CHAPTER THREE
Verena, for all her apparent unconcern, was acutely aware of everything that had passed.
Aware, and indignant. What was his design in seeking out her mother, she would like to know?
How dared he flash that look at her as if to censure her for not taking better care of Mama?
Or did he suppose that she had not seen that piece of byplay? Little did he know.
No doubt he would be astonished to learn of her mastery of a particular art she had acquired over the years.
Had been obliged to acquire it. Swift and unremarked were the glances cast from under her lashes, and from the corner of her eye she was well able to note the whereabouts of anyone she chose.
She had mastered this secretive trick from sheer necessity.
Heavens, but had she not had her back to the wall for as long as she could remember?
Had anyone informed old Martin Yorke, for instance, that his listener, seeming to be looking directly in his face, was in fact checking quite other places, she was sure he would not have believed them.
At home she had never entered a room without a swift and comprehensive glance about, and had always taken care to sit where she might slyly observe the room and the doors. How else could she have fathomed Nathaniel’s moods?
She caught herself on this thought. Reverie in public was too dangerous a pastime.
She could not afford an instant’s relaxation of her extreme vigilance.
Besides, she did not wish to think about Nathaniel.
She did not wish to think about Mr Hawkeridge either.
But his antics — accosting Mama in that manner and evidently embarking on the vaunted flirtatious campaign by ignoring her — were forcing him upon her notice.
She tried to ignore him in return and put her wayward attention back on Mr Yorke.
“Pity you were never in India, Miss Chaceley. You would have liked it extremely, I am persuaded.”
“I am persuaded I should, Mr Yorke,” she agreed, although she scarcely took in the sense of his words.
“Why, we had splendours never dreamed of in England…”
The wheezy voice droned on, but Verena found that she could pay no more heed to it than was needed for the interjections she could make that would keep him content.
For one thing, she was carefully assessing Mama’s condition, and for another — much to her chagrin — she was keeping track of Mr Hawkeridge’s progress about the room.
Ah, but that would serve him out. He had been accosted by Mrs Felpham. Grim satisfaction settled in her breast, and she eyed the old nabob with an air of interest, only to find that Sir John Frinton had appeared behind him.
Verena permitted the ancient roué one of her marginally warmer smiles. She liked Sir John. He had an acerbic tongue, and he did not pay her fulsome compliments, allowing an appreciative glint in the eye to speak his admiration.
“Are you boring on again about India, Yorke?” he demanded on a weary note. “How tedious of you. Poor Miss Chaceley is glassy-eyed.”
Verena put a dismissive hand out to the old nabob, nevertheless saying, “Your stories are most interesting, Mr Yorke.”
“My dear Miss Chaceley, don’t encourage him,” protested Sir John in an under-voice as the wheezing old man wandered away. He sat himself down in a chair beside her. “Now then, Miss Chaceley, to some serious business.”
She looked an enquiry. “Yes, Sir John?”
“You are sought after, my dear.”
“Indeed?”
He laughed. “You need not sound so disinterested. I am not speaking of the plethora of tedious old men — myself excepted — who constantly badger you for attention.”
Verena’s expression did not change. “You are speaking of Mr Hawkeridge.”
“Ah, so you have noticed.”
“I am neither blind nor inexperienced, Sir John. Besides, I have already been approached by the gentleman himself. I think he will not long waste his time on me.”
A knowing gaze watched her. “Is he wasting his time?”
“Yes,” she said, “but that is his privilege.”
Sir John’s brows rose. “Why, this is truly hard-hearted, Miss Chaceley.”
“I truly hope so.”
“Do you indeed?” The aged exquisite laughed. “I wonder.”
He glanced about the room to locate Denzell, and Verena with difficulty refrained from looking towards the precise spot where she knew him to be standing. He was engaged with the Ruishtons in close conversation.
A little pulse beat a trifle unevenly in her veins all of a sudden. Had she seen aright? Did Mr Hawkeridge cast a quick glance across at her then? She had the distinct impression that he had, and an eerie sensation followed. She was under discussion!
“Denzell,” Unice was saying low-voiced, “did Mrs Felpham say anything to you?”
