Chapter 3
“Blackwood. I did not expect to see you here.”
Thaddeus turned from his contemplation of the ballroom to find Lord Stirling approaching, a glass of champagne in each hand and an expression of genuine surprise upon his weathered face.
“Nor I you,” Thaddeus replied, accepting the offered glass with a nod of thanks. “I was under the impression you found these gatherings insufferable.”
“I do. Thoroughly.” Stirling positioned himself beside Thaddeus, his gaze sweeping the glittering assembly before them.
“But my wife has made it abundantly clear that my absence from the Whitmore ball would constitute a personal affront to Lady Whitmore, with whom she has been friends since the nursery. And so here I stand, insufferably.”
The Whitmore townhouse blazed with the light of a thousand candles. The air was thick with perfume and powder, with the rustle of silk and the murmur of conversation, with the strains of a string quartet whose efforts were largely drowned beneath the din of social performance.
Thaddeus loathed every moment of it.
He had come because obligation demanded it—because the Duke of Blackwood could not absent himself from the Season’s most anticipated ball without inviting speculation, and speculation was the last thing he needed at present.
And because after this afternoon’s correspondence, he needed a word with his… associate.
The arrangement with Lady Maribel was barely a fortnight old, and already whispers had begun to circulate. An unmarried woman of questionable reputation, residing in the home of an unmarried duke, caring for the unfortunate orphan of Nicholas Talbot and his rather mysterious wife.
He took a measured sip of champagne and found it too sweet.
“I hear you have acquired a ward,” Stirling said, his tone neutral. “Nicholas Talbot’s boy.”
“I have.”
“Tragic business, that. Talbot was a good man. I did not know him too well on a more personal level, but we did conduct some business at times. What a loss.”
“Indeed.”
Stirling waited, clearly expecting elaboration. When none came, he cleared his throat. “And the child? He is settling in well?”
“The child is none of society’s concern.”
The words came out sharper than Thaddeus had intended, and Stirling’s eyebrows rose a fraction. But the older man was too experienced a diplomat to take offence at bluntness; he merely inclined his head and changed the subject to matters of Parliament.
Thaddeus responded automatically, his attention divided between Stirling’s observations on the upcoming vote and his systematic survey of the ballroom.
He had not seen her arrive. He had positioned himself deliberately near the entrance, nursing his champagne with the patience of a man accustomed to surveillance, and still she had somehow slipped past his notice.
But she was here now.
Lady Maribel stood near the far windows, her dark chestnut hair arranged in a simple style that should have been unremarkable among the elaborate coiffures surrounding her.
She wore a gown of deep blue—not the burgundy she had worn upon her arrival at Blackwood, but something richer, more suited to evening.
The colour caught the candlelight and held it, transforming the fabric into something almost luminous.
She was speaking with an elderly woman Thaddeus did not recognise, her head inclined with the appearance of interest, her gloved hands clasped before her with perfect composure. To a casual observer, she might have seemed entirely at ease.
Thaddeus was not a casual observer.
He noted the tension in her shoulders, the slight stiffness of her smile.
He saw the way her gaze flickered periodically toward the clusters of laughing debutantes who passed without acknowledgement, the matrons who looked through her as though she were glass.
He watched a gentleman approach, speak a few words, and then retreat with an expression of polite discomfort when he realised to whom he was addressing himself.
The Ashcroft name, it seemed, remained poison.
“—and naturally, Castlereagh believes the matter will resolve itself, but I have my doubts. Blackwood? Are you attending?”
Thaddeus pulled his attention back to Stirling. “Forgive me. The noise is considerable.”
“Indeed.” Stirling followed his gaze across the ballroom, and something knowing flickered in his expression. “Lady Maribel Ashcroft. I had heard she was staying at your estate. Helping with the boy, they say.”
“They say correctly. I needed a governess.” This, they had decided, would be the answer to the inevitable questions.
“A generous arrangement.”
“A practical one.”
Stirling hummed noncommittally. “She was a favourite of my wife’s, once. Before the business with her father. Clever girl. Sharp tongue. Not unlike yourself, in that regard.”
