Chapter 19
Alice blinked weariness from her eyes, willing herself to focus on the conversation at hand.
She nodded along with Lord Danbury’s words but was grateful that Mrs. Watts responded, allowing Alice to stay silent.
If only everyone in the drawing room were as tired as she, then they might have an early night.
But no, the portraitist would be there at any moment.
She stifled a yawn.
“I saw that,” a quiet voice murmured at her side.
Startled, Alice met Sir Henry’s laughing eyes.
A mix of humiliation at having been caught unattuned to the conversation, and something else, flooded her.
What was that unidentifiable emotion? It was not exactly the wariness she often felt around him.
It was not the disappointment she’d experienced when learning of his dependence on drink, or the odd sense of hope she’d had after hearing his side of the story.
It wasn’t happiness, either. Surely, not that.
“Might I steal you away for a moment?” he asked, glancing toward the group she was with.
His question startled her even more than when he’d spoken. What did he wish from her? They’d had an enjoyable afternoon the day before, despite the rocky start to the day. But she was content to leave it there.
Except, the thought of leaving it at amiable acquaintances did not actually make her happy in the least. She didn’t know what to make of that.
When she didn’t answer right away, Sir Henry surveyed her, asking instead, “Can I help with anything?” His voice was still pitched low, and the group to their side still continued their conversation.
Surprise colored her thoughts yet again. “No, all is well.” She was shaking her head and saying the right words—the words George would have expected and accepted, but Sir Henry seemed skeptical. And then, instead of retreating, he settled in at her side, his shoulder a couple inches above her own.
He smiled her way before turning his attention to the conversation. Blinking, she did the same.
The topic had turned to the latest fashions in London, to which Alice had nothing of note to contribute.
She couldn’t seem to stop her mind from wandering again to all the things she needed to do at that moment.
To where the portraitist was, and when Lieutenant Carruthers would take half her guests off to the billiards room.
The constant buzz of consideration and contemplation ran a race about her mind.
Sometimes it would be nice if her thoughts could just quiet down and let her be for a while.
“You’re looking a bit peaky, dear,” Mrs. Watts cut into a lull in the conversation, aiming her remark at Alice.
Oh gracious. Was her exhaustion showing?
That wouldn’t do. She straightened. “I am just fine. I do believe I will see if—oh, and there he is. If you are all ready, I will call the group to attention for our entertainment this evening.” Her butler stood in the doorway, the man hired to sketch her guests just behind him.
In minutes, she had the guests gathered round—those interested in sketches, and those interested in watching the artist work—and the portraitist was setting up to sketch Lady Hemmersley.
In the background, she saw the lieutenants leave, Shelbourne directing a nod in her direction which she returned stiffly.
When would the exodus of the rest of the men invited to their game occur?
She remarked on Lady Hemmersley’s beauty, exclaimed the portraitist’s skill, and responded to a handful of the nearby guests’ comments.
Then, finally, she sank onto a settee, resting her exhausted feet.
The cushions beside her sagged with the weight of another. Sir Henry had joined her on the couch.
She turned to him, apology in her expression. “I am sorry I could not come earlier. What was it that you needed?”
He settled in facing her, his elbow resting on the back of the couch. He cut quite the figure, with his blue coat and embroidered waistcoat. “Nothing. You just seemed tired, and I’d thought to give you an excuse to sit.”
“Oh.” That was a kindness she’d not expected. And one she wished she had taken. “Thank you. I worry that I haven’t had the opportunities to talk with the group as I ought to.”
He nodded. “What were you busy with after the play practice this afternoon? I could not find you.”
He’d looked for her? “Plans for the masquerade ball at the end of the summer. And . . . ” She stopped herself.
“And?”
She pursed her lips, but something told her he wouldn’t judge her. “Helping in the kitchens.”
“Do you do that often?” he asked, rather than rearing back as though she were uncouth.
