Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)

So intent was he in his search for Ned that at first Gareth didn’t notice the preternatural hush that fell. But it was unmistakable. For several moments, there was neither a clink of glass nor one single out-of-place whisper. At first, he attributed the odd sensation to temporary mental disorder brought on by unfulfilled lusts. Then he thought it a simple lull in conversation. A statistical anomaly, to be sure, but the anomalous occurred all the time.

But the sea of surrounding wide-eyed faces aligned toward Gareth like iron filings in a magnetic field. In a single gut-clenching moment, he realized the silence was not happenstance. Everyone really was looking at him. And—a quick check—he’d buttoned his jacket properly and his cravat was not askew.

Three seconds after the hush fell, conversation swelled about him in renewed fervor. He snatched pieces of conversation. “Carhart” he heard from an elderly lady. He strained his ears listening for others. But they were indistinct in the hubbub. “Embrace,” he heard quite clearly. And “compromise.”

Not three words he wanted to hear in close connection. Perhaps there was a perfectly reasonable explanation. There was no need to panic just yet. For instance, what the matron had whispered could very well have been something like, “It’s a good thing Mr. Edward Carhart has finally decided to embrace reality and come to a reasoned compromise with his cousin.”

It could have been.

And the hostess could have suspended the law of gravity for this fête.

Slowly, Gareth made his way through the densely packed crowds. They opened around him. Nobody spoke to him. Nobody even looked at him.

As he walked, those he neared shut their mouths and kept quiet. It was incredibly annoying. The first time he actually wanted to overhear a conversation, and nobody dared oblige him. Gareth did manage to grasp a few pieces here and there. Every phrase he heard was like picking up a sharp shard of glass, painted in a distinct color. Individually, the pieces meant nothing; a blur of color, a few lines. But by the time he reached the other end of the hall, he’d obtained enough bits to construct a damning—and damnable—mosaic.

Ned had been caught sharing an indiscreet embrace with Lady Kathleen, who was now considered thoroughly compromised. In the intervening minutes since this had happened, Ned had been punched in the nose, and he’d bled through somewhere between two and five handkerchiefs. Whether the punch had been thrown by the lady herself or by her father, the Duke of Ware, was unknown.

Bad enough on its own. But matters grew worse.

Even if the duke hadn’t thrown the punch, it was clear the man had not stood idly by. There was a challenge. A duel, in this day and age. Pistols or swords, Ware had offered, and Ned had little experience with either weapon. Not that it mattered, because Ned couldn’t fight a man well in his sixties, and a peer of the realm.

The hostess’s attempts to calm the man had been to no avail; the point, Ware had apparently announced to the titillated hordes, was not to satisfy honor but to slay the bastard who’d touched his daughter.

“Oh, Blakely. Thank heavens.”

Gareth halted at the gasping words. They were the first anyone had dared speak to him all evening. Even through the stress and strain and tears that threatened to choke the speaker, he recognized her voice.

He turned to greet his sister.

Laura skidded to a halt in front of him. For one horrendously awkward moment, he thought she might actually throw herself into his arms. In public. With everyone watching. The flowers in her hair dangled on broken stems and her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy.

Unfortunately, she checked her impulse toward affection. Gareth drew himself up, straight and tall. It was just as well. He wouldn’t have wanted to comfort her in front of all these people, anyway.

“Where—” He didn’t even have time to start.

“Come with me. You have to come with me.” She was hoarse. Little pockets of interested silence formed around the two of them. Everyone managed to look not quite in their direction, heads cocked and ears open.

The spectacle clearly had not yet finished. Gareth had no desire to play out this scene for public consumption, knowing it would be repeated ad nauseam in every last London drawing room for the next weeks. He’d go to the devil before he heard his sister’s name on everyone’s lips.

As Laura turned to lead him away, Gareth realized his options were extremely limited. He was already on the devil’s doorstep.

Gareth followed his sister. The crowds parted for them, and the murmurs grew to a roar. They walked sedately, not touching. Not that it would have mattered if they’d linked arms and skipped the length of the hall, because all eyes were on them nonetheless. Once they entered a hallway, Gareth felt relief from the pressure of that attention almost immediately. No suffocating crowds. No watching eyes.