Chapter 29
As Clara walked off the dance floor with as much dignity as she could muster, her legs felt unreliable beneath her, and her lips burned where he had kissed her.
She wanted nothing more than to turn around and ask him exactly what game he thought he was playing.
A kiss like that, after days of cold civility.
She looked around the ballroom and saw that it had done precisely what he had intended—people were beaming at them, leaning towards one another with delighted expressions, the room practically humming with it.
It was working. Their story was being believed. She could see that perfectly well.
It did not make it hurt any less.
“You should not have done that,” she said when they were out of the earshot of their guests. “We did not agree to it.”
“But it is working.”
“I can see that it is working. That is not the point. You cannot simply kiss me without warning. It is not right, and you know it.”
“Clara, I do beg your pardon. I offended you. I am only doing what must be done to ensure our story is believed.”
“Well,” she said, “congratulations. It most certainly is believed now.”
She moved away from him. Across the ballroom a small crowd of gentlemen was already making their way towards Julian, hands extended, clapping him on the back.
She watched it happen and felt a fresh wave of irritation that she recognized was not entirely rational and did not particularly care.
They were congratulating him. Yes, it was good, it meant the plan was working, but how dare he?
How dare he treat her with such distance for days on end, only to pull her against him in front of over a hundred people and kiss her as though she meant something to him?
It was not right, and it was not fair.
If only Arabella were here. She would bring the candleholder down over his head herself.
But if Arabella were here, none of this would be necessary, and that thought only made everything worse.
She turned and walked into the beverage room where she took a flute of red wine from a passing tray and dispatched it in three large swallows. She grimaced. She had forgotten how much she disliked red wine.
“Are you quite all right?” Helena’s voice came from behind her, and she turned. Helena and Evelyn were both coming through the door with the expressions of women who had seen everything from across the ballroom and wanted very much to discuss it.
“Did you know he was going to do that?” Evelyn asked.
“No. If I had known I would have told him not to.” She paused. “It was effective; I grant him that.”
“Effective,” Evelyn said. “I heard half the room talking. Some of the women were quite scandalized. Most of them said they wished their own husbands would look at them with half as much passion.” She stopped herself at Clara’s expression. “In any case, it worked.”
“It worked,” Clara agreed. She took a breath.
“He has spent several days now acting as though being near me is some sort of penance, only for the last two days to grow more cordial again, as though he regrets having reminded me that this is nothing but an arrangement.” She stopped, realizing she was speaking rather faster than she had intended, and that neither of her friends was aware of everything that had passed between them. “Let me tell you what has occurred.”
She gave them a full account. She started at Marianne’s confession, went on to Dover, waking up with her arm across him, and ended with his distance since.
Her friends listened without interrupting which was itself a testament to how seriously they were taking it.
When she finished, Evelyn sat back and shook her head.
“Goodness gracious. You have had a great deal happen in a very short time.”
“The man has no sense,” Helena said with considerable feeling. “None whatsoever. Someone ought to knock some into him. What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. Not tonight. Everyone must believe we are a pair most happily in love which means I shall smile and dance and say the right things. But once everyone has gone home, we shall have words.”
“Good,” Evelyn said. “He deserves it. And if you want me to speak to Nathaniel…”
“I thank you. But I do not think that will be necessary.”
“My Lady.” Marianne’s voice came from the hall, and a moment later she burst through the door, entirely out of breath and with an expression that Clara had not seen on her before.
“Marianne. What on earth has happened?”
“He is here.” Her eyes darted back and forth in a true panic.
The three of them looked at one another.
“Here?” Clara said. “How is that possible?”
“I do not know, but I saw him. He is here. Bash.”
“Point him out to me at once.”
She turned to Helena and Evelyn. “Please go to the ballroom and find Julian. Tell him what has happened.”
Both of them nodded and went. Clara followed Marianne into the hall.
“How did you see him?” she asked. “I did not think you intended to come tonight.”