Thaddeus said nothing. Across the room, Lady Maribel had moved on from the elderly woman and now stood alone, her champagne glass held like a shield before her. A group of young ladies passed nearby, their laughter pitched deliberately high, their whispers not quite quiet enough to escape notice.
He saw Maribel’s spine stiffen. Saw her chin lift with that familiar, stubborn pride. Saw her turn away as though the slight had not registered, though the colour in her cheeks betrayed her.
Though he had no time for the woman, it did not sit well with him to see society punish her for her father’s errors.
“If you will excuse me, Stirling.”
He set down his glass and moved into the crowd.
The ballroom was a battlefield, and Thaddeus navigated it with the strategic precision of a man who had learned warfare in bloodier theatres.
He nodded to acquaintances without pausing, deflected attempts at conversation with monosyllabic responses, and kept his path indirect enough that no observer could have said with certainty where he was headed.
He was not going to Lady Maribel. He was simply... circulating. As was expected of a man of his station.
“Your Grace!”
The voice arrested him mid-stride. Lady Forsythe materialised from the crush, her considerable presence adorned in enough feathers to constitute a small aviary.
Behind her trailed two other matrons whose names Thaddeus could not immediately recall, their expressions bright with the particular hunger of women who trafficked in information.
“How delightful to see you here this evening,” Lady Forsythe continued, positioning herself so that escape would require actual rudeness. “We had begun to wonder if you meant to spend the entire Season buried in the countryside with your... domestic arrangements.”
The pause before those final words was surgical.
“I find London increasingly tiresome,” Thaddeus replied. “The countryside offers peace.”
“Oh, indeed, indeed. And how is the little orphan? The Talbot child? Such a tragic situation. We were all quite overcome with sympathy when we heard.”
“He is well.”
“And adjusting to his new circumstances? It must be so difficult the poor dear. Of course, a motherly… companion… is rather necessary to help rear him. I am sure you understand the importance of a good feminine influence on a child.”
Thaddeus pursed his lips. “I am not certain I understand your implication, my lady.”
The woman had the good sense to blush. “I only mean… the Ashcroft woman. I understand she has taken up residence at Blackwood. As a... companion of sorts.”
“Lady Maribel has graciously offered to assist with the child’s care during his transition. Her connection to his family makes her uniquely suited to the role.”
“Her connection to his family.” Lady Forsythe exchanged glances with her companions. “Yes, we had heard rumours of some connection. Though the nature of it remains rather... unclear.”
“That nature is none of your concern, Lady Forsythe.”
He had not raised his voice. He did not need to. The temperature around them seemed to drop several degrees, and Lady Forsythe’s companions took a collective step backward.
The lady herself merely widened her smile, though it had grown brittle at the edges.
“Naturally, Your Grace. I meant no offence. We are all simply... concerned for propriety. An unmarried woman like that, an unmarried man… surely you understand how such arrangements might appear. And then there is the child…”
“I understand that appearances matter a great deal to those with nothing of substance to occupy their attention.” Thaddeus inclined his head with glacial courtesy. “Good evening, Lady Forsythe.”
He stepped around her and continued into the crowd, his pulse steady despite the anger that coiled in his chest.
He thought of Oliver as he had left him that evening—settled in the nursery with Mrs. Allen, his blanket clutched between his fingers, his eyes following Thaddeus with an expression that was no longer pure fear.
Something else had crept in over the past fortnight. Something that looked almost like hope.
You will not make her go?
The boy’s words echoed through his memory. The small hand reaching for Maribel’s. The implicit trust in a woman Oliver had known all his life, offered freely to one who had been a stranger until tragedy intervened.
Thaddeus had not made her go. He had imposed conditions and demanded boundaries, had treated her presence as an inconvenience to be managed rather than a gift to be acknowledged.
And yet she had remained. She had accepted every term, swallowed every insult to her pride, subjected herself to his authority without complaint.
For Oliver. Everything she did, she did for Oliver.
He found himself scanning the room again, searching for that glimpse of deep blue among the pastels and whites of more favoured ladies.