of people he’d told her were trying to drum up support for the exiled French emperor, Bonaparte.
It was a good job the Marquess’s half-brother, the Duke of Theakstone, had suddenly decided to get married, or heaven knew what stratagems she might have been obliged to adopt. Fortunately, a friend of hers, Lady Elizabeth Grey, had an invitation to the wedding, so all Horatia had had to do was persuade her to bring her along in the guise of a companion. She’d assumed that once here, while everyone was wandering around the grounds, or taking tea, she was bound to find an opportunity for sidling up to Lord Devizes and passing on her translation of the coded letter Herbert had given her, to decipher, the very night he’d been murdered.
But, drat the man, even here she hadn’t been able to get near him. There were too many other females fluttering round him, like so many brainless moths dashing themselves against a glittering lantern. Or pigeons, perhaps. Preening themselves and cooing up at him. Well, whatever type of brainless creatures they resembled, at any given time, he always behaved like a...pasha, surrounded by an adoring harem. As though feminine adulation was no more than his due. He lapped it all up, doling out that lopsided smile of his like a kind of reward to any that particularly amused him, though his lazy-lidded eyes made him look as though he was on the verge of laughing all the time. As though life was one huge joke.
Which made her want to wring his neck. Or kick him in the shins. Or something equally violent, because while he was lounging about, flirting with every female in the place under fifty, the trail that might have led straight to Herbert’s killer was getting colder and colder.
To her left, the friend who’d played fairy godmother to her Cinderella was getting to her feet. Which meant that she would have to do the same. And then follow meekly back to the main part of the house for refreshments. And it was no use telling herself she could approach him over nuncheon, because it was far more likely that she’d feel so out of place that instead of confronting Herbert’s friend, she’d retire to a corner where she’d perch like a little black crow and watch the gaudier females flock round Lord Devizes.
It was now or never. Pushing her glasses back up to the bridge of her nose, she got to her feet and shuffled to the end of the pew, then pulled open the strings of her reticule and took out a handkerchief. Behind her, Lady Elizabeth’s mother, the Dowager Marchioness of Tewkesbury, breathed in sharply though her nostrils. Something she was wont to do whenever Horatia crossed her line of sight. The Dowager made no secret of the fact that she disapproved of her daughter becoming so friendly with a mere Miss. In fact, if it wasn’t for the fact that mother and daughter were barely speaking to each other at the moment, she suspected she would have forbidden Lady Elizabeth from bringing her along.
However, she was here. And Lord Devizes would be sauntering past the end of her pew any second now.
She blew her nose, then thrust her handkerchief back into her reticule, her heart thundering. It was too much to hope he might pause and bid her good morning. He’d had ample opportunity to do so any number of times since his arrival at Theakstone Court. But over and over again, he’d looked right through her. As if she was beneath his notice. As if he didn’t recognise her.
Though why should he? Though Herbert had introduced them, during her one and only Season, while he’d still been trying to persuade her that he could make her ‘fashionable’, Lord Devizes had clearly been highly unimpressed by his friend’s dumpy, dowdy little sister. He’d danced with her just the once. And that clearly only as a courtesy to his friend. Lord Devizes had barely spoken to her during that dance. Had never subjected her to an iota of the charm for which he was so famed, let alone actually progressed to flirting with her.
But never mind that now. This wasn’t the time to indulge in ancient resentment. Especially since he’d treated her no worse than any other of the so-called gentlemen who’d been persuaded to take pity on such a frumpy little wallflower. He was within three yards. A couple more steps and she’d be able to reach out her hand and tug at his sleeve.
Like a beggar, seeking alms.
So, no, she wouldn’t do that. She had to make their contact look accidental, or she’d be drawing attention to her desperate need to speak to him. Which she must not do.
And so, as he drew level with her, she fumbled her Bible off the pew and tossed it at his feet, hoping it would look as though she’d dropped it.
He stopped. Looked at the Bible lying in his path. Looked at her. Placed one hand on his hip and raised one corner of his mouth into a...a cynical sort of sneer.
Her face flooded with heat. The...the...bad name. The swear word. He was making it look as though he suspected her of dropping her handkerchief at his feet, in the age-old way women had of attracting the notice of a man they could not get to notice them any other way. Which she was. But not because she was lovelorn. Surely he could not be as stupid as he looked? Surely he must realise that it was because she was Herbert’s sister that she needed to speak to him? About Herbert? And his work?
Even if he was that stupid, didn’t he have even a modicum of good manners? Surely he could go through the motions of polite behaviour and bend down to pick up her book?
Apparently not. He just stood there, that cynical smile on his face, his mocking eyes regarding her steadily as her face heated with all the pent-up frustration this aggravating man had caused her recently.
‘I can’t believe,’ she muttered, stepping forward, then bending down to reach for her Bible, ‘that Herbert rated you so highly when you cannot even pick up a hint, never mind—’
She’d been going to say my Bible, but unfortunately, at the very moment she bent down to snatch up her Bible, he finally leaned down as well.
With the result that her head clashed with his outstretched arm. And, as she’d been bending down angrily and his arm was the consistency of an iron bar, she bounced off it, then off the end of the pew, and ended up sitting on her bottom on the cold, hard chapel floor.
She heard a lot of muffled sniggering.
‘I cannot believe,’ said the Dowager Marchioness of Tewkesbury, presumably to Lady Elizabeth, although Horatia could not see either of them from the chapel floor, ‘that you could have brought a person like that to a place like this, even if you are—’
‘Mother!’ Horatia heard Lady Elizabeth’s skirts swish as she whirled round in her pew and, to judge from earlier altercations, glared at her mother.
While she glared up at the agent of her misfortune, who was smiling a little wider now as though barely holding back laughter himself.
And extending his arm, as though to offer his help in getting to her feet.
‘I don’t need your help,’ she snarled, ignoring his hand and grabbing hold of one of the finials on the end of the pew she’d just bounced off, which had lots of knobbly bits to give her purchase, instead. ‘Not to get to my feet, not to find Herbert’s—’
‘You are Herbert’s sister?’ He raised one eyebrow, as though the fact astonished him. ‘I never,’ he said, running his eyes over her bedraggled frame, ‘would have guessed.’ Not many people did. Herbert was so handsome and elegant. Even he had laughingly said that while she had all the brains in the family, he had all the beauty.
‘You...’ she stuttered. ‘You...’ Once again, her vocabulary didn’t come up with a word sufficiently insulting to hurl at him that she could possibly use in a chapel.
He lowered his hand.
