“As are most scoundrels. So, tell me, why are you here?”
“I am flattered that such a talented, powerful, and beautiful woman is so engrossed with me.” Simon moved close enough to smell the delicate lavender scent in her flaxen hair. When she moved her head slightly, the shadows slid over her glass-smooth features, creating an odd hardness that quickly faded like a strange glimpse from the corner of the eye. She showed no fear or hesitation. Clearly, he would not overwhelm her with physicality.
“My husband is the prime minister. I prefer that he remain prime minister. Therefore, I am compelled to distance him from scandal or from characters of ill repute. If I believe you to be a threat to his reputation, you cannot be allowed near him.”
“Madam, I haven’t the slightest desire for intercourse with your husband.”
She stared at him evenly. “I have no reason to trust you. I don’t know you, and you are a man of questionable family.”
Simon felt a jolt of true coldness, and his false, smoldering gaze vanished. “Mrs. North, I should not like to think a woman of your refinement is impugning the honor of my mother.”
“Do you deny your own mysterious pedigree, Mr. Archer?
“No.” Simon looked down at her with a cruel smile. “I am a bastard.”
“What is your business here tonight?” Grace repeated, unconcerned with his anger.
He considered walking out. And he considered cursing her, then walking out. That, however, seemed unworthy to him, and even in his bitter state, he still couldn’t waste the potential value of a connection to the prime minister’s wife just for a momentary satisfaction. He took on the attitude of a roué no longer pretending that his charm or rage was legitimate.
“Why else would I be here?” he said with a sly narrowing of his eyes. “Beating the bushes. Trying to flush a quail or two for a cold winter night.”
A slight smile touched Grace’s lips and her eyes slid quickly over his tall frame. “I’m not sure I believe you.”
Simon shrugged without comment. She seemed perceptive and capable of smelling out his rakish burlesque. Still, she tilted her head with nominal acceptance. Then a peculiar softening of her eyes betrayed an interest in Simon beyond her political interrogation. At least, that was one interpretation. She held out her hand. Instinctively, he took it.
“Good shooting to you, Mr. Archer.” Her warm fingers closed gently around his. “Would you mind leaving the room now?”
Simon kissed her hand with as much conviction as he could muster to play the gentleman who sensed a chance at unusually rare game. “I hope I will see you again.”
Grace North stared into his green eyes with an enigmatic invitation. Her voice took on a slight huskiness. “Who can say what the future holds?”
He let her fingers slide from his and stepped back with a satisfied purse of his lips. He went to the door and left her standing in the gloom. Once out in the hall, he dropped the foolish smirk. He was annoyed by the diversion from his task at hand and angered by the comments that reflected on his mother. He was not unused to snide chatter about his illegitimacy, but coming from such an angelic face, it seemed even more savage. Grace North had put Simon badly off his game. Under normal circumstances, he already would have been acquainted with her corset. Now, all he could do was eye the crowd for Lord Oakham.
In lieu of finding his quarry, Simon sought out Nick’s dandified alter ego, Sir Thomas Wolfolk. And he was likely in one spot. He strolled through the ballroom, where he signaled to a waiter carrying a tray of champagne. Glass in hand, he threaded his way to another room, where a savage cribbage game was being waged. He greeted the players and joined the table.
Sir Thomas Wolfolk leaned around a lovely young lady to acknowledge him with a broad smirk. Simon merely raised his eyebrow and brushed his well-tied white silk cravat. A new game was played and Simon consulted his cards.
Sir Thomas grinned. “I saw you scoring points with the wife of the prime minister. Was she probing you as to your opinion on the Reform Act?”
“Please don’t diminish Mrs. North with your scandalous taint,” muttered an amiable voice from across the table. Henry Clatterburgh was technically the third Earl Moorhaven, but never advertised it. He was a longtime fixture at the Home Office who ignored Simon’s awkward social standing because he apparently enjoyed losing at cards.
Without looking at his hand, Simon displaced one of his cards, announcing the total to be twenty-eight. The assembled players groaned and folded their cards, while the observing crowd laughed and applauded.
Sir Thomas’s mouth fell into a minor scowl. “I had hoped the champagne would have rattled your mathematical abilities.”