Deciding that retreat was the only way forward, she dropped her gaze. “I fear I must attend my father, Your Grace. If you’ll excuse me?”
“I have yet to pay my respects to your father, Miss Lester, and should like to do so. I’ll take you to him, if you’ll permit it?”
Lenore hesitated, fingers twisting the long chain about her neck from which depended a pair of redundant lorgnettes. There was no real reason to refuse Eversleigh’s escort, and she was loath to cry coward so readily. After all, what could he do in the middle of the drawing-room? She looked up, into his eyes. “I believe we will find my father by the fireplace, Your Grace.”
She was treated to a charming smile. With intimidating ease, Eversleigh steered her through the noisy crowd to where her father was seated in a Bath chair before the large hearth, one gouty foot propped on a stool before him.
“Papa.” Lenore bent to plant a dutiful kiss on her father’s lined cheek.
The Honourable Archibald Lester humphed. “’Bout time. Bit late tonight, aren’t you? What happened? One of those lightskirts try to tumble Smithers?”
Inured to her father’s outrageous remarks, Lenore stooped to tuck in a stray end of the blanket draped over his knees. “Of course not, Papa. I was merely delayed.”
Jason had noted how Mr. Lester’s restless gaze had fastened on his daughter the instant she had come into view. He watched as the old man’s washed-out blue eyes scanned Lenore’s face before peering up at him aggressively from under shaggy white brows.
Before her father could bark out some less than gracious query, Lenore stepped in. “Allow me to make known to you His Grace of Eversleigh, Papa.”
Mr. Lester’s steady gaze did not waver. If anything, it intensified. A sardonic gleam in his eye, Jason bowed gracefully, then accepted the hand the old man held out.
“Haven’t seen you in some years, I think,” Mr. Lester remarked. “Knew your father well—you’re becoming more like him with the years—in all respects, from everything I hear.”
Standing beside her father’s chair, Lenore studiously kept her eyes blank.
Jason inclined his head. “So I have been informed.”
Mr. Lester’s head sank. For a moment, he appeared lost in memories. Then he snorted. Lifting his head, he looked out across the crowded room. “Remember being in Paris one year your father was there. Group of us, him included, spent quite a bit of time together. Had a rousing six months—the Parisian mesdames—now there were women who knew how to heat a man’s blood.” With a contemptuous wave, he indicated the press of bodies before him. “This lot’s got no idea. You—m’boys—don’t know what you’re missing.”
Jason’s smile grew harder to suppress. From the corner of his eye, he saw Lenore colour delicately. In his own best interests, he decided to forgo encouraging Mr. Lester to recount his memories in more detail. “Unfortunately, I believe Napoleon’s comrades have altered things somewhat since you were last in France, sir.”
“Damned upstart!” Mr. Lester ruminated on the emperor’s shortcomings for some seconds before observing, “Still—the war’s over. Ever think of chancing the Channel to savour the delights of la bonne vie, heh?”
At that, Jason smiled. “My tastes, I fear, are distinctly English, sir.” As if to include Lenore in their discussion, he allowed his gaze to rise, capturing her eyes with his before adding with calm deliberation, “Besides, I have a particular project before me which bodes fair to absorbing my complete attention for the foreseeable future.”
Despite the quake that inwardly shook her, Lenore kept her gaze steady and her expression serene. Favouring attack as the best form of defence, she countered, “Indeed, Your Grace? And what project is that?”
She had thought to rattle him; although his features remained serious, his expressive eyes warned her she had seriously underestimated him.
“I find myself faced with a conundrum, Miss Lester. A conclusion which, while apparently consistent with the facts, I know to be false.”
Mr. Lester snorted. “Sounds just like the musty old theories you so delight in, m’dear. You should give His Grace a hand.”
Speechless, Lenore looked up, straight into Eversleigh’s gleaming grey eyes.
“An excellent idea.” Jason could not resist a small smile of triumph.
To Lenore, the gesture revealed far too many teeth. Eversleigh was dangerous. His reputation painted him in the most definite colours—those of a highly successful rake. “I really don’t believe—”
Her careful retreat was cut off by Smithers, announcing in booming accents that dinner was served.
Lenore blinked, then saw a slow smile light Eversleigh’s fascinating features. He had scanned the crowd and now stood, watching her expectantly. Reality hit Lenore like a wave. Eversleigh was the senior peer present. As his hostess, it was incumbent upon her to lead the assembled company in to dinner—on his arm. Aware that, at any moment, the restive crowd would work all this out for themselves and turn to see her, dithering, beside her father’s chair, Lenore resisted the temptation to close her eyes in frustration. Instead, her serene mask firmly in place, she walked into the wolf’s lair. “If you would be so kind as to lend me your arm, Your Grace?”
She was hardly surprised when he promptly obliged. Harris, the footman, arrived to propel her father’s chair. Testily the old man waved them on. “Let’s get going! I’m hungry.”
Yielding to the slightest of pressures, Lenore allowed Eversleigh to lead her towards the door.
Appreciatively viewing the regal tilt of his hostess’s golden head as she glided beside him through the waiting throng, her small hand resting lightly on his sleeve, Jason waited until they had reached the relative quiet of the hall before murmuring, “As I was saying, Miss Lester, I have become fascinated by an instance of what I believe might best be described as artful deceit.”
Lenore was having none of it. “Artful deceit, Your Grace? To what purpose, pray?”