She lifted a shoulder, feigning that this conversation was not strange at all for her. Not once had she willingly told a guest that she contributed to their meals. “When I can. It is a way to relax while still being constructive to my guests’ stay.”
“You work too hard, Mrs. Seymour.”
She brushed that off. “Hardly.”
He looked as if he might argue, but she cut him off, a question she’d had for him springing to her lips. “And where did you go this afternoon?”
“I went to Dunsmore.”
She sucked in a breath, tensing. She ought to have known—
“I did not drink, if that is where your mind went,” he added casually, but she felt the presence of his eyes on the side of her face.
It was exactly what she’d been thinking. “I am not your keeper, Sir Henry. You need not explain yourself to me.”
There was a pause long enough that she actually looked over at him.
His gaze was serious. “Even still,” he said, “I intend to prove to you that I am not dependent on drink. I had business in town and did stop at the White Hart for a time. But I did not drink.”
She was caught in his eyes, a deep blue to match the ocean. Caught in that gaze that for a brief moment felt familiar. Comfortable.
Then a hush fell over the room as the portraitist revealed his sketch. It was simply done but accurate and impressive. Several people clapped. And when another took Lady Hemmersley’s place, the room remained quiet—more people watching the artist now that they were invested in his work.
It made conversation difficult, and so Alice had to turn her attention to staying awake.
Which was easier than she’d have expected.
Something about Sir Henry’s presence beside her made it simple to remain alert.
Every time he shifted in his seat, she was aware.
Each time he reacted in any way, she noticed.
After a time, she realized she was paying more attention to him than the portraitist.
His eyes cut to hers, catching her glance. Heat filled her cheeks, but before she could look away, he spoke in an undertone. “Your helping in the kitchen—have I ever sampled something you made?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Let me guess.” He scooted closer. “The sweet rolls?”
She shook her head. Heavens no, not those.
“Hmm. The trifle?”
“No,” she whispered, grateful they were toward the back of the group so she did not feel the need to end their conversation.
“The cutlets?”
“Martha would never let me near the meat.”
Half of Sir Henry’s mouth lifted at that. “The vegetables then?”
She nodded and he gave a quiet cheer of success.
“They were quite good,” he whispered.
“You need not say that for my sake.”
“No, truly, I took two helpings, if you did not notice.”
She allowed a small smile. She had noticed, actually.
He leaned closer. “Do you make something daily?”
“Not every day, but near to it.”
“Then I will have to guess again tomorrow.”
She agreed to it, noticing as she did that he was not returning to his previous relaxed position. Only a breath or two of space separated them now. Their arms touched each time one or the other moved.
But then the door opened, and several men left the room.
Sir Henry’s gaze shot to the clock, and he grumbled under his breath. “I apologize, Mrs. Seymour, but my presence was requested by Lieutenant Carruthers.” His eyes caught hers, and something in them held her very still. “I promise you, I’d far prefer to stay in current company.”
She surprised herself when a wave of disappointment ran down her spine. “No, of course you should go. Enjoy yourself.”
There was the briefest of hesitations in him before he stood and bowed. “Good evening, Mrs. Seymour.”
Henry was fantastic at billiards. But as with a card game, it was best to lose every now and again. And with nothing on the line but the good moods of those around him, he intended to do a great deal of losing that evening.
There were perhaps half a dozen men in the room besides himself and the lieutenants.
They loitered along the paneled walls, chatting, while Henry lined up his next shot.
Carruthers had insisted he play first, though he’d been last to arrive, which was fine by Henry, as he had some questions for the man.
Between the man’s evident distaste for smuggling and Carlton’s information that he had not been at the masquerade the night Henry’s father had been killed, Henry had written him off the list. But seeing him enter the stable that afternoon had been suspicious.
“You never did say what brought you to town today, lieutenant,” Henry asked, missing the shot.
Carruthers scanned the table, taking stock of the balls. “Same as you. A much-needed drink.”
“Are there any other inns in town? I was not particularly impressed with the White Hart’s offerings.”
