Chapter Six
As soon as he entered the overstuffed ballroom, Robert knew he’d made a grave mistake. Coming here. Thinking he could glide through society without impact. A mistake, too, in believing he might be able to fit in here.
His nighttime search of Lyme had turned up little so far.
A few discarded grapnels had been unearthed down by the water’s edge just a mile outside.
Whilst these could have been used for stabbing, swatting and killing customs officers, they might also be used for dragging fish to land.
It was not as much of a lead. The discovery of a broken pulley system on Chippel Bay, and several oilskin bags were better proof, since they were the preferred mode of transportation for smugglers.
But since they had been empty, they were not especially useful.
He had attended that dratted card party, and outplayed most there.
But aside from a few mentions of some suspect words, little had grabbed his attention save for the word ‘punch,’ which occurred again and again.
Robert was sure it had to be a codeword.
The question was, did it refer to a man or the female suspect Montacute was after?
The only note of interest really was what the Weirs’s maid Miss Bessie Enskin had said when she’d found out he was dancing with Miss Abigail that night: ‘Oh sir, Miss Abigail is a right strange one, a dangerous thing, I’d stay away from her.’
Bessie had blushed scarlet at that and crossed herself, but the sentiment had stuck with Robert, far more than the flirtatious look in the maid’s eye.
Dangerous.
Miss Abigail.
For all of his plans to stay away from her, she was still worthy of investigation.
*
It was a beautiful setting—with the bright colors, high ceilings, shining reflections off the windows.
The music of the violin and cello, and the scents of sweetened wine and burning flashes of smoky candles.
From the pastel silks of the younger women to the solemn coats of the men, and the more sophisticated hues of the married and widowed women.
It was all something of a blur, since Robert had left his glasses at the hotel, determined to appear the perfect gentleman.
But despite his lack of vision, he had still found his target.
Abigail.
Drawn like a moth to a flame.
She was who he was searching for and thinking about, above and beyond his supposed career—he was more concerned over her pleasure and contentment than he was for his reporting. Association with her was proving a more challenging undertaking than he expected. Personally. Professionally…
And now she wanted to dance. He had been grateful for the steps from the previous quadrille that he had been familiar with. That too, she had remained close—it had helped him pick his way through the dance, holding onto the feel of her fingers for longer than perhaps was polite.
“That was an enjoyable dance,” Miss Abigail said, “Despite all of your warnings to the contrary.”
“I am sure it was all down to your skill and grace.”
Miss Abigail raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. Immediately, Robert knew he had overplayed his hand. She was too good at seeing through flattery. Or perhaps she simply did not have time for such silliness.
“Have you liked the other assemblies held here?”
“Not many,” Miss Abigail said as they found their way into a small alcove.
She was clearly grateful for the relative quiet, as the voices and the music had suddenly picked up.
“I have attended many over the years.” They were not hidden from view, and it gave everyone a view of the pair of them as well as a perspective back on the dancefloor they had just left.
They could not be accused of hiding away, or being indiscreet.
But he still opined that the more normal social setting than the beach might loosen her tongue.
“If you tell me which set of steps best suits you, perhaps we could dance again?”
Surprise rippled through Robert. Young ladies did not ask men to dance. But despite all of her attempts at aping a debutante, Miss Abigail did not belong amongst such a cohort since she was far too outspoken. Too strange. Too dangerous.
“I will try and listen for a piece of music that I know best,” Robert said.
“Dancing for my sister is her greatest pleasure,” Miss Abigail said. “I do not think I would ever agree with that sentiment.”
She looked remarkably pleasing in a white and flowered evening gown, with a thick band running beneath her burst, evening gloves and a lace trim to the bottom of her dress.
It was almost as if the very strangeness of Abigail, the uniqueness of her personality had been hidden away beneath a prim, pretty and very proper young lady.
If he hadn’t known her better, Robert would not have been able to pick her out from the dozens of other young ladies present.
For some reason, he disliked this. The normal smell of her bookish, salty, dusty scent had entirely changed, and in its place was something sweet and floral.
