‘Most agreeable.’ Mrs Faversham smiled and could not help her eyes straying to Emma once more. ‘And will Miss Northcote be there?’
But Emma was saved by the sound of the dinner gong.
* * *
The table was beautifully arranged with a central line of squat candelabras interspersed by pineapples. In the middle was a vast arrangement that involved the head and tail feathers of a peacock. Emma tensed, worrying that she would find herself seated beside Ned, but, for all his wealth, in the hierarchy of seating at a ton dinner table trade was still looked down upon and Ned and his steward were seated further down the table. A lady’s companion, effectively a servant, was deemed higher because her family had once been one of them.
Lord Soames, one of her father’s oldest and dearest friends, took his place by her side.
‘And how is your papa fairing out in rural Hounslow, young Miss Northcote?’ he bellowed on account of his deafness.
‘He is well, thank you, Lord Soames.’ She nodded and smiled, aware that the volume of Lord Soames’s voice was loud enough to be heard all around. Loud enough for Ned to hear those few seats away.
‘Glad to hear it, m’dear. You must tell him when you see him next that his presence is sorely missed.’
‘I will.’ She smiled again and smoothly changed the subject. ‘Such uncommonly good weather we have been having.’
‘What’s that you are saying? Speak up, girl.’
‘I was merely commenting upon the pleasant weather of late.’
Lord Soames held his ear trumpet to his ear. ‘Did not catch a word of it, Miss Northcote.’
‘Miss Northcote was speaking of the good weather,’ a man’s voice said from close behind. It was a voice that Emma recognised: aristocratic, educated, with a slight drawl of both careless sensuality and arrogance. She stiffened.
‘Splendid weather indeed,’ agreed Lord Soames with a nod and sat back in his chair to await his dinner.
‘Good evening, Miss Northcote,’ the voice drawled and its owner sat down in the vacant chair to her right.
The blood was pounding in her temple. She felt a little sick. Took a deep breath to steady herself before she looked round into the classically sculpted face of Viscount Devlin.
‘I think you are mistaken in your seat, sir.’ Her eyes looked pointedly at the small white place card with the name of Mr Frew written upon it.
Devlin lifted the place card and slipped it into a pocket of his dark evening tailcoat. ‘I do not think so, Miss Northcote.’
Emma blinked at his audacity, met his gaze with a fierceness and flicked her focus a few seats along to where Mr Frew was sitting meekly. The gentleman had the grace to look embarrassed before rapidly averting his eyes.
She returned her gaze to Devlin, her face as much a mask as his, even if her heart was still pumping hard with anger and loathing beneath. She knew that she could not start causing a fuss, or refuse to sit beside him. Guests were already sliding sly glances their way. Everybody would be watching to see her reaction to him. Everybody remembered her mother’s very public castigation of him and his friends. Everybody knew the history of him and her brother.
So she smiled, even if her eyes held all the warmth of an arctic night, and kept her voice low. ‘What are you doing, Devlin?’
‘Enjoying an evening out at dinner.’ He smiled, too. That lazy charming smile of his she had once thought so handsome.
Across the table Lord Fallingham had taken the seat beside Mrs Morley. His eyes met hers. He gave a nod of acknowledgement before he turned to Mrs Morley and engaged her in a conversation that had no room for anyone else.
She did not glance round at Lord Soames. She could hear Mrs Hilton on his left shouting a conversation with him.
Devlin smiled again as if he had known her thoughts.
She did not smile, just held his gaze and waited.
‘So how have you been, Miss Northcote?’
‘Never better...’ Her mouth smiled. Her eyes did not. ‘Until a moment ago. And you, sir?’ A parody of politeness and sincerity.
His smile was broader this time, lazier, more charming. ‘All the better for seeing you.’ And yet there was something in his eyes that gave lie to his words.
‘I cannot think why. Given your interchange with my family before we left London, I did not think that there was very much we had left to say to one another.’
He made no reply, just leaned back in his chair, and took a sip of his champagne as he watched her. ‘How did you find Hawick’s ball the other evening?’
By its own volition her gaze moved to Ned further down the table. His glance shifted to hers at the very same time. She looked away. Lifted her glass with a rock-steady hand.
‘It was a pleasant enough affair.’
