style="font-size:15px;"> “I know his type; he’ll pose no challenge,” said Edward, offhand. “He lacks real bravery. They always do.”
“I imagine it’s far easier to be brave when you have the Duke of Wellington’s approval and the mounted guard at your disposal.”
Again, he studied her, the softness leaving his handsome features, his reply half indignant. “Have I caused some offence, madam?”
“Not at all, Major Roberts,” said Harriet, fighting to keep her voice level, wishing she could put a gulf, a world, a moon and a galaxy between them that she would never cross. “I speak of what I do not know. I merely would not wish to titter or simper in your presence.”
“Is that what this is about – my remarks from the other night?” A heavy, impatient noise left him, before he attempted to make amends. “Perhaps I spoke too harshly then, forgive me.”
“There is no apology necessary.”
And yet there was, but from her, for she was doing this all wrong, being wrong.
“And yet you continue to treat me as though I have wronged you, Miss Groves.”
More an accusation than a question, she asked, “Why does that trouble you so much?”
He had no answer. He ran a hand across his face, before mustering up a reply. “You are infuriating.”
“That is a step up from being an ‘odd creature’ I suppose.”
“A poor choice of words on my part, but that does not excuse – ”
Dinner was announced. Their conversation was cut short. The relief both felt was palpable in the air. It was done. She had met him, been civil – as much as she could – and she need not speak to him ever again. It was that simple. Relief swelled in her like a tide, washing up on the shore and pulling away pebbles of doubt and frustration.
In the orderly bustle of guests Harriet seated herself as far from Edward as possible, choosing a safe, if dull evening between Mr Polton and the doddery old Colonel Jessops who, she knew from experience, would spend half the night mumbling about various battles he had experienced at sea (the majority of which were fictional).
Before all were settled, Aunt Georgia spoke up: “No, no, Mr Polton, you must switch places with Major Roberts. It will balance out the table.”
Ice laced Harriet’s stomach. She met Edward’s eyes across the silverware and both knew manners would not let them argue the point. Ever the perfect gentleman, Edward acquiesced. His elbow brushed against Harriet’s as he took his seat and the contact forced into her a cold silence.
It was a game, she reminded herself. Her pulse beat exactly as it did when she was stalking the roads at night. It was what she lived for, the thrill, despite how immoral it was.
A silent agreement had fallen between herself and Edward, for they ignored one another throughout the first few courses. Despite that, she could not help but watch him: the angle of his strong jawline, his laughter at a neighbour’s joke, the quirk his mouth took when speaking. It seemed impossible to her that such a man could be an enemy, her killer, when he seemed so human – she had not given him permission for that. But she had only glimpsed the gentleman and not the soldier – who knew what he was capable of?
When she did not watch him, she felt his gaze upon her.
It burned as it crept along her neck, her collarbone, her mouth.
God, it was impossible to hate him – and that only frustrated her more.
She needed a distraction. Colonel Jessops continued his seagoing blatherings beside her and Harriet was well-versed enough in his stories to know what to say and when to hum in agreement.
“And that was when we flogged the quartermaster,” grumbled the Colonel. “Mutinous wretch that he was.” His fist hit the table and rattled their plates. “Do you know what he said? Do you?”
“Please do enlighten me.” She met her cue, her response flat, though that did not deter the speaker.
“The little runt said it was what any other would have done, said it was the honourable action, mark my words, he thought himself honourable!”
“I am truly shocked, Colonel.”
“As you should be, m’dear. I remember it well…”
A snatch of conversation across the table plucked at Harriet’s attention, and that of her maidservant’s, who was assisting with clearing away the dishes. They exchanged a harrowed look.
The bureaucrat Harriet recognised from the Pump Rooms asked Major Roberts, “Not caught the Green Highwayman yet? The clock is ticking and Sir Fielding has high hopes for you.”
“All in good time,” replied Edward levelly.
“I want him dragged through the streets, flayed, hung,” burst Mr Polton from his own seat, prompting murmurs of agreement. “The whole city wants his head. He’s dangerous.”
“Sir Fielding trusts I will bring the man to face his crimes and I will,” promised the soldier, with neither malice nor cruelty, only a solemn vow to be all he had been asked to be. “He cannot hide from me – none ever has.”
“And you’ll shoot him, you’ll kill him?” Polton’s chin wobbled as he bellowed, puffing air and spittle. “A trial is too good for him. I want him shot, sir!”
Crockery fell on the polished wooden floor. Cutlery clinked and bounced. Bowls were split and dessert remnants were artfully splattered upon the walls.
Mary was on her knees, scrabbling to pick up the broken pieces, her hands trembling and her head bowed. “I was clumsy – my apologies – ever so sorry.”
Harriet’s cheeks reddened from second-hand embarrassment on Mary’s part, along with her own concern at the conversation’s turn. Edward’s intense eyes landed on her and she could not pull her glare from his, both trapped and attempting to discern the other.
“That did give me a turn.” Aunt Georgia laughed, firmly putting the conversation back on track. “Mr Polton, do remind me – ”
Forcing her attention back down to the tablecloth, Harriet was breathless, despite having not left her seat. This was more difficult than she had ever thought it would be. Simply sitting there, listening, while men talked about her life and made rash judgements. It was infuriating. She had escaped it so far, had rarely been forced to listen to others condemn her actions. If only she could bring a pistol to the dinner table; these days she found conversations far easier when they consisted of threats.
“Miss Groves?”
Warily, through her eyelashes, she gauged the major’s expression and found no suspicion there. Why would there be? She was Miss Groves, not a wanted criminal. I’ve made you a damned fool. With each word, gesture and glance, her strong will was unravelled. And I’m sorry for it. This was not what she had planned, this was – this was not her design. There had to be a way to achieve her aim and protect him in the process, to save him from humiliation. Tonight would have been far easier if she did not find him so interesting, so self-assured,