“I did not. I was outside walking before feeding the children. It helps the milk sometimes, so I walk before settling them. I stopped to watch the carriages arriving and the gowns, and then I saw a face I recognized. I thought perhaps my mind was playing tricks on me—we have spoken of him so often—so I followed to the front door and kept myself behind the pillars. He walked up the stairs and stood in the light of the sconces, and I knew it was him.” She paused.
“Bash. He arrived after most of the other guests, so there was nobody at the door but the footman, who let him in.”
“So the footman will have taken his name,” Clara said.
Marianne nodded. “I heard it. Sebastian Devereau.”
Devereau. Clara turned it over. Marjorie had been right about the French connection. And Bash, Sebastian… yes, both names sat easily together.
They were almost at the ballroom. Clara stopped at the threshold. “Find him for me,” she said quietly.
Marianne’s eyes moved slowly over the room. It took a minute or two, during which Clara pressed her hands together and resisted the habit she had broken at the age of twelve of putting her fingers to her mouth when she was anxious.
“I cannot see him from here.”
Clara nodded and pulled her to the stairs, so they could overlook the ballroom from the mezzanine level above.
Once there, Marianne nodded. “This is better. Let me see.”
She squinted as Clara likewise looked around, hoping to see the man.
Then Marianne nodded slightly. “There. By the arches.”
Her gaze followed Marianne’s. He was exactly as Marianne had described.
Tall, broad-shouldered with a shock of ginger hair that was striking enough to understand why Frederick would have remembered it had he seen it.
He wore a beard along the outer edge of his jaw only, a style Clara had always found rather affected.
His attire was impeccable—a deep green waistcoat that suited his coloring—and he was handsome.
She made herself acknowledge it because Arabella would have, and it mattered to understand it.
“He is exactly the sort of man she would have picked,” she said quietly. “She always liked the handsome sort, so sure of themselves they bordered on arrogant.”
“Do you know him?” Marianne asked.
“No.” She looked at him more carefully. “But if he is here, he must be a nobleman or a very wealthy merchant. We invited only those most influential in society.”
Down in the ballroom, she could see Julian with Evelyn at his side. She waved and called down, but her voice was drowned entirely by the orchestra, which had just struck up a reel.
“Here,” Marianne said, and pressed something into her hand. Clara looked down. A hairpin.
“Throw it at him,” Marianne said.
This was, without question, the least ladylike thing anyone had ever advised her to do.
She did it. Her aim was not equal to her intention, and she missed Julian’s head by a clear foot, but Evelyn, whose instincts were apparently extraordinary, looked up at once.
She caught Clara’s eye, touched Julian’s sleeve, pointed, and Julian came up the stairs.
“Sebastian Devereau,” Clara said, before he could speak. “Red hair, by the arches. That is him.”
Julian looked. Something crossed his face.
“Devereau,” he said. “I know him. His cousin is Steven Devers—I do business with him. He was at my birthday celebration in Southampton last year; you would not know since you were already in Scotland. He brought his cousin along. I recall Steven saying the man was rather particular about keeping the family’s original French name because he felt it sounded more distinguished. ”
Clara steadied herself. “Was Arabella at your birthday celebration?”
“Naturally.”
“And do you believe she met him there?”
“I believe she danced with him. Yes.” He looked at the man again, and something hardened in his expression.
“He is wealthy. Considerably so, more than Devers.
He trades heavily with France. I hear legitimate exports now, but during the war, I always suspected those French wines he seemed so well stocked with came through rather less legitimate means.
“Steven would bring them from time to time, claiming his cousin had ensured the supply before the war. Tall tales, if you ask me. Nothing was ever proved. And I remember he told me his grandmother was Italian. She came from somewhere near Naples and married a Frenchman.” He paused.
“That would account for the French name and the Italian connection.” He took a deep breath. “I will speak to him.”
“Be careful,” Clara said. “Do you think he is here because he suspects something?”
“It is possible. Or it is possible that he is here precisely because he knows a man with nothing to hide does not avoid the ball of the cousin of the lady whose child he wishes to steal.” His eyes were still on Devereau.
“Or he is here because he knows David is here, and he wants us to know he knows it.” He looked at her then.
“I do not know which. But I intend to find out.”
He turned to go. She caught his sleeve without thinking.
He looked back.