The Many Sins of Cris De Feaux (Lords of Disgrace 3)

‘Nervous?’ They were in full sight of the bustling servants now and the sounds from the entrance were signalling the first arrivals. He did not touch her, but the concern in his expression was enough to bring her chin up.

‘Certainly not. Just excited and keyed up.’ Cris’s left eyebrow rose and she had to laugh. ‘Oh, all right! I admit it. I am quivering like a jelly inside.’

‘No one would ever guess.’ He stepped in close as the servants began to leave the room, or take up position around the walls. ‘You’ve got courage, Mrs Perowne. Your Jory would be proud of you.’ Cris’s kiss was swift, hard, scandalous, a moment of affirmation and desire, then he was striding away across the room towards the card room. He paused in the doorway, turned and looked back. ‘I won’t let anything happen to you, I swear.’

Then he was gone. Tamsyn sat down, tried another chair, told herself to relax and instead fidgeted with her gloves. They were new, made of pearl-grey kid as soft as satin, and they fastened above the elbow with ribbons. Cousin Harriet had assured her that the slightly loose fit was perfectly fashionable, but, unused to evening gloves, she found the sensation that they might slide off at any moment unsettling.

Worrying the ribbons until they were even looser occupied her for a frustrating five minutes, then Gabriel wandered over, two young bucks on his heels. ‘Mrs Perowne.’

‘Lord Edenbridge. On your way to play cards?’ The young men, who had not been introduced, looked enthusiastic at the thought.

‘Later, perhaps. There does not appear to be anyone to make up a serious game, as yet.’ The young men wilted. ‘May I?’ He indicated the seat beside him and, at Tamsyn’s smiling gesture, folded his length into it. He should have looked out of place in a formal setting, Tamsyn thought. His evening dress had been beautifully cut, but was worn with a carelessness that included slightly wilted collar points, a loosely tied neckcloth, an off-centre stick pin in its folds and a crimson silk handkerchief escaping from the pocket in his coat-tails.

Against the two young men, starched and groomed to a point of utter perfection, he looked feral, dangerous and, she acknowledged, worryingly attractive. No wonder anxious mamas kept their daughters away and wise fathers forbade their sons to follow him into gaming hells or even less reputable places.

She smiled at the two lads and Gabriel obligingly said, ‘Mrs Perowne, may I make known to you Lord Brendon and Mr Elliott. Gentlemen, Mrs Perowne, a visitor from Devon.’

She shook hands, encouraged them to sit and no sooner had they embarked on a careful conversation about the beauties of Devon and the possibilities for stag hunting than three young ladies fluttered past, giggling, just as Cris had predicted.

‘Oh, Lord Brendon, good evening.’ The boldest, a plump and pretty blonde, came to a halt, smiled at the young man and managed, at the same time, to bat her eyelashes at Gabriel.

Hiding her own smile, Tamsyn obligingly invited Lord Brendon’s friends to join them and, camouflage complete, settled down to make conversation and watch the entrance door without appearing to do so.

Guests began to arrive, the room filled up and Tamsyn stayed in place, resisting all invitations to take a turn around the room, admire the paintings in the gallery or accompany any of the young ladies on an expedition to find the retiring room.

How long was it since she had seen Franklin? Only months, she realised, calculating while she tried to keep at least part of her mind on social chitchat. ‘Yes, indeed, Miss Wilberforce, a very striking colour for a gown.’ It had been when he came to invite the Barbary household to take up residence in his dower house so he could ‘watch over them’. ‘Thank you, Lord Brendon, I think I will sit a little longer. No, some ratafia a little later, perhaps.’ So she couldn’t have failed to recognise him. But where was he?

The crowd shifted and he was walking directly towards her. Tamsyn suppressed a gasp. He looked changed and not for the better. His blond hair was still carefully groomed, yet somehow seemed lank. He had put on weight and at only medium height could ill afford it. There were dark circles under his eyes and his gaze shifted restlessly around the room as though he expected an attack at any moment. It passed over her without recognition so she fluttered her fan in a clear gesture of greeting.

He stopped, looked and took a step backwards. Then he seemed to recover himself and came forward to make a jerky half-bow. ‘Tamsyn. Mrs Perowne! What a surprise to see you here.’

Beside her she felt Gabriel gathering himself, although he still sat elegantly at his ease. ‘So formal, Cousin Franklin. Or must I call you Lord Chelford?’ she chided him. ‘It was Cousin Tamsyn last time we met. But doubtless you will tell me I am showing my country manners.’ This was the man behind the ‘accidents’ on the farm, the man who had tried to implicate her in murder. She had no doubts now she was face-to-face with him, his eyes failing to meet hers, his mouth hardly capable of maintaining a social smile.

‘Not at all, not at all. But I must confess my surprise at seeing you here.’ The smile was more successful now.

‘Shopping, you know.’ She smiled vaguely. ‘Oh, and tasks for my aunts. I must go down to Dulwich soon.’

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‘Dulwich?’

‘The picture gallery, surely you know of it? Aunt Isobel has a pair of paintings at Barbary Combe House that she thinks deserve to be shown to a wider public, and I believe the gallery could accept them on a long loan. So much safer as well, don’t you think?’ She appealed to the men in the group. ‘Do you agree, gentlemen? Works of art deserve an audience, and, besides, I am not certain a remote country house is the best place for treasures.’

There was a chorus of agreement and some flattering remarks about the generosity and vision of Tamsyn’s aunt.

Franklin was sweating. He pushed his hair back from his forehead, seemed to realise what he was doing and patted it flat again. ‘But dear Aunt Isobel is not—’

‘She is the custodian for her lifetime,’ Tamsyn said, turning to the others in the group with a proud, affectionate smile. ‘She takes her responsibilities very seriously. Oh, you are leaving us, Lord Chelford?’

‘I am meeting someone in the card room, excuse me.’ He gave a jerky bow and strode off.

‘Excuse me, Mrs Perowne, ladies.’ Gabriel got to his feet. ‘I am reminded that I, too, have a rendezvous.’ He followed Franklin into the card room and Tamsyn wished her imagination was not conjuring up images of silent black panthers padding in pursuit of their prey.

There was no point in worrying. She had done her part, she told herself. Franklin was unsettled and off balance. It was all in Cris’s hands now. Cris’s hands and Justice’s scales.

‘Do you know, Lord Brendon, I think I will accept that drink you offered me. But a glass of champagne, if you would.’ Ratafia was nowhere near sustaining enough.

Chapter Twenty-One