He shook his head. “Nothing beyond pointing out how lovely Miss Chaceley looks tonight — as if I had not already noticed. She must have searched the warehouses to match so perfectly her hair colour with that gown.”
“Never mind that,” said Unice, brushing aside the unimportant matter of dress. She was herself, as always, discreetly fine, cleverly drawing attention away from the bump below the waist of her simple gown of Canterbury seersucker, with a fancy cabriolet bonnet perched on her dark curls.
“Mrs Felpham has certainly said something to me,” she declared. “And I should think she has said it to everybody else also, judging from the veiled remarks that have been passing around.”
Denzell cast another glance across to where he could see Verena talking with Sir John Frinton. “That must be what Sir John meant. What is being said?”
“It seems that Miss Chaceley has pre-empted you,” she told him in a hushed voice.
“What do you mean, Unice?”
“She went to see Mrs Felpham that day you met her.”
“And?”
Unice sighed. “She made it very clear, so Mrs Felpham says, that she was not going to succumb to your charms.”
“So that is why she has been invisible.”
“And,” pursued Unice, “Verena must have intended that Mrs Felpham would see to it that the whole town knows.”
“Ha!” uttered her husband. “Spiked your guns, Hawk.”
“Has she indeed?” said Denzell softly.
Once more he looked over at Verena. She appeared to be listening to what Sir John was saying, if not intently — for who could tell what lay behind that expressionless face? — at least with her full attention.
Then, miraculously, as if she felt Denzell’s regard, her head tilted very slightly his way, her lashes flickered and by some trick of the candlelight that brightened the room from two modest chandeliers, he caught a flash from her eyes.
It was over so quickly that he almost thought he must have been mistaken.
Intent, he continued to survey her, quite forgetting that he had not meant to show her any further attention tonight.
Then her hand suddenly came up and her fingers brushed at her hair, slid down her cheek, hovered at her lips, and were returned to her lap.
Triumph leapt in Denzell’s chest. What a giveaway! A slow grin split his face. So Miss Chaceley was not as indifferent to him as she would have him believe.
Verena, quite as aware as he of the ruinous nature of the slip, was inwardly cursing herself. To all outward appearances, she was listening with interest while Sir John talked of indifferent things. But within, she seethed.
What a stupid blunder. How could she have given way to such an obvious gesture of self-consciousness?
Her position had not altered, but she was quite able to see Mr Hawkeridge grinning in that fatuous way.
How silly to have allowed herself to become flustered by the conviction that he was talking about her.
Now he would know that she had noticed him.
There was all her work of the evening gone for nothing.
It was infuriating. How hard she had tried since coming to this town. How difficult it had been, day after day, guarding her every expression, maintaining an iron composure that deflected all efforts to penetrate beneath her cool surface. It had been so much simpler at home.
A picture flashed into her mind. Herself a very mouse, quiet and still in a corner, all her concentration on remaining unnoticed — by Nathaniel.
She could see him now, those hooded orbs passing indifferently over her, to her relief.
Outwardly obedient she had ever been, showing nothing of the rage and defiance that burned in her breast.
Yet it had been much easier to maintain that front, she decided, the image fading out of her inner vision, than to hold this one. For here so many sought to probe where they scented mystery.
To fail at this moment! Oh, she could weep with frustration. She did not want his interest. She did not want his attentions. All her concentration had been on making him see that. Surely to heaven Mrs Felpham must have done her work? And all to be ruined by one instant’s failure.
She caught herself up. What in the world was the matter with her?
Why should she be so overset at having made one insignificant gesture?
It could have been insignificant, could it not?
He might choose to think otherwise, but she would speedily show him that he had misinterpreted the moment — even if he had not.
All she had to do was resume her pose of indifference.
Pose? What nonsense was this? She was indifferent. She could not be so vulnerable that she could be set in a whirl by one man’s charm. Could she? If that was the case, then there was only one thing to do. Remove from his vicinity forthwith, and stay aloof for the future.
Without seeming to move, she flicked a look towards her mother, widening the area of her vision.
It was brief, but comprehensive, enabling her to take in that Denzell Hawkeridge was still keeping her under observation.
She noted also that Mama, still seated in the sofa where she had been led, but now conversing with an elderly couple, was looking distinctly peaky.