Chapter 3
“One mark of a great soldier is that he fights on his own terms or fights not at all.”
Every game required players, and it was my sole objective during the first ball of the season to select who would play in mine.
I stood on the marble balcony overlooking the ballroom. I wore a soldier-red gown—one of my newly altered ones. The color felt appropriate, considering I was assessing my potential candidates the way a commander does his enemies.
Laid out before me were plenty of eligible members of the Swarm. That was my term for the hive of suitors who flitted around unwed ladies like bees in search of a flower to pollinate.
There was Mr. Bradford. He stood by the refreshments, taking a bite out of a jelly tart that had dripped onto his cravat.
He was kind enough, I supposed. But he was a fourth son with hardly a pittance of inheritance.
Not to mention, he was uncommonly weak chinned. I scratched him off my mental list.
The handsome Mr. Knight was an obvious choice—a naval officer with a decent inheritance.
He hadn’t been in London for months, and when I saw the pregnant young lady on his arm, I realized why.
He must have married shortly after his proposal to me last season.
I turned him down, of course. Clearly, he had moved on. Another name crossed off the list.
I spotted Mr. Addington on the dance floor. He was a tempting candidate, for he’d inherit a viscountcy and a fortune along with it. But he lurked around the card tables and horse races, and I couldn’t tolerate a gambler.
Unfortunately, Mr. Addington caught my gaze just as his dance ended. He smiled and abandoned his partner to join me on the balcony.
“My dear Miss Weston, you are radiant when you wear red.” He kissed my hand, leaving behind a moist imprint on my glove. “And you smell like summer rain and oranges.”
He reeked of brandy, but unlike Mr. Addington, I didn’t make it a habit to comment on how people smelled.
I politely removed my hand from his. “Good evening, Mr. Addington. How is the Viscount Sidmouth?”
“Father is still breathing, unfortunately,” he said. I wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. “Miss Weston, do you have any spots open on your dance card for the likes of me?”
I handed him my card. “I look forward to it.”
He signed his name, bowed, and left. I tapped my nails on the gilded railing as I continued my search.
“The harvest looks thin,” I muttered to Mrs. Sweete. She had accompanied me tonight, since Father claimed to have too much work to do. He had likely locked himself in his study to brood within a thick cloud of cigar smoke.
“How about Mr. Middleton?” Mrs. Sweete asked from the chair beside me. As always, she was picking at her needlework. “I hear he brings in six-thousand pounds a year.”
“Well, I hear he’s handsy with the maids.”
“Mr. Pollard?”
“Spends all his time hunting and hanging the poor beasts on his walls.”
“Mr. Carr?”
“Shockingly loose in the haft, don’t you think?”
Mrs. Sweete set down her needlework, her expression softening. “Are these qualities really impediments, Miss Weston? I thought you wanted a fortune more than a husband.”
“Would it be terribly greedy of me to want both?”
Mrs. Sweete was quiet for a long moment as she took stock of the crowd. “What about John St. Clair, the Baron of Cranford?”
I frowned. “Lord Cranford? Isn’t he too old?”
“He’s only forty-two, which is just six years older than me, I’ll have you know. And he is a gentleman through and through, one who brings in ten-thousand pounds a year.”
“Ten? Good heavens. But, if he’s so eligible, why hasn’t he married yet?”
Mrs. Sweete returned to her needlework. “Perhaps he hasn’t found the right woman.”
I leaned over the balcony, scouring the room until I found the man in question.
Lord Cranford idled in the corner, the furthest he could be from the dance floor, as if he might catch an illness from it.
He had the beginnings of a receding hairline and was never seen without his walking cane, which eased his limp.
He was handsome in a mature way. But I’d never considered him as a candidate, since he was more than twice my age.
Though that wasn’t the real issue.
“The baron is rather… boring,” I said. “He once went on about the life cycle of the silkworm for a full half hour.”
Mrs. Sweete’s look was patient yet firm.
“Very well.” I blew out a defeated huff. “He’s a fine candidate. I’ll go speak with him. How do I look?”
“Perfect, as always. The ribbon in your hair is especially lovely.”
“And the dress?”
“No one would guess it was altered.”
“Except for one,” I grumbled. Despite my efforts—modifying the neckline, replacing the sleeves, adding beading along the waistline—Sybella had sniffed out my fraud like a bloodhound.
“That dress is just like the one you wore to the Townshend ball last March!” she had said as soon as I walked into the ball.
