Simon strode up the grand portico steps of the mansion, a Georgian pile north of Great Russell Street. His stick tapped sharply on the stonework, the only outward sign of his agitated state. Inside the buttressed vestibule, the stiff-limbed butler stared at him in surprise, clearly doubting that Simon belonged at this ball. Simon smiled and produced the invitation from his jacket pocket. The servant studied it for a long moment but then nodded and handed what he believed was an expensive engraved invitation back to Simon. In fact, it was a piece of blank cardstock with a few runes inscribed on it. Simon tossed his crisp white gloves into his hat and handed them over with his overcoat but kept his stick. The servant’s face remained impassive as he turned elegantly on his heel. He announced to those already gathered at the late hour the arrival of Mr. Simon Archer.
All heads turned to stare.
Secret whispers swept openly around the vast entry hall as Simon confidently swept in with a commanding and unrepentant stature. He extended a gracious greeting to his host, the Right Honorable and Extremely Surprised Viscount Gillingham, who bowed and introduced his rather homely wife, who stood with mouth agape.
Next to the host couple stood the round and ruddy Prime Minister Charles North, and his extraordinarily beautiful spouse, Grace. The prime minister greeted Simon with admirable civility and presented his wife. While Simon had certainly heard of Mrs. North, he had never met her. She outshone her husband in every respect, and unlike the prime minister, she was beloved by the lowly and the powerful alike. Her angelic air and calm pastel gown didn’t fool Simon as he noticed her covetous gaze when she acknowledged him.
She offered a demure smile, and said, “A distinct pleasure, Mr. Archer.”
Simon kissed her hand, his lips lingering just a second too long. “One that is all mine, madam.”
Her glittering smile was hypnotic though her eyes were full of constant scrutiny, taking the measure of him in a way that would have cowed a lesser man. Simon held her very direct stare and stepped back, with a bow aimed at Mrs. North. That deed done, he plunged deeper into the crowd seeking out Lord Oakham; his scrutiny penetrated every corner of the room but to no avail. His thoughts turned dark against his wishes despite the fact that many young gentlemen of leisure lifted hands in jolly greeting, doubtless relieved by his arrival as it meant the dull gathering might be infused with new exhilaration. Most of his random encounters were pleasant, but sometimes eyes went wide with surprise at seeing him here. Simon did make eye contact with a young woman who was unfamiliar to him. Likely new to the London scene. She was perhaps eighteen and quite lovely. To his amusement, a large woman in a vast hoop skirt snatched the girl by the arm and pulled her to safety. Simon continued on, expanding his search into more distant parts of the rambling mansion.
“Mr. Archer?” came a feminine voice from behind a half-closed door.
He cautiously pushed the door back a few inches. A shapely figure stood outlined in the pale light of the window.
“Would you step inside, please,” she asked, “and close the door?”
When he did, the woman stepped into the glow of a lamp. Grace North. Her smile was both winsome and alluring; the interpretation was left up to the viewer, as were the consequences of a misstep based on that interpretation.
“Mrs. North. May I help you?” Simon bowed. He chose to assume she had only broken away from the receiving line for some specific and practical errand.
“I have a question for you.”
He nodded for her to proceed.
“How did you come to be here?” she asked.
“You beckoned me in.”
“I believe you take my meaning, sir. I mean here at this party.” Grace looked him in the eye with the quiet steel of an experienced politician. “I personally reviewed the guest list. Your name was not on it.”
Simon took a step closer. “I was a late addition to the field, like the Derby.”
“There were none.”
“I am a dear friend of the viscount’s.”
“You are not.”
Simon displayed surprise. “You are impossibly well informed. I am stunned you even recall my name from meeting me at the door.”
“Please, Mr. Archer. You are a gentleman of some repute.”
“You give an odd accent to gentleman.”
“I use it politely. You are widely considered a scoundrel and bounder.”
“Am I?” Simon now feigned melodramatic insult. “I thought I was well liked.”