Passionately Yours (Hellions of High Street 3)

But what? There really wasn’t much else to say.

However, despite her obvious agitation, Isobel felt compelled to go on, “But… but things are not always as they seem from the simple facts. As we both know from our fondness for novels, a story may be told in many different ways, in many different slants, depending on what the narrator wants the reader to see and feel.”

“I am not sure I understand what you are trying to say,” replied Caro, in no frame of mind to puzzle out whatever oblique message was being conveyed. “Fact and fiction are not the same.”

“I wish I could say more,” Isobel’s response was barely audible over the rustling of the ivy vines twined around the balusters.

Caro didn’t feel she could press her friend any further. And really, for what purpose? Details seemed pointless, for the worst seemed confirmed. Looking down, she carefully smoothed her skirts into precise pleats in order to hide her dismay.

She was bitterly disappointed, and not just in Alec.

Apparently I am not a very good judge of character.

And yet, much as Caro told herself that Alec had been revealed as a cad, doubt still nibbled at the corners of her consciousness. What Thayer had hinted at was dastardly behavior, and she didn’t think she could be that wrong about someone.

“Have I given you ladies enough time for a comfortable coze?”

Andover’s cheerful greeting pulled her out of her brooding.

“I’ve brought you champagne instead of ratafia punch, since it adds such a festive sparkle to an evening of dancing.” The torchlight suddenly flared brighter in a swirl of the breeze, causing him to stop and clear his throat with a tentative cough.

“Er, has something serious occurred?” He asked it lightly, but a glimmer of concern flickered in his eyes as they met Caro’s gaze. “A torn flounce? A lost hairpin?”

She managed a wry smile. “Nothing so devastating as that. We were simply discussing the plot of a novel we didn’t care for.”

“Yes,” agreed Isobel. “A most unsatisfactory story so far, but I have hopes that everything will turn out for the best.”

“Oh, those books always have happy endings,” he exclaimed jovially as he handed them their glasses of wine. “Let us drink a toast to love conquering all adversity.”

Caro lifted the glass to her lips. She adored champagne, but never had it tasted so flat.

“If you will excuse me, I had better go back inside.” She set the barely touched drink on the railing. Firelight sparked through the bubbling effervescence, accentuating the myriad tiny explosions. “I just recalled that I am promised to Lord Stiles for the upcoming set.”

To her dismay, she was claimed for the following dance, and then the one after that. It was an hour before she could slip away, intent on finding her mother in the card room and suggesting an end to the evening.

Making her way around to the side saloons, Caro was just passing through a narrow corridor when she spotted Thayer in the entrance hall, taking his overcoat from the porter and draping it over his shoulders. As he moved beneath the crystal chandelier, the bright reflections flickered over the folds of dark fabric, and a flash of decorative black braid along the hem caught for an instant in a wink of candlelight.

She froze, suddenly seeing in her mind’s eye the same fleeting flutter.

Thayer took another step, and it was gone.

Caro tried to shake off the sensation of having seen the coat before, telling herself it was mere illusion.

Mere delusion.

Truth and Lies. Good and Evil. She wasn’t sure anymore about what was real and what was a figment of her imagination.

Alec swore in frustration as he flung off his mud-spattered oilskin cape and went to pour himself a brandy. It had been a long ride through spitting rain, and all for naught.

His contact in Bristol, a Scottish sympathizer with the independence movement, had not been able to ferret any further information concerning the attack on Isobel and Caro. Nor had he received any news from north of the border on why Edward Thayer was spending time in Bath.

“Blast,” he muttered, jabbing a poker at the glowing coals in the hearth and stirring a fire to life. “Perhaps he has gout and is seeking a cure.” Another jab. “Or the Plague.” More likely, given the man’s predatory habits with women, that if he was ill with any malady, it would be the clap.

“That log is long since deceased, Alec. There is no need to render a coup de grace.”

He turned to find Isobel standing in the doorway, observing him with a look of grave concern.

“Sorry. It was a rotten night for a ride. I’m wet, cold, and in a foul temper.” He gave the coals another raking. “So it’s probably best that you leave me to my own company.”