He wondered if she had covered her face with talcum powder, as her normal tanned features were paler than normal.
It was all most odd. Especially since he thought he would have been pleased to have her conform to normal societal expectations. The odd thing was, he wasn’t. He wanted the woman he was used to back.
“I—” He tried his best to muster a reply.
“But I do not find myself always aligned with Sophia’s opinions. I have always told myself that my sister can be a ninny. But today, I question my own logic.” Miss Abigail paused, dipped her dark head, and pinkened.
Perhaps Miss Fossey had developed a tendre for him.
Although it was far from ethical, Robert decided he was not above using this to his advantage.
It was in fact a pleasing concept that he might flirt with this wallflower—nay, perhaps even seduce this wallflower.
Once she was under his spell, he could unearth why she was so dangerous, and what else she knew about besides fossils.
“We do not need to worry about your sister tonight, do we?”
“Sophia is in Bath,” Abigail said, “I am sure if she were here, worried is not the word you would pick. Or did you mean my oldest sister?” She glanced around the ballroom, looking for one of her family members.
“It doesn’t matter,” Robert said. “You are the only one I want to talk to.”
For a brief moment, Robert feared he had overplayed his hand.
Abigail frowned at him, a touch of confusion marring her face.
Then she shrugged, accepting his remark without worry.
“I thought that would be the case. What would be more natural? Unless you wish to dance with one of the Costigan girls?”
“I don’t. Not with my injury.”
“How did you injure your eyes?”
Memories of the battle, the explosion could be recalled, far more easily than Robert would readily admit.
The sound of the splintering of wood next to his head as he dashed through the burning ship, he doubted would ever leave his mind.
Yet such remembrances were not for a seaside ballroom, nor for the ears of a gentry minded wallflower—it was crucial he remember that.
Especially if he wanted to keep the pretense of being nothing more than a man of leisure.
It was a key point—his cover—to keep him hidden from whatever surrounding smugglers there might be in the area. He had to lie—to give himself at a distance from her, from the whole of the town if his employer was to be satisfied and Robert was to find out the culprits.
Abigail was watching him, her expression curious but not insensitive. There was patience there, and a true concern that left Robert perplexed, uncomfortable, and eager to tell her the truth.
“Schoolboy accident,” he lied. The words spilled forth as much as he wished he could stop himself.
“I was with my younger cousin…” He trailed off hoping she would not pry.
Instead, Abigail remained quiet, awaiting his more fulsome explanation over his fabricated cousin, and what might have happened at some made up boarding school fifteen years ago. “And there was a fire.”
It was not a hundred miles away from the reality, if one removed the sailors, enemy combatants, the live ammunition, and the ferocity of battle—after all, there had been a fire.
It had burnt through everything in its wake as if it was its sole purpose.
Ruthless as it stole lives, crew members, friends, and colleagues he had known for years, and robbed him of his excellent sight, leaving him in this state of semi-sight.
Taking from him his chance to progress further in the navy.
This memory steeled his motivation—he had to keep going if he was going to have anything to report back to Montacute.
“It was years ago,” he added. This too was not a complete lie. After all, three years, with this half sight was indeed a good length of time, and it had felt in truth far longer. He hated to discuss it, believing the exposure of it made the wound worse, drawing it out into the painful light of day.
“It would become you to wear glasses day to day.” She must have been able to see his expression, or she simply judged it kind to add, “In fact, it might draw attention to your eyes, your most striking feature.”
If it was supposed to be Robert who was flirting then he was most definitely failing, in contrast to the role of a typical blushing and shy wallflower.
An image of his fellow sailors, Lieutenants, and seamen, laughing at him for blushing, having been given a compliment by a scholarly wallflower.
This idea played acutely through his mind as her praise was given.
Robert leaned forward and scooped up her hand. Although they had both been wearing gloves, the contact was comforting. He had no desire to let go despite what attention they might attract.
“I do not need to be given compliments to satisfy some maudlin vanity—” Robert said.