An Unwilling Conquest (Regencies 7)

Harry refrained from asking just who Salter’s “people” were.

“Even so,” Dawlish continued, “they can’t keep a-watching her forever. And seems to me this Joliffe character’s one as should be behind bars.”

Salter nodded. “You’re right. There’s been a few unexplained ‘suicides’ in Joliffe’s past that the magistrates were never convinced about.”

Harry repressed a shudder. The thought of Lucinda mixed up with such characters was not to be borne. “At this instant, Mrs Babbacombe is safe enough—but we need to make sure our conjecture’s true. If it’s not, we could be following the wrong scent—with potentially serious consequences. It strikes me that there might well be a second guardian, which would render our hypothesis unlikely.”

Salter lifted a brow. “If you know the lady’s legal man, I could make some discreet inquiries.”

“I don’t. And he’s very likely in Yorkshire.” Harry thought—then looked at Dawlish. “Mrs Babbacombe’s maid and coachman have been with the family for years. They might know.”

Dawlish straightened from the door. “I’ll ask.”

“Couldn’t you just ask the lady herself?” Salter asked.

“No.” Harry’s reply was unequivocal. His lips twisted in a grimace. “At the moment, the very last thing I want to do is ask Mrs Babbacombe about her legal affairs. The question of Heather’s guardianship can’t be all that hard to answer.”

“No. And I’ll tip my people the wink to yell the instant they sniff any shift in the wind.” Salter got to his feet. “As soon as we know for sure what these jackals are about, we’ll devise a way to trip them up nicely.”

Harry didn’t reply. He shook hands with Salter, the thought in his mind that if tripping up Joliffe involved placing Lucinda in any danger at all, it simply wouldn’t happen.

When Dawlish returned from showing the ex-Runner out, Harry was standing in the centre of the room, strapping his gloves on his palm.

“Well!” Dawlish opened his eyes wide. “There you be—all tricked out and not at the party. Best I drive you there, then.”

Harry looked down, casting a long-suffering glance at breeches he had long ago sworn never again to don. His expression grimly resigned, he nodded. “Best you do.”

His knock on Almack’s door very nearly prostrated old Willis, the porter. “Never did I think to see you here again, sir!” Willis raised his shaggy brows. “Something in the wind?”

“You, Willis, are as fervent a gossip as any of your mistresses.”

Unrepentant, Willis grinned. Harry gave him his gloves and cloak and sauntered into the ballroom.

To say his entrance caused a stir would be a gross understatement. It caused a flutter, a ruffling of feathers, and, in some, a mild panic akin to hysteria, all fuelled by the intense speculation that rose in feminine breasts as he strolled, gracefully but entirely purposefully, across the room.

Her emotions aswirl, Lucinda watched his approach with unwilling fascination. Her heart started to soar, her lips lifted—then her earlier thoughts engulfed her. A tightness gripped her lungs, squeezing slowly. Candlelight gleamed on his golden hair; in the old-fashioned attire, he looked less suave and debonair but, if anything, even more the rake than before. As she felt the touch of a hundred eyes, her lips firmed. He was exploiting them all, manipulating the whole ton—shamelessly.

As he neared, she held out her hand, knowing he would simply take it if she didn’t. “Good evening, Mr Lester. How very surprising to see you here.”

Her gentle sarcasm did not escape Harry; he raised his brows as he raised her fingers to his lips and gently brushed a kiss across their tips.

He had done it so often Lucinda had forgotten it was no longer the accepted mode of greeting. The collective gasp that seemed to fill the ballroom reminded her of the fact. Her smile remained in place but her eyes flashed.

The reprobate before her merely smiled. And tucked her hand in his arm. “Come, my dear, I rather think we should stroll.” With a nod, he excused them from the two gentlemen who had been passing the time by Lucinda’s side. “Gibson. Holloway.”

They had barely taken two steps before Lady Jersey appeared in their path. Harry promptly bowed, so elaborately

it was almost a joke, so gracefully it was impossible to take offense.

Sally Jersey humphed. “I had meant to ask Mrs Babbacombe for news of you,” she informed Harry without a blink. “But now you’re here, I need hardly enquire.”

“Indeed,” Harry drawled. “I’m positively touched, Sally dear, that you should think to take an interest in my poor self.”

“Your self isn’t so poor anymore, if you recall.”

“Ah, yes. A twist of fate.”

“One which has brought you once more within the sights of the ladies here. Take care, my friend, else you slip and get tangled in their nets.” Lady Jersey’s eyes twinkled. She turned to Lucinda. “I would congratulate you, my dear—but I fear he’s quite incorrigible—utterly irreclaimable. But if you seek revenge, all you have to do is take him to the furthest point from the door and cut him loose—then watch him flounder.”