always believed that the quality of the servant reflected the quality of the employer, though what it said about her that she would wish to hang on to a maid who’d admitted such a moral lapse as Lucy had done, she could not guess.
Another thought crept in, one that put completely out of her mind the intention of informing Cripps about the wall. What if Mr Sloane purchased the property next door?
That evening Sloane surveyed the unremarkable décor and the predictable company, and lamented the sacrifices he must make in his quest for respectability.
Almack’s. Was there any place so tedious?
Still, he crossed the room to pay his respects to the patronesses. Lady Castlereagh and Lady Jersey were keeping watch over their domain this night.
He bowed before Lady Castlereagh, not missing Lady Jersey’s disapproving frown. ‘Good evening, ma’am.’ He turned to Lady Jersey. ‘And to you, ma’am. It is an honour to be here this evening.’
He hoped his deference to the great Lady Jersey, who was known for her high opinion of herself and arbitrary opinion of others, would inch him towards her approval. Her frown eased just a bit.
‘Good evening, Mr Sloane.’ Lady Castlereagh offered her hand and he raised it lightly to his lips. ‘I am so pleased you have come. Tell us, what do you think of our young ladies? Is there anyone to whom I might present you?’
Sloane gave his most polite, agreeable expression. ‘I would be honoured to be introduced to any young lady you think suitable.’
Lady Castlereagh turned to her companion. ‘Who do you suggest, Sally?’
Lady Jersey puffed up in importance. ‘You, sir, are acquainted with Lady Hannah, Cowdlin’s girl. She is an unexceptionable choice for you, but we might also introduce you to Miss Simpson, Lord Kettleton’s youngest. There is a tolerable dowry there, I am sure, though the family has launched three other daughters. Lady Kettleton is an annoying person, a bit common in her manner, but you could do worse in her daughter.’
‘The girl is a shy little thing,’ Lady Castlereagh added. ‘But a nice well-mannered girl.’
He could not think of a young lady who suited him less than a shy, nice, well-mannered girl. ‘If you both desire it, I shall be happy to make her acquaintance.’
Lady Jersey herself led him over to where Miss Simpson sat with her mother. Sloane saw the mother’s flash of disfavour and the daughter’s eye-widening fear as that notorious rake, Cyprian Sloane, approached her. The poor child had little to fear from him. He was reasonably certain he would make formal his interest in Lady Hannah, but to be respectable he must not appear to show favour until ready to declare himself. He was not certain precisely why he was not yet ready.
He bowed politely to Lady Kettleton and her daughter, and just as politely asked the girl to join him in the set that was at that moment forming.
With a frightened glance to her mother and Lady Jersey, Miss Simpson nodded and allowed him to lead her to the dance floor.
They took their places for the country dance near where the musicians played in the balcony. Sloane leaned towards his terrified partner. ‘I beg your assistance, Miss Simpson. Tell me if I make a misstep. I become a bit nervous in a crowd such as this.’
Her eyes widened even more. ‘You become nervous?’
No, truthfully, Sloane never became nervous. And he hardly ever turned the wrong way in a country dance or trod on a lady’s toes. He merely wished to put the girl at ease. If she saw him as less than an ogre—or less than a shocking rake—she might relax and at least enjoy the set.
‘Does not everyone become nervous around so many people?’ He tried to school his features into those of a self-conscious dancer.
Her eyes still mimicked saucers as the dance began, but she soon showed that she took his request very seriously. She quietly cued him on what step came next and complimented him when he made a correct figure. She was so absorbed in his performance, she appeared to have totally forgotten herself. As they moved down the line, the fear on her face had vanished, replaced by a rather sweet smile.
The set was long and boring, but Sloane congratulated himself on giving Miss Simpson a bit of confidence. When he finally returned her to her still-disapproving mother, she glanced around the room with more interest than fear. He bowed and bid her goodnight. As he turned from her, he saw Lady Hannah enter the room.
Rather he should say that he saw Miss Hart enter the room, accompanied by Lady Hannah and her mother, for it was Miss Hart who captured his gaze first. Because of her gown, he told himself. It was the colour of an evening sunset, the sort of soft orange that sometimes lights the horizon. Miss Hart’s gown caught the eye more readily than a white one festooned with pink ribbons, flounces and silk flowers.
It might cause talk if he immediately approached them, so he walked to a corner of the room and stood at the crowd’s edge. The two young ladies followed Lady Cowdlin to a bevy of dowagers and chaperons, obviously of Lady Cowdlin’s acquaintance. Miss Hart turned to survey the room. She caught sight of him, hesitating a moment as she did. Sloane experienced a spark of awareness, but he would not credit that. It would merely be due to the high drama of their first encounter, that was all. A memory of danger and excitement often was accompanied by the same surge of emotions the real incident created. Why, he could not go down to the docks without reliving the macabre thrill of battling the French spy he’d been tracking, of the viciousness of the fight, and ultimate victory when his sword plunged deeply into the man’s chest.
Blinking away that memory, Sloane nodded slightly to acknowledge Miss Hart. She smiled, and her gaze eventually travelled on.
A familiar young man he’d not noticed before walked over to him. ‘Good evening, sir.’
Sloane was momentarily without speech.
The young man smiled. ‘I am your nephew, David Sloane.’
Sloane shook his head, as if waking from a stupor. ‘Yes, yes, I know who you are. I confess I am surprised…’
No member of his family had spoken to him or called on him or otherwise acknowledged his presence since he had arrived in town. He took a breath and extended his hand. ‘How do you do, David.’
The young man accepted the handshake warmly. ‘I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Uncle.’
This nephew had been a mere lad, not even old enough for school, when Sloane, then a youth himself, had last seen him. It had been during a rare holiday from school that Sloane spent with the family. He recalled his father being in some towering rage, the reason escaping him. Perhaps he’d been caught downing ale with the field hands at the pub, or had it been the time he’d overturned his father’s new gig?
Did his nephew’s memories of Uncle Cyprian include hearing the Earl’s barrage of verbal abuse and his stinging lashes with a whip? If the young man were spared such memories, as Sloane was not, he was certain the Earl and David’s father would have supplied other evidence of Uncle Cyprian’s total moral collapse.
David smiled again. ‘I had wanted to make myself known to you before, but I’d not found the opportunity.’
Sloane gave him a grave look. ‘Your father and grandfather will not approve of your speaking to me.’
