with Sir Reginald. Lucy, Elliot, Mary and Duprey were there as well. He wanted to order Morgana to take them all home now, before something worse happened. But, damn him, even more, he ached to grab her hand and run with her down the Dark Walk.
Some gentleman he was. If anyone cared to examine him in the light of day, they could undoubtedly see he was as shabby as Vauxhall’s plaster columns and painted walls.
He quickly backed away before the others of Morgana’s party saw him. He made his way through the revellers to the other side of the park, and slipped into his own party’s supper box. After him came Hannah and David, the other young people good-naturedly teasing them about being together. Cowdlin and Poltrop now sat with their wives in domestic harmony, and behind their backs Athenia held hands with Varney. Hannah looked unusually subdued. David fetched her a glass of wine and returned to fill his own glass with some more of the arrack punch.
Sloane joined him.
‘Have you missed us, Uncle?’ David asked, slurring his words. The young man must have dipped into more than his share of the arrack.
‘I confess I wondered where everyone went off to,’ Sloane lied.
‘Just looking at the sights,’ said David, his eyes drifting over to Hannah.
Athenia whispered something in Hannah’s ear. Hannah whispered back. Sloane felt relieved of the obligation to join her.
His mind and senses were still filled with Morgana, not the thoughts of a man intent upon offering for a society miss. At the moment, any thought of marrying Hannah was unbearable.
The signal sounded for the illuminations to begin, and everyone in the party hurried out of the box to get a good view. Sloane looked through the crowd and found Morgana, standing with her girls, all looking like the high-flyers they would become. The sight of Morgana roused him all over again. Instead of the illuminations, he watched her, the flashes of light catching her mask. The sparkle and crackle and boom were nothing to the explosions ricocheting inside him.
He’d be damned if he did not find in Morgana a kindred spirit, but one who would cause him to lose the game he’d bid so high to win.
Later that night, after a very subdued Hannah and her dozing parents delivered him back to his town house, Sloane donned dark clothes, grabbed his swordstick and his knife, and slipped back out into the night, bound for Milk Street and the living quarters above the shop of a certain button seller.
As he blended with the night on his way to Cheapside, he formulated his plan, glad he had a target for the pent-up emotion inside him. Murder might be justified, but he would settle for frightening the fellow. He gripped his swordstick tighter as he hurried to avenge the man’s evil deeds.
Sloane knew exactly what would keep the man’s breeches buttoned when the next pretty girl came into view.
Chapter Thirteen
Over the last month of the Season, Morgana saw little of Sloane, though he was often at the same balls and routs she attended. He continued to show some attention to her cousin, but never to her. Worst of all, he no longer slipped through her garden wall to share breakfast or dinner or to assist with Madame Bisou’s lessons.
Mr Elliot, who, like Mr Duprey, visited more frequently than before, disclaimed any knowledge of why Sloane avoided Morgana’s company. He said Sloane spent a great deal of time secluded in his library, adding that Sloane seemed irritable at times, snapping at Elliot but apologising afterwards.
Morgana knew precisely why he avoided her. He thought her no more than a harlot, a threat to his desire to be accepted into the beau monde, to marry her cousin.
Still, she could not help gazing out of windows, hoping to catch sight of him leaving his house, to see his tall figure striding down the road. Her heart ached for missing him.
She realised the loss of his company had been her fault. He had scolded her for her wildness, but then she’d kissed him as wantonly as any harlot might do. He had lost respect for her, and that was painful indeed.
Why could she not have merely employed the pretty flirtations that gave Hannah such success? Hannah, though her manners were lively, never strayed too far from what was proper. Unlike Morgana.
Even Hannah’s spirits had altered lately, her gaiety forced. Morgana could only suppose that Hannah worried that Sloane would not make an offer after all, although she long had been convinced that Hannah loved the idea of marrying a rich man more than the man himself. Indeed, Hannah seemed to prefer David Sloane to his uncle.
Partly to keep her mind off Sloane, Morgana allowed her girls more outings, all of them wearing hats that obscured their faces. They shopped at the Soho bazaar with money Morgana had given them to buy trinkets. They attended a performance at Astley’s Amphitheatre. Daring indeed, because five lovely young ladies together, even though chaperoned by Miss Moore and escorted by Mr Elliot and Mr Duprey, attracted nearly as much attention as the arena’s spectacular feats of horsemanship. Robert Duprey had also taken them each for rides in Hyde Park.
This morning’s breakfast conversation was all about Mr Duprey.
‘I shall never ride with him again,’ Katy said dramatically. ‘He near enough turned the curricle on its side—’
‘Nearly turned the curricle on its side,’ Miss Moore corrected.
Katy stared at her. ‘Nearly turned the curricle—’
‘Do stop!’ cried Mary. ‘I think Mr Duprey is quite good at handling the ribbons. I am sure I never worried for one minute about it.’
‘He is a menace!’ Katy shouted. ‘Rose, you must agree.’
Rose, who was chewing a piece of toasted bread, could not respond right away.
Katy did not pause. ‘He near enough—nearly—ran into some fellow in a phaeton—’
‘A gentleman, dear,’ said Miss Moore. ‘Not a fellow.’
‘I tell you, I nearly got my neck broke.’
Mary sprang to her feet. ‘I will not hear Mr Duprey so maligned. He has been nothing but kindness and generosity and all that is proper.’
‘How proper can he be spendin’ all his days with a pack of dolly mops!’ Katy demanded, a bit too loudly to be ladylike.
Morgana massaged her temples. The headache that roused her before dawn still pained her, and the discussion at hand was not helping. ‘Do not call yourself a dolly mop, Katy. You are better than that.’
Katy laughed. ‘Gracious, Miss Hart. We ain’t nothin’ more than fancy dolly mops.’
Morgana sighed. There was no use arguing with Katy. It would only egg her on and make the headache worse. Finishing her now tepid cup of tea, Morgana bade them good morning as an example of ladylike manners, and went in search of Lucy.
It did not take long to find her. She was in the garden pulling weeds. Mr Elliot stood nearby, chatting with her.
‘Good morning,