Luckily, Mr. Bradford had appeared, nervously sweating through his stained cravat, and asked Sybella for the next dance before I had to make up a lie.
Someone tapped my shoulder, and I sighed, not wanting to deal with yet another ineligible suitor. “Forgive me, but I was just about to take some air.”
“How unfortunate for me, ma chère.”
I know that accent, I thought. I turned around to find Henri Marceaux grinning back at me.
It had been two years since we last saw each other, though he looked much the same.
He wore a purple waistcoat with lace cuffs and enough pearl buttons to fill a jewelry box.
His well-coiffed hair was tied back with a matching purple ribbon, framing his perfectly white smile.
I could practically hear Mrs. Sweete’s description in my ear.
Eight-thousand pounds a year. His family fled from France during the war and swore loyalty to England.
A bit of a fop, but his family is untitled, and he’s eager to climb the social ranks, especially to prove himself to the English crown.
In other words, he was the perfect candidate.
“Mr. Marceaux!” I said with genuine delight. “I hadn’t realized you’d returned from your travels. How were they?”
He bowed deeply and came back up with a dazzling smile. “Italy was divine, but even Rome pales in comparison to the beauty of English roses such as yourself. If I had known the enviable Miss Weston was officially out, I would have returned sooner.”
I opened my fan with a coy flick of my wrist. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere with me, Mr. Marceaux.”
“What will, dare I ask?”
I couldn’t request a dance, of course, as that would seem far too forward. Instead, I wielded my fan beneath my neck, ensuring the dance card tied to my wrist was on full display.
“I am shocked, Mr. Marceaux. I didn’t think you were the type to need instructions on how to impress a lady.”
He chuckled, a smooth, honeyed sound. “And I’m shocked that you still have openings on your dance card. Perhaps I can remedy that. Care to dance avec moi?”
I held out my card, victory warming my chest. “Oui, monsieur.”
He signed it, then kissed my hand. “May I bring you a drink?”
“If you must.”
With a wink, he strode down the stairs. I glanced down at his signature and blushed. He had drawn a small heart beside his name.
“Add Henri Marceaux to the list of candidates as well,” I told Mrs. Sweete.
“Him? But he’s a traitor to France.”
“I always felt Dante was too severe when he reserved the bottom layer of the inferno for traitors. After all, Mr. Marceaux’s efforts have saved many English lives. How is that a bad thing?”
“I’ve heard he’s a rake.”
“A harmless one. Yes, he’s a flirt, but he has never overstepped.” I fanned myself as the man in question smiled up at me from below and held up two champagne glasses. “We’ll watch him closely. Perhaps enjoy the view while we’re at it.”
Mrs. Sweete paused. “Isn’t that—? It is!”
“Who?”
“That tall gentleman there,” she pointed toward the stairs, “with the light hair and the red waistcoat. Look familiar?”
I followed her gaze—and froze.
It was Mr. Hawke.
He was halfway up the balcony stairs, looking down at the dance floor below.
My throat tightened as the memory of our last encounter resurfaced.
I could only hope my cheeks were not as red as my dress—or his waistcoat.
Heavens above, what if he wore red deliberately to match me, anticipating that I’d wear the scarlet ribbon?
I’d look like a foolish girl in love, wearing his ribbon in the mere hope he’d find me again.
I turned to Mrs. Sweete. “I need you to remove my hair ribbon. Now.”
She glanced at my hair then shook her head. “It’s woven in too tightly. There’s no time.”
“Then we must find a way to remove that man.”
“What? Why?”
“It’s a matter of utmost importance.”
“But—”
“He’s an enemy to the crown, a danger to the country.”
“Miss Weston—”
“Perhaps if we hired a thief-taker to—”
“Miss Weston!” Her eyes darted behind me. “He’s coming your way.”
My chaperone fled to her corner chair just as Mr. Hawke stepped in front of me. It was poor timing, for Mr. Marceaux returned with my drink at precisely the same time. The two men assessed each other.
Heaven help me.
“We meet again,” Mr. Hawke said to me with a bow of his head.
At least he remembered his manners this time.
He looked more put together, too. His cravat was tied correctly, and his watch chain hung on the right button.
Even his hair seemed more kempt. If I didn’t know how horrid his personality was, I’d go so far as to say he looked handsome.
Mr. Marceaux lifted his chin at the intruder. “I don’t recognize you, monsieur. I’m Henri Marceaux. And you?”
“He’s an expert on silks,” I answered dryly. “I’ll take my drink now.”
The Frenchman raised an eyebrow and handed the blessed champagne over.