in silence.
Her expression took on a determined look when she spoke again. ‘The weather was lovely today, was it not?’
He laughed again. ‘I concede defeat, Miss Hart. Spare me talk of the weather. You may grill me to your heart’s content.’
Her eyes sparkled. ‘May I?’
‘Only if I may ask questions in return, such as, why were you in a tug of war with a scoundrel in Hyde Park?’
‘Shh!’ Her eyes darted to and fro as if searching for eavesdroppers. She raised them to him again. ‘Now it is I who concede defeat. There is nothing left for us to speak of except the activities of other people, and I have no gossip at all to share, only being out in public these two days.’
He joined in her bantering. ‘And I am loathe to talk of others lest they talk of me, though I have never been successful at stopping them.’
She made her eyes big, but they were dancing with mischief. ‘Is there so much about you to be discussed?’
How unlike the frightened Miss Simpson, he thought, who needed protection from his disreputable self. Miss Hart was made of sterner stuff. But he’d known that from the first sight of her.
‘We are at a stand again.’ She laughed.
They went round and round with the music, in a companionable silence that did not entirely suit him.
His expression turned more serious. ‘I was surprised when my nephew approached me,’ he said. ‘He is the first of my family to have done so in years.’
She answered quietly, ‘I will not ask why, I promise you.’
Sloane’s smile was not mirthful. ‘Why he speaks to me? I cannot think why he should do so. Or did you mean why I am estranged? Why the respectable Earl of Dorton does not speak to his son? You will hear those stories soon enough, I am sure.’
She kept her gaze steady. ‘Shall I believe them?’
‘Some of them,’ he admitted.
She nodded gravely, but with something that almost smacked of understanding. He must be careful. She could be like some of the women he met during the war, who could be as understanding as necessary in order to worm out confidences and sell them to the highest bidder. He’d been that high bidder some of the time. He’d learned to keep his mouth shut and reveal only what he wished them to know.
This was not war, with the lives of thousands of soldiers at stake, but rather his own personal campaign to conquer the ton. No matter how intrigued he was by this woman, he dared show her only what he wished her to see.
‘You have not been in town long, Miss Hart?’ A change of subject was always a good tactic.
A fleeting smile crossed her face. ‘We are back to polite conversation, are we? Yes. Lately from Paris.’
‘And did you like Paris?’ he went on.
Faint lines creased her brow. ‘I confess, I could not like the gaiety, as if all the horror of the past twenty-five years had not emanated from that place.’
Another response to render him speechless. He’d had the same feeling when visiting the city, both during and after the war, but he’d thought his reaction personal. She did tempt him to let down his guard. That would be all he needed. To let slip one of the shocking events of his life, what he had sunk to in the name of King and country—and before—so that she might inform her uncle and ruin his well-laid plans.
By the time the set had ended they were a gloomy duo, but both plastered smiles on their faces when Lady Hannah, David Sloane in tow, rejoined them.
Morgana only half-listened to the conversation between her cousin and her two admirers.
What had happened? One minute during that glorious waltz with Sloane they had been bantering as friends. The next minute he had retreated from her entirely. She had only asked one impertinent question, but had withdrawn it almost as the words left her mouth.
Maybe it had been her frankness about Paris. Perhaps she ought to have gushed over the beauty of the city, the delicious food, the fashionable gowns and hats. That was what Hannah would have done, and it was Hannah who had captured his interest.
Hannah and Mr David Sloane took no notice when Morgana backed away, but she caught Sloane staring at her as she walked over to two young ladies Hannah had introduced her to before the ill-fated waltz. When the next set formed, one of the gentlemen in their group asked her to dance.
She thought Sloane’s eyes followed her as she stepped on to the floor.
Chapter Four
Two days later Sloane sat at his desk, gazing at the paper his secretary placed in his hand.
‘Culross Street?’ He glanced at the young man standing before him.
‘It is an ideal situation, sir.’ Mr Elliot spoke earnestly. ‘Completely furnished, and in a manner that is presentable—if not in the latest style. There are servants eager to retain employment, and the owner is done up and desperate for cash.’
Sloane read the paper again. ‘But Culross Street?’
Mr Elliot’s brow wrinkled. ‘I assure you, Mr Sloane, Culross Street is a very sought-after address. I took the liberty of making the agreement in your name—’
The young man stepped back as Sloane half-rose from his chair. ‘You made the agreement?’
‘As you gave me liberty to do, sir,’ Elliot reminded him, with an indignant lift of his chin. ‘If we had delayed, another buyer would have snapped it up, and I vow there were no other suitable properties in all of Mayfair. None that would allow you to move in directly.’
Sloane sat back down. Culross Street was a small one, to be sure, but there must be at least a dozen town houses on it. What were the odds of being too close to Miss Hart? He began to calculate the numbers, as if this were a game of cards, but caught himself and waved his hand in impatience.
Decidedly easier to ask. ‘Elliot, I am acquainted with a resident on that street. A Miss Hart. Can you tell me where this house of yours—I mean, mine—is situated in relation to hers?’
The young man beamed. ‘Oh, yes, Miss Hart. She would be right next door.’
Sloane groaned.
‘Is something amiss, sir?’ Elliot blinked, clearly baffled.
Sloane shook his head. ‘No. No.’
Nothing amiss. He was merely moving next door to a single lady, the cousin of the woman he intended to marry. What could be amiss? Only that someone was certain to attribute some lascivious meaning to the event and spread gossip. Why could Elliot not have put him next to some widowed viscountess or some such?
‘You gave me authority to make this decision,’ Elliot added defensively.
‘Yes,
