And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Tina had the uncomfortable feeling that she, too, was being treated like one of the dinner dishes. Prepared and primped and laid out on a silver platter for the highest bidder. Horace or Mr. Little? They were both wealthy men. If she were to put the question to her parents, then she was sure either of them would do.
But that was unkind. They weren’t really going to force her into a miserable marriage, but at the same time they would be hoping that she could bring herself to take one of them to husband. Horace’s fortune would chase away all their problems, and of course it wasn’t such a hardship, marrying him. She’d known him all her life, dreamed of marrying him all her life.
Why then was she feeling so glum?
Determinedly she pinched her cheeks until they were pink, her green eyes returning her desperate stare from the mirror. If she could manage to get Horace alone, if she could kiss him, then at least she would have given this her best shot. Even if he rejected her—laughed at her—she could say she had tried. And if Horace did laugh at her, then she was confident Mr. Little wouldn’t.
Once upon a time her father would have locked her in her room rather than allow her to contemplate marriage with a merchant.
How times had changed!
Tina forced a smile, forced herself to appear happy in her role of the good and dutiful daughter, and with her head high set off to make her own history.
As Richard followed Sir Henry and Lady Isabelle into the Smythes’ house, he was well aware that tonight he would be the most unwelcome guest at this dinner party. Although Sir Henry had agreed that his being here was a splendid idea, Richard doubted anyone else would think so.
Richard had also taxed Sir Henry with the fact that he was a friend of Tina’s father and had never mentioned it to him, but his superior grew evasive.
“Personal business and Guardian business, Richard. I try not to muddy the two.”
“But when I mentioned I was meeting with Miss Smythe, you said nothing.”
“I didn’t want to make it awkward for you.”
Richard suspected that was true, but realizing Sir Henry knew more than he’d expected made him uneasy. He didn’t like surprises. Now he was wondering if Tina was the woman he thought her or if perhaps she was in league with Gilfoyle.
He stopped himself. No, Tina was exactly as she seemed. A beautiful young woman who had her innocent heart set on a man who wasn’t good enough for her. Although if Archie was right, and the parents were in financial difficulties, then they might have an ulterior motive for throwing their daughter at one of the wealthiest men in the country.
The house was large and rather fine, the sort of place he would have expected Sir Thomas Smythe to settle his family in, but the lack of knickknacks and the curious absence of paintings made it obvious to him—but only because he was looking—that Archie was right. The Smythes had money troubles.
His hostess, Lady Carol, an older version of her daughter, was very regal, and her manner made it abundantly clear that his invitation had only been issued because of Sir Henry’s intervention. She wasn’t rude. She smiled and received him—she was too well-bred to do otherwise—but he couldn’t miss the steely glitter to her eyes.
What had Sir Henry told her to force her hand like this? Or rather what had he told Sir Thomas? Whatever it was, Richard wasn’t here to make friends. He had a job to do. Little and Gilfoyle could well be dangerous characters, involved in riots at the very least, and at the most . . . murder. If the Smythes
wanted to invite such men into their home, then they must take the consequences.
So he gave Lady Carol a smile that was charming and totally unrepentant, and strolled into the drawing room to join the other guests.
Tina wasn’t here.
He knew it at once although he looked about, just to be sure. Because how could he know? How could he be so sure? And yet he was. Absolutely. As if he was already so attuned to her scent and the timbre of her voice that he would instinctively have found her in any crowd.
A few of the guests glanced at him uneasily, but for a moment he was alone, and he remembered why it was he hadn’t been to anything like this for almost two years. He was almost relieved when Sir Henry caught his eye and came to stand beside him.
“Over there.” His superior gave a discreet nod toward a group of gentlemen by a marble bust of a Roman emperor on a plinth.
“Who am I meant to be observing?”
“Charles Smythe, in the green waistcoat, and John Little done up like a dog’s dinner.”
Charles stood with a couple of others who were immediately recognizable as young blades about town, and a slight gentleman who looked uncomfortable in his immaculate evening wear. The tobacco importer—the new player in the game.
Richard decided he looked harmless enough.
As if he’d heard his name spoken, despite that’s being impossible, John Little looked at them across the drawing room. It was only a brief moment, but Richard sensed a stirring in the air, a soft whisper of warning.
Perhaps appearances were deceiving.
“ . . . Had a devil of a job getting you invited,” Sir Henry was saying, oblivious to Little’s glance. “Don’t do anything to make me regret it.”