Sin With a Scoundrel (The Husband Hunters Club 4)

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, Charles,” Tina said meaningfully, slipping her arm through his.

He shrugged philosophically. “Fiddle while Rome burns. Time enough to be miserable when I get back to Mallory Street.”

If Mallory Street still belongs to us.

They exchanged a meaningful glance.

The supper was an enormous spread, as if once again Lady Isabelle had set out to impress. Tina and Charles and Anne sat together, enjoying the various treats before them. A waiter filled their glasses, and Tina allowed herself two glasses of champagne.

Why not? she thought. Charles is right. Fiddle while Rome burns indeed!

After this weekend she might have to take some dreadful post as a governess or a companion or work in a factory. She shuddered. It didn’t bear thinking of, but she would have to think of it. Not yet, though, not tonight.

Joseph Freer, she noticed, was proudly leading Margaret around the room as if they were already engaged. She pointed them out to Anne, who sat between her and Charles. “Just look at those two.”

“He seems quite taken with her, doesn’t he?”

“Besotted, I would say,” added Charles.

“Isn’t he a little old to be besotted?” Anne giggled.

“Never too old to be besotted.” Charles grinned.

“Well, I wish them both the best,” said Anne. “Although I did think it was Mr. Little Margaret had her eye on, I believe that is now quite finished.”

“Finished?” Tina asked curiously.

“Mr. Little is not to be relied upon, at least that is what she told me.”

“In what way isn’t he to be relied upon?”

Anne picked up her spoon and dug it into her dessert. “I think he offered to take her to the theater and then had to cancel at the last moment. And it wasn’t just the once. Margaret is very keen on keeping one’s word, you know.”

“Poor Mr. Little,” Charles muttered, his mouth full.

Tina was watching Margaret and her American. “It’s just—he’s so old, I can’t imagine . . .”

“You can’t imagine what?” asked Charles, one eyebrow raised.

Kissing him!

“Never mind. I’m sure he’ll make a very good husband.”

Richard had been upstairs to check on Sir Henry. He’d encountered Branson lurking about outside the door, but the neighbor seemed merely curious about the current state of Sir Henry’s health.

“Terrible accident, terrible,” he kept saying, shaking his head.

Richard agreed and suggested he return to the ballroom. Something about the way the man glanced at him as he scuttled away struck him as odd, but he couldn’t decide why that was. Branson hadn’t been on his list of suspects, but now he remembered overhearing some comments made by the man and the cloak of bitterness that seemed to envelop him.

Mr. Branson might bear further investigation.

Sir Henry was propped up in his bed and restless, wanting to get up and take part in the entertainments—keep an eye on Isabelle, more likely—but he knew he had to stay here if they were to spring the trap they’d laid to catch his attacker.

“Have you found any clues?” he asked grumpily.

“Will is going to question the other shooters in the morning, sir. We might know more then.”

“Humph. What fool would take a shot at me on my own dung heap? I’d have thought the Captain was smarter than that, Richard.”