own collar itched.
A merry voice interrupted. ‘Thea! I thought it was you! How naughty of you to hide away here with Mr Blakehurst. And how delightful to see you after all these years! Do you know, I quite thought you must have retired to a convent.’ A slender woman stood in the doorway, several feathers nodding in her dark, elaborately coiffed hair. ‘I couldn’t believe it when they said you were here,’ she continued, ‘and then I saw you vanishing out of the door! Am I interrupting?’ She stepped into the room, leaving the door open. ‘Are you about to box his ears?’
Richard recognised the fashionably dressed young matron.
Lady Fox-Heaton’s famous smile beamed as she came across the room, holding out her hands to Thea in unaffected pleasure.
Hesitantly Thea placed her own in them and stood up. ‘Diana—how well you look.’ She smiled. ‘You are married, of course?’
Diana Fox-Heaton flushed slightly. ‘Yes. Had you not heard?’
At Thea’s denial, Lady Fox-Heaton looked troubled. ‘Oh, well, I … I married Francis—Francis Fox-Heaton.’ She sighed. ‘You will remember him, of course—he was friendly with poor Mr Lallerton.’
To Richard it seemed that Thea’s expression froze.
‘You married Sir Francis Fox-Heaton?’ she said carefully.
Lady Fox-Heaton’s smile glimmered. ‘Oh, yes. And I know what you are thinking! How did I come to marry a mere baronet? We were all going to marry earls at the very least, were we not? But Sir Francis is an MP now! Such consequence!’
Richard repressed a snort. It was rumoured that Diana had outraged her family by dismissing a marquis to marry Fox-Heaton. A love match if ever there was one.
‘How lovely for you,’ said Thea. But Richard could not rid himself of the impression that she thought it anything but lovely.
‘Yes,’ said Diana cheerfully. ‘It is. But for now, we had better get you back to the party. If I saw you leave, you may be sure others did, and I must say—there are some very odd stories circulating anyway.’ She gave Richard a severe look. ‘I should have thought, Mr Blakehurst, that you had more sense than this.’
Richard choked.
‘Odd stories?’ Thea’s query sounded casual. Too casual, thought Richard. Were she not wearing gloves, he’d swear her knuckles would be showing white.
‘Very odd,’ said Diana. ‘I’ll explain later.’
Returning to the party, Richard was hailed by a small group headed by the Marquis of Callington, wanting his opinion on the value of the late King’s library, recently presented to the nation by his Majesty. More than happy to promote his belief that the value of the library was immense, he joined them, but discovered to his disgust that part of his mind remained focused on Thea. His gaze kept straying to where she stood with Diana Fox-Heaton and a number of other young matrons, and several men whom usually he considered good enough fellows, but whom right now he would have cheerfully flung through a window. Men who were far too wary to hang around most matrimonially inclined young girls and their mamas—but who might nevertheless be interested in a woman with an independent fortune …
‘Well, the last thing we want is a repeat of the tragedy that you say befell the Cotton manuscripts, Ricky,’ said Callington.
Richard dragged his mind back to agree with Callington’s conclusion that it was of the first importance to ensure that the late King’s library was well protected from fire or any other calamity. He breathed a sigh of relief to see that David Winslow had joined the little group about Thea. If Winslow was ready to carve slices out of his hide, then he was well able to re-educate the thinking of any other overly libidinous suitors.
Chapter Four
By the end of the evening, Thea felt as though she had been boiled up in a copper with the sheets. She was exhausted, limp, by the time Almeria summoned the carriage to return to Grosvenor Square. But she had survived. She had renewed her acquaintance with a number of women who had been brought out in the same season as herself and had been accepted back into their number.
Her public acceptance by Diana Fox-Heaton ensured that. Diana had accompanied her back to the drawing room. Several women she had known as a girl had come up to her, inviting her to various parties. She thought about Diana as the maid readied her for bed. They had not been close friends years ago, but they had liked each other. And Diana had gone out of her way to help tonight. She had warned her that rumours were circulating. Rumours that suggested Miss Winslow’s long absence from society might have very little to do with mourning a lost love …
She shivered. Diana was married to Sir Francis—one of the very few people who could have any inkling of the truth. He had been a close friend of Nigel Lallerton’s, that was how she had come to know Diana. They had been part of the same circle. What would he say to his wife’s renewed friendship with her?
She slipped into bed and blew out the lamp. Despite her exhaustion, sleep mocked her. Diana had been quite as outspoken as Richard on the subject of Lord Dunhaven … Francis says he simply wants a brood mare—and that no father of sense will give his consent to such a marriage. You know, there was all sorts of gossip when his wife died—but nothing could be done. No servant would ever speak out in a matter like that!
Thea shivered. Aberfield, however, was willing to promote the match.
A hard-edged face slid into focus. Dark eyes that usually spoke of cool control, self-discipline—eyes that had positively blazed with some violent emotion this evening. Heat flickered, tingling inside her—Richard must really loathe Dunhaven for some reason, she told herself. She didn’t think she had ever seen him so angry—except once when he was a boy, and his mother had just visited … She sighed. She hadn’t much liked Richard’s mother herself and she wondered what the new Lady Blakehurst was like … Richard seemed to like her, even if Lady Arnsworth didn’t.
Richard walked back to Grosvenor Square in company with Braybrook. They had ended the evening in the card room, playing piquet for penny points with an added shilling for a game, and a pound a rubber. Richard had emerged ahead by a couple of pounds and half a bottle of brandy.
‘The sad thing is,’ said Richard, jingling the coins in his pocket, ‘that if I played for larger stakes, I’d lose resoundingly!’
‘Naturally,’ said Braybrook. ‘My father always said much the same; you only win when you can afford to lose. Pity he didn’t take his own advice speculating. Here we are—Arnsworth House.’
‘So it is,’ said Richard, inspecting the familiar portico.
A faint scraping sound brought both of them swinging around sharply. A small dark shape detached itself from the steps leading down to the area and resolved itself into a boy.
‘What the devil are you doing there?’ demanded Richard.
The lad hung back. ‘Would one of you be Mr Richard Blakehurst?’
‘What’s that to you, lad?’ asked Braybrook suspiciously.
Richard shook his head. ‘It’s all
