and a reprimand. He had no idea where Isaac’s target was, but the man’s daughter was easy to spot. Lottie’s red hair gave her away, a shining beacon in the candlelight. Now, there was a pretty woman not far from his grasp, but nothing usually was.
“Miss Griswell?” Lottie’s carefully considered expression was directed his way, ready to turn down any unworthy suitor, until – of course – she saw him. An expectant smile folded back her lips as he bowed. If only he’d been paid to seduce her; it would all be over by midnight and he’d be a rich man. “I take it that you are recovered from yesterday’s excitement?”
“Almost,” she replied, meeting his eyes with unnerving intensity. “But now that you’re here, I know there’s nothing to worry about.”
“There are no snakes here tonight, Miss Griswell,” he assured her. “At least, not the kind with scales.”
“I suppose such excitement is bland for you, what with your time at sea.”
“Now who have you been talking to?” Isaac’s practised smile grew thinner, an impatient flicker. She did not notice. They never did.
“No one who could satisfy my curiosity.” She gave him a childish pout. “You’re an enigma, Mr Roscoe.”
Her reply did not reassure him. If there were any here who knew his past, it put his aims in danger. “I am surprised Miss Osbourne isn’t with you tonight.”
“She’s not one for all this.” Lottie waved her hand at their surroundings: glittering chandeliers, peacock feathers, military uniforms and forced civility. “Not like us two, who are far more suited to such high circles. We are very much alike, you and I.”
“Where did you say she was?”
Her eyes narrowed. “I didn’t.” Women like Lottie wore jealousy like jewellery, on show for all to see and pander to. The hold he had over her was slipping – and if he couldn’t charm the friend, he would have no hope manipulating the Osbourne girl.
The things I do for money, he thought.
“Would you like to dance, Miss Griswell?”
Lottie’s demeanour changed entirely, gloved fingers resting on his arm, victorious. Her chatter never ceased as she tried to coax out his mysteries, flatter his ego or endear herself to him. He could almost hear the wedding bells sounding in her barren, shallow skull.
It was midway through the minuet, as their hands found one another, that she said, “You have rescued me from loneliness tonight, for Ruth’s never any company.”
“How so?”
“She constantly abandons me and finds some sad little corner somewhere, as though she’s above all this.”
“How could anyone possibly leave you, Miss Griswell?”
Isaac mistakenly, for a brief second, stumbled into guilt. It was Lottie’s hopeful expression that did it, that chipped at his resolve, when she became the person behind all the flirtatious comments and wilful actions. Another lonely woman, looking for a deeper connection under all the flat promises and endless, lifeless parties.
“Ruth’s usually hovering in doorways or sitting alone, still as a statue,” said Lottie, as the music played on and she faced the tall man. “I can’t tear her away from Lady Winston’s garden this evening, not even to dance. I can hardly understand her most days. Who wouldn’t want to—”
Ruth was in the gardens.
He had her now.
And so Isaac left Lottie, without apology, standing on the ballroom floor with a lost expression and the dance incomplete.
“Do excuse me,” were the only words he offered, moving on without a backwards glance. She did not call out; he knew she wouldn’t. To do so would be to risk looking even more foolish, mouth gaping, pride wounded, hopes crushed and surrounded by twirling, happy couples. Isaac had a job to do.
The gardens were littered with small groups who tipped wine down their necks and basked in the cooler air. Night had washed the colour from the leaves, leaving greys and blacks behind. No distant figure sat in solitude. No wanderer marked the grounds. The girl was nowhere to be found. As much as he hated to admit that Griswell was right, Isaac was running short on time. He must have overlooked her, walked straight past her, somewhere. He told himself he’d find her on his way back towards the punch bowl, because another drink never hurt, but his march was halted. The doors to the glasshouse, the orangery, were wide open.
Slapping footfalls came from within, along with high laughter – a child’s.
He followed it.
In amongst the narrow trees and sweeping plants, Ruth’s ill-coloured gown brushed along the floor, a whispering noise, as she slowly approached a shadowed hiding place. Isaac could not see what she chased, not until her purposely slowed movements gave the three-year-old, her playmate, enough time to dart out and weave through the pots. Their little game was filled with high voices and scary growls, clawed hands and delighted screams.
“Not so fast,” called Ruth, as she reached out and easily captured the little boy, swinging him in a wide arc. Bare feet, mucky from the flagstones, kicked in the air until they found their way back to solid ground.
“Again!”
“One more time and then we really have to…” Ruth saw Isaac’s silhouette in the doorway and she straightened up, alert.
All those clever, practised lines he had hoped to offer vanished. It made no sense. He was good at this; he was a professional. And yet there was nothing. No suave remarks, no quick wit. It had to be the wine. It had knocked him off kilter – that was all.
“Forgive me,” he finally said, feeling foolish, striding forwards. “I did not mean to frighten you – or the little one.”
“I’m not scared,” called the boy, receiving a gentle shush from Ruth. “I’m not, I swear.”
“Glad to hear it,” answered Isaac, analysing the situation, his target’s expression, and hoping that his head would provide any answer as to how to proceed. His mind was uncooperative, packed tight with cotton. All words left him, as though he’d never had them at all. Isaac fumbled, “We met yesterday.”
“I know.”
“I – your friend, she was worried about you – out here, by yourself.”
Ruth blinked heavily. “Lottie sent you?”
“You seem surprised.”
“I don’t have any other friends and Lottie won’t remember I exist until the ball draws to a close.”
“Ah,” said Isaac, swallowing thickly. “You don’t like talking much, do you?”
“Not – not when there’s nothing to say.”
“Then do you prefer dancing?” It was another attempt to rouse the brief flicker he’d seen by the canal bank, the more open, less wary and awkward woman.
“As
