Charles. She realized it had been a day or two since she had thought about him.
“Is he back in England?”
Minerva shook her head. “Nor is he expected.” Minerva turned her gaze out over the garden, which meant she could not see Rosamund’s expression.
Rosamund was grateful Minerva gave her that small privacy while she absorbed this news. Charles always had loved the Season, and she had assumed he would return for it. It had been a mistake to do that, or to allow her old dream to create a theater in her head, with scenes of reunion and romance.
Rather suddenly, her excitement about her new home dimmed. Her lessons appeared foolhardy. She could have found a house for one third the rent in a different neighborhood. A milliner did not need to live on Chapel Street.
“How did you learn this?” she asked so the silence would not turn too heavy, although a tiny bit of hope still burned. One that said Minerva could be wrong.
“We have had one of our agents strike up a friendship with one of the family’s servants. When there was no evidence of this young man’s return, our agent drew the information out of this servant.”
“You went to a lot of trouble. I did not ask you to learn this for me.”
“I thought you would want to know.”
Minerva had guessed all of it if she thought that. What other reason could there be for wanting information about Charles other than an old tendre?
Inside the drawing room, someone began to play the pianoforte. The melody trickled out, muted by the closed doors, sounds that interrupted the night’s silence.
“Thank you. It is good to know. I expect that Paris is much more interesting than London, even during the Season.”
“I’m told it can be for some people.” Minerva finally looked at her. No pity showed in her expression. A warm kindness did, however. “I think I’ll return to the others. Why don’t you enjoy the night air for a while?”
“I think I will do that.”
Left alone, she released the disappointment building inside her. It flooded her so thoroughly that it left little room for anything else. Even the suspicion she had acted like a fool found no place in the dull ache growing thick and sad.
When she felt tears forming, she mentally slapped herself. Enough of that. Her plan still had value. For Lily’s sake it did, at least. And someday, eventually, Charles would return. England was his home.
“Escaping them, are you?”
She startled at the voice and turned to see Kevin’s cousin Philip coming up the stairs from the garden. The dining room had doors that opened onto another terrace down there. He appeared to be walking awkwardly, as if he did not trust his balance.
His face showed the remains of the boyishness that lingered in a man until well into his twenties. He wore an ugly waistcoat and a tight frock coat such as young bloods around Town might sport.
“I just needed some air,” she said.
“I’m sure you did.” He sauntered over. “Have they been polite, at least? Or eager to demean you further?” He smiled so broadly she could see his teeth in the moonlight. “If Aunt Dolores did not hold back, I doubt the others did.”
His proximity did not give her a way to avoid conversation. She wished he had not intruded. “They were polite enough. As for your Aunt Dolores, she did not join us.”
“I expect not, after that spectacle. Just as well. She is the sort to ask rude questions of you because she thinks the social niceties do not apply to her inferiors.”
There was nothing to say to that.
He cocked his head and considered her. “Odd that there were no more questions once the ladies had you alone. Hell knows the rest of us have some.”
He kept shifting his weight and balance. Each time he did, it seemed he came a bit closer. He was foxed. Thoroughly drunk.
“There were a few questions. Not many.”
“Negligent of them. That’s their job, isn’t it? To ferret out information?” He peered at her. “Maybe your appearance surprised them and put them off. You are not what was expected. Don’t look like a poor tradeswoman, do you?”
“Perhaps that is because I no longer be poor.”
As soon as she said it, she knew it had been a mistake, and not just grammatically. A sneer absorbed his smile. “No, you aren’t. A man half mad left you much of his fortune and let his own blood go without.” His eyes brightened dangerously. “Seeing you tonight, I knew at once how it was. How you managed that.”
“I managed nothing.”
“Complete surprise, was it? Don’t make me laugh.” He leaned toward her, and she smelled the port and other spirits on his breath. “You must be very good. Hell, you are probably the most expensive whore in England, so your skill should be unsurpassed.”
The urge to slap that leering face almost overcame her. She drew herself straight and took a step back. “You are too much into your cups and talking too freely. I will not stay here and be insulted by such as you.” She turned on her heel, toward the drawing room doors.
A firm grip on her arm stopped her. “Such as me? Who in hell do you think you are, putting on airs? We both know what you are.” He yanked her back and imprisoned her in his arms. “I’ve a mind to have a taste, to see what made him favor you so much.”
She pushed against him, hard, but it did not loosen his hold. She ordered him to stop. She squirmed so the kiss he aimed for her lips landed on her headdress. He grabbed at her breast and she kicked his legs, hoping he would go down. He let out a high-pitched, gloating laugh and grabbed the back of her head roughly with one hand. He tried to kiss her again.
She turned her head and bit that
