Simon bowed. “I bid you good evening.” And with that, he turned and strode away.
Kate stared after him with a blank face. Extraordinary. Unlike every other man, Simon Archer did not press the battle when the field was clearly lost. She realized that much of her stern response toward him was her embarrassment at being careless enough to fall into such a ludicrous situation with a pathetic fop such as Sir William Titchmarsh. He was only reacting as a chivalrous gentleman was trained; he had no way of knowing she didn’t need rescuing. Kate watched Simon Archer’s tall form, and despite her best efforts to remain stern, the corners of her mouth quirked upward.
She boldly watched him a few moments more when he was arrested by another man who spoke to him. Kate started. He seemed to be conversing with a rumpled figure who looked like a tramp off the street, but when she blinked, in fact, she saw that his companion was a popinjay dressed in overly colorful formal wear. How odd.
Kate wanted nothing more than to be done with this London cattle yard and return to Hartley Hall in Surrey so she could settle back into her alchemical laboratory. She only wanted to work on formulas that promised results from mathematical precision and careful attendance to detail. However, that was impossible at the moment. Her sister was still traipsing about the premises with her escort for the evening.
She scanned the room. Amazingly, her eyes fell again on Simon Archer. He was standing with a crowd near the string quartet, watching the violinists with great interest. His eyes flicked up to her, and she looked away. She felt an unwise urge to speak with him again and started toward him when suddenly the exquisite figure of Grace North slipped into Simon Archer’s circle.
Kate exhaled and slouched back against a pillar as Simon reserved his considerable attention for Mrs. North. The prime minister’s wife laughed and laid a bold hand on his arm. It was surprising and annoying how disappointed Kate felt watching the scene. With relief, she spied her wayward sister and made her way over.
“Good evening, Kate.” Imogen stood smugly pursing her lips. The younger Anstruther was attractive, if still a little girlish, with a desirable cherubic appearance versus Kate’s sharp, angular features. Imogen favored their mother, while Kate resembled their father. Imogen’s brunette hair was delicately curled and she was dressed to attract attention, with a very tight waist and very low bodice of golden silk taffeta. Even Kate’s eyes were unwittingly drawn to her sister’s surging chest, and she heard the disapproving mutterings of the surrounding women, including the notable use of the terms “inappropriate” and “bosom.”
Imogen fluttered her gilded fan. “That was quite a performance with Sir William.”
“Are you ready to leave, Imogen?”
“Leave? It’s still early. Although I can see how you might wish to depart. Ah, here’s Boylan.”
A tall, sandy-haired man appeared before them. He had the slightly inelegant tread of someone trying to obscure heavy drinking. Colonel Boylan Hibbert, late of the Eleventh Bengal Lancers, had latched onto Imogen like a lamprey some months ago. He smiled drowsily and turned to Kate, bending at the waist. His glance slid too indolently along her body as it worked up to her eyes. He was handsome certainly, but in a peculiarly meaningless way. He was pale, without the usual burnt-in sun of a tropical officer, with a thin moustache and fading blond hair. There was a hard, disdainful air behind the smirk that he wore like a badge of superiority. “Miss Anstruther. How lovely you look.”
“Colonel Hibbert,” Kate replied, overwhelmed by the impression of a precocious nasty boy playing at being a man.
He glanced pointedly at her bosom before turning to Imogen’s much more ample one. “I will fetch punch, my sweet.”
Imogen watched him stalk across the room, saying, “He is such an attentive lamb. He would move the ground under my feet to save my walking if he could.”
“What a shame for you he lacks that power.”
“He has other powers,” Imogen said in a loud stage whisper for the benefit of gawkers nearby. “He is a … magician.”
“Is that some sort of metaphor? If so, I pray you do not go on.”
Imogen laughed. “No. He is a true magician. He is a master of the dark arts of the East. He learned such things while serving in India.”
Kate was unimpressed. “Would you keep your voice down, please? You’ve already made a spectacle of yourself in that gown.”
Imogen squared her shoulders and raised the mounds of her bosom. “You’re jealous.”
“Imogen, do you want to be branded a trollop?”