Chapter 17 #3
Hartwell clapped him on the back, hard enough that Ben might have staggered if he did not know Hartwell’s tricks of old. “She’s not? Why, my dear fellow, I’m so glad to hear it. You’ve quite made my evening.”
Smothering a growl of frustration, Ben turned to glare at Hartwell, who just stood looking large, amiable and well-meaning.
Ben didn’t buy his hale fellow well met act for a moment.
Hartwell might be notorious for having been sent down or expelled from most every decent school in Britain, but he was a great deal sharper than most people gave him credit for.
Instead of asking the obvious question, Ben just regarded him, waiting. Hartwell stiffened, his expression indignant.
“Well, there’s no need to look like that.
I just mean that I’ve decided it's time to settle down and I rather like the looks of her. Those spectacles are adorable, and she’s a lively, funny little thing.
I know his grace will kick up that’s she’s not got the pedigree he’d like, but her dowry is generous, thanks to her brothers-in-law, and I think we’d rather suit each other.
Besides, Stonehaven married one of her sisters, and if it’s good enough for him—”
“No.”
Hartwell trailed off, blinking innocently at Ben. “No?”
“No.”
“Ah.” Hartwell pursed his lips, considering this. “So…when you said, she’s not my Miss Honeywell, that was, in fact, a lie? Is that about the size of it?”
Amusement glinted in the fellow’s eyes and Ben wished he didn’t like the devil so well. The urge to break his nose was sometimes hard to resist. “Bugger off.”
Hartwell grinned, quite obviously delighted. “So, I’m not to poach on your preserve. Have I got that correctly now?”
“Hartwell, how you have lived this long is a mystery to me. It’s a good job you never stayed at any one school for above a few weeks. Your schoolfellows would have thrown you down a well or smothered you in your sleep.”
“Now, now, Ben, don’t be like that. I wasn’t entirely joking, you know. She is a delight, but now I know you’re in earnest I’ll keep clear.”
“Have you seen her recently?” Ben asked, an odd sensation of foreboding squirming in his gut. He ought to have got here earlier to ensure she did nothing foolish, but the information from her father had arrived just before he’d left the house and he had not wished to wait to read it.
“Yes, I think I just saw her take to the floor with Alveston, which is strange really, for she was asking me about him, and I got the impression she don’t like him above half.”
Ben stared at him in horror.
“I say, old man. Are you quite well?” Hartwell said in alarm as he regarded Ben. As he’d felt the blood drain from his face, he could imagine his expression was stark and rather startling.
“I will wring her pretty neck,” he promised himself furiously as he returned to scanning the ballroom.
He’d like to think she couldn’t come to any harm on the dance floor, but if she was talking who knew what might happen. He had never known such a provoking woman in all his days, and yet he liked her.
“Is anything amiss?”
Hartwell looked genuinely alarmed. Ben considered his options. “Do you trust me, Hart?”
“With my life,” the fellow replied at once, which surprised Ben so much he took a while to reply.
They’d become close that year Hart had spent in Paris, the best friend Ben had ever had, in fact.
The only friend. Growing up, he’d been neither fish nor fowl, a well-spoken English boy who dressed in castoffs and played in the gutter with the other boys, all of whom knew his father was from the nobility.
His mother had never forgotten where she had come from and was not well liked, which did not help matters.
But that had been years ago. The war lay between them like no man’s land.
Surely Hartwell must distrust him for having stayed in France, and yet his gaze was unwavering. He meant it.
“You do?”
Hart returned a lopsided grin. “I knew you well enough in Paris never to doubt your morals, or whose side you were on, but I know what you’ve been up to these past years, my old pal, so yes. With my life.”
Ben let out a breath. He’d love to know how Hart knew, but there was no time for that. “I cannot explain it all now, Hart, but Alveston is dangerous. Izzy knows it and she’s likely got some harebrained notion about exposing him. If you find her, don’t let her alone with him.”
Hart nodded at once. “Understood. I’ll keep guard, don’t you worry.”
He set off at once, disappearing into the crowd as Ben headed in the opposite direction. He made his way towards the dance floor, and for once his luck held as he saw Izzy, dancing with Alveston.
Anger and fear roiled through him as he realised she had allowed the blackguard a waltz.
Still rather a scandalous dance, there were only to be two this evening.
Ben had secured one for himself before he’d taken her home this morning, but he hadn’t dared to ask for both.
Tongues would certainly wag if he danced with her twice, let alone two waltzes.
Alveston was holding her too closely, and Ben’s fists clenched as he made a tight turn, deliberately pulling Izzy against him as they spun around, making it look as if she had lost her balance and he only sought to steady her.
Ben’s hold on his temper, usually so carefully contained, unravelled as he glimpsed Izzy’s face.
It was set and white, her lovely features taut with strain. Damn the girl, what was she playing at?
Alveston spoke and Izzy glanced up at him, and Ben’s breath caught at the way she transformed.
If he did not know better, he would have believed she was sweet on the loathsome bastard.
Her expression shone with the innocent pleasure of dancing with a handsome man and Ben wondered if perhaps he’d underestimated her again. It didn’t make him feel a whit better.
After what seemed an interminable amount of time, the dance ended, and Ben moved towards the pair, a little surprised to see Hartwell get there before him. With his usual easy manners, he had engaged them both in conversation by the time Ben reached them.
“Ah, and here’s the very fellow. I’ve invited Alveston here to play cards with me, Midwinter. You’ll join us, I’ll know.”
“Lord Hartwell, I never agreed—” Alveston began coldly, and Ben hid a smile, for Hartwell was impossible to shake once he got a notion in his head. He was a persistent devil, bless the man, and it was the ideal way to keep him away from Izzy, or vice versa.
“Oh, don’t worry, Alveston, we’ll not play for high stakes. I’d heard you was at low tide, so we’ll keep it friendly, eh?” Hartwell said, playing to the hilt the amiable buffoon act he could perform in his sleep.
Alveston looked so furious at this implication, especially in front of Ben and Izzy, that Ben wondered if he would call the fellow out.
As it was, Hartwell had cleverly aimed for the fellow’s tender parts—his pride.
As far as Ben knew, the rumours were true, however.
Whatever money Alveston had made during the war from selling secrets he had spent on refurbishing his reportedly lavish home and high living.
The man had ducal tastes on a baron’s income.
“I do not know who gave you such information, but they were grossly misinformed,” Alveston said, seething visibly. “I will play with you, my lord, for whatever stakes you care to name.”
Izzy looked back and forth between the men with interest but was astute enough to avoid Ben’s gaze, no doubt aware of what she’d see there.
“You’ll join us, won’t you?” Hartwell said, clapping Ben’s arm. “He’s not one to shy away from high stakes, are you, Ben, old man? I’ll warn you now, though, Alveston, he’s got the luck of the devil.”
“Indeed.” Alveston returned a thin smile as Ben regarded the man dispassionately.
“I will happily join you,” Ben replied, meeting Alveston’s icy expression of loathing with one of his own, relieved to know Izzy was out of it.
Until, that was, the dreadful girl gave a little exclamation of delight, clasping her hands together as if all her wishes suddenly had come true.
“Oh, how perfect. I adore cards, and I have been longing to play a proper game with skilled players. How exciting this is! I’ll find us a table.”
So saying, she dashed off before any of them had wit enough to stop her.
All three men stared after her and, despite their differences, wore identical expressions of horror. For whilst it was perfectly acceptable for a lady to play cards, the high stakes game they had all agreed on was not at all the sort of thing in which she ought to be involved.
“Good God,” Hart exclaimed, finding his voice before either Ben or Alveston could say much the same thing.
As one, they hurried after her.