“Maybe a bit further out. I wouldn’t know.”
“You have not visited often? I would have thought you’d come frequently to see the Seymours.”
Carruthers sunk a ball but missed his second. “No more than any friend would.”
The men in the stable had mentioned a lieutenant, but they wouldn’t take orders from a man very rarely on island, would they? Then again, Carruthers was giving rather vague responses.
Before Henry could pose another question, Carruthers leaned against the table to Henry’s right, watching him set up his next shot.
“I admit I know very little about you, Sir Henry.” He cocked his head. “And your sister. What part of the country do you hail from?”
Henry squinted at the balls, bending over for a closer view. “Gloucestershire.”
“Do you enjoy it there?”
Henry sent the shot wide, nearly hitting one of the lieutenant’s balls instead of his own. He sighed, straightening. “I spend most of my time in London.”
“Your sister as well?”
“Julia . . . ” What did Julia do? She’d been scowling at him when he’d left the drawing room, but he gathered that was not what Carruthers was asking.
“She has a great deal of friends to keep up with. Correspondence, and visits and the like.” At least that was what he assumed she was doing, always scribbling away at something.
Perhaps she was a secret novelist. What would that say about him if he had no idea?
The same things already said about him; he was a lackluster guardian who did not take enough interest in his sister.
And for the last twenty-four hours, he hadn’t even attempted to matchmake himself as he’d promised he would. Blast, but everything he had to do on this island was growing hard to keep in line.
“Hmm,” the lieutenant said, lining up his own perfect shot.
Henry narrowed his eyes at the man. Was he interested in Henry’s sister? He wasn’t a bad fellow, but Henry didn’t like the man. He couldn’t put a finger on why.
“And you?” he asked. “Where do you reside?”
Carruthers took another shot. “Surrey. Though I haven’t been in years.” His aim was successful and another ball fell into its pocket.
Where had he been, then? “You did not go back after the war?” Henry asked, watching him closely.
Carruthers looked up. “No. The navy still has need of men. I stayed on.”
“Shelbourne too?” Henry asked, cocking his head to the back of the room where that man lay indolently in a plush armchair. If Henry didn’t know the state of alcohol in the house, he would think the man was half-drunk.
Carruthers nodded, lining up his final shot. Henry had only gotten a single ball in, which had been his intention. “Yes, Shelbourne too. Many of us stayed on. We are not all fortunate enough to be landowners—a profession of some sort is needed.”
His words were said lightly, but his eyes were hard when he looked up.
A profession like the navy? Or like smuggling and piracy?
“I think that is the game,” Carruthers said, stepping back after his final, successful shot. “Better luck next time.”
Henry clapped the side of the table. “Probably no better, truth be told, but at least now you can find another, worthier opponent.”
Carruthers gave a short bow, and Henry turned, inserting himself into the conversation nearest him. He’d heard bits and pieces while playing, and it seemed Mr. Gregory and Mr. Swasey were talking about trade on the island, which could possibly give him an opening to ask about smuggling.
But after a quarter of an hour discussing the price of wheat, bad wind patterns, and Gregory’s wife’s visit to London, Henry extricated himself from the conversation, moving slowly around the room, listening.
Unsurprisingly, there was nothing to be learned.
When he attempted to steer the conversation to France, the prices of goods, or even the merchants who traded with the island, he was unsuccessful in learning more than the most basic of information he could have figured himself.
Until the evening was drawing to a close, and Lord Danbury turned to Shelbourne. “Say, are there any beaches that afford a little more privacy? I had thought to take Miss Fawcet for an evening stroll.”
Shelbourne squinted, as if trying to recall information. Then he shrugged. “Can’t rightly say.”
Mr. Gregory stepped up to the men. “You’re wanting Montclair Cove, Danbury. Pretty little stretch of sand. The caves are good for exploring too.”
Unimportant information to most.
Except Henry had brought maps to the island. Had studied them extensively.
And there was no Montclair Cove.