“Styles, have you had any business with Nathans yourself?”
His friend’s brows rose. “You are after Nathans, then?”
“Have you?”
Styles shook his head. “Singapore does not interest me.”
“Why not? There is good money to be had along that route to Canton.”
Styles dropped his shot cup into his pocket. “I am occupied with other affairs.”
“Still fixed on Nepal?” Ben asked casually. “You won’t get far there, my friend. Those natives are not impressed by English woolens.”
“No. I’ve given up on that.” A strange light entered the baron’s blue eyes.
“Keeping things closer to home, I daresay? You have not been east in nearly a decade.”
“Neither have you.” Styles’s gaze narrowed. “Not since you acceded to the title.”
“I have not found the need.” Ben started along the ridge of the hill. Below, Nathans cavorted like a green lad over a brace of pigeons. Gosworth joined the gentlemen heading over the rise, including Marcus Crispin. Crispin cast a glance over his shoulder at his partner down in the brush then went along with the others.
He should send the whole lot of them back to London after lunch. She was set to marry Crispin. Her concerns about the blackmailer must be allayed.
But a persistent unease scratched at him. The night before, when he and Styles encountered Baron Crispin and his betrothed in the corridor, she had been resisting the embrace. And when he released her and turned to them, Crispin’s determined gaze fixed on Styles—not on him, the man Crispin had found his fiancée alone with earlier that day, her porcelain cheeks and the ivory column of her neck flushed, her beautiful lips bruised from his kisses.
Crispin was no idiot. In the ballroom Ben had seen the snap of his gaze, the proprietary grasp of her arm to make it clear to whom she belonged. But last night outside her bedchamber, that passionate embrace had been for Styles’s benefit. Not his. And she had not been privy to her fiancée’s purpose.
Ben would know why.
The wives of the proprietors of the East India Company present at Fellsbourne might be married to milliners, modistes, and jewelers, for all they discussed their husbands’ businesses. Their interests seemed to lie entirely in the current season’s fashions and in society ladies unwise enough to dress in last season’s.
Tavy sat in a windowed corner of a parlor elegantly appointed in ivory and cobalt blue silk, her embroidery forgotten in her lap, and gazed at the gray day without, listening now with desultory attention to the conversation of Lady Gosworth, Priscilla Nathans, and the other wives. Somewhere far off in the corridors of Fellsbourne, Alethea napped with Jacob, an excellent choice of afternoon activities indeed, as it happened.
“Isn’t this a cozy picture?” Lady Constance said from the doorway. Resplendent in peach silk and pearls, she moved into the chamber with smiles for each lady.
“Have you any news of the gentlemen’s return, Lady Constance?” the Countess of Gosworth asked, her round cheeks dimpling.
“Yes, do tell,” Lady Nathans purred. “Has our host enticed our husbands to the farthest reaches of the estate to find the perfect birds?”
“Oh, I doubt it,” Constance said with an unaffected shrug of graceful shoulders. “Lord Doreé dislikes shooting, and probably wishes he were here with you lovely ladies instead.” Her gaze glittered on the chestnut-haired coquet for a purposeful moment, then shifted directly to Tavy.
“He dislikes shooting?” one of the ladies trilled. “Who ever heard of such a thing?”
“Anybody who might be listening,” came the vocal rejoinder. Lady Fitzwarren stood in the doorway behind Constance, her bulk encapsulated in a fantastic constellation of violet organza and lilac silk.
“Lady Fitzwarren, how do you do?” Constance said delightedly and grasped the dowager’s lavender-gloved fingers.
Tavy leapt up and went to them.
“Afternoon.” Lady Fitzwarren took in all the women in the chamber with the greeting, then brought her open gaze to Tavy. “Octavia, you look peaked, especially with Lady Constance beside you for comparison.”
Constance laughed. “Come now. Octavia is as lovely as can stare. And,” she added sotto voce, “there are those here who can and do stare.”
“I have no doubt of that whatsoever.” Lady Fitzwarren took Tavy’s arm. “Come with me, child. You may join us, Lady Constance.”
“It is good to see you, Lady Fitzwarren,” Tavy said uncertainly. “But what are you doing here?”
“You called me Aunt Mellicent when you were a girl. May as well do so now.”
“But what are you doing here, Aunt Mellicent?”
The dowager dragged Tavy into the drawing room. Constance took up a position at the door.
“You needn’t be shy, Lady Constance,” the dowager said bracingly. “There will be no secrets passed about here. Come have a seat. Does Doreé’s cook make an edible poppy cake? I’ve had a hankering for a fine poppy cake for a fortnight now and ordered my own Griffin to bake up a batch for tea today. But after I received Alethea’s note, I hadn’t time to taste a one.”
“My sister sent you a note? Whatever for?”
“She thought I should know that you betrothed yourself to Marcus Crispin. I don’t blame her for it, of course. Your parents have been angling in that direction for months.” She fixed Tavy with a direct stare. “Well, why did you do it?”
“I beg your pardon, Octavia.” Constance spoke before Tavy could open her mouth. “I did not mean to suggest last evening that married ladies are dull bores.”
“At the time you suggested it, I was not precisely betrothed, actually.” It felt unreasonably good to admit that aloud. Too good.
“Aha.” Lady Fitzwarren snapped her fleshy fingers. “I knew it.”
“How could you have known that, Aunt Mellicent?”
“Suspected it, rather.”
“But he is a perfectly unexceptionable gentleman, and you have been present on nearly all the occasions I have been in company with him since I returned to London.”
“Precisely.” Lady Fitzwarren turned to Constance. “Why aren’t you and that handsome marquess wed yet?”
Tavy’s stomach hollowed out. She could claim a sudden megrim and flee. But she must hear of their plans eventually. The sooner the better. Then perhaps her foolish imaginings would finally cease. Lord knew she hadn’t the strength to cease them through her own will. Like Priscilla Nathans and Lady Gosworth, she had spent the majority of the day wondering when the gentlemen would return. Her betrothed had nothing to do with her anticipation.
She had never kissed two men in a single day. Or year. Marcus’s embrace had left her furious and frustrated, and she was still piqued with him for it. But Ben’s kiss . . . Hot, delicious little eddies wound through her at the mere thought of it.
Constance smiled. “One reason we are not wed, my lady, is that he has not offered for me.”
“Which suggests there are other reasons as well.”
“It does, indeed.” The heiress’s eyes glimmered.
Tavy struggled to appear only mildly interested.
“Has he got a host of lightskirts at his beck and call, or a flamboyant Bird of Paradise you cannot abide?” Lady Fitzwarren demanded.
“Oh, that certainly is not my place to say.” Constance’s eyes danced.