they talked primarily of fashion, gardens, and the latest events at Astley’s amphitheater. And he dearly hoped to never do that again.
Returning to Sarah’s side for a final dance toward the end of the ball had been both a relief and a refuge. But her reluctance to engage in even simple conversation nagged at him. He tried to excuse it as pure exhaustion, but his mind picked at the moment the change began—the dance with Blackwell. Fortunately, she had no other encounters like the one with Catherine DeVere, and he had noticed people staring at her less and less as the night went on.
Which had triggered yet another annoying thought. Perhaps his mother had been right.
“Your Grace?” Stephens stood in the doorframe. “Mr. Lewis is here.”
Matthew gestured for him to show the man in, and Hiram Lewis stepped in, both hands clutching a bowler hat. “Your Grace, I didn’t expect—”
Matthew pointed at one of the armchairs in front of the desk. “You note indicated it was urgent.”
Lewis sat. “Yes, sir.” He placed his hat on the other chair and fumbled inside his coat and pulled out a crumbled sheath of papers. “I thought you’d want to see this.” He pushed the papers across the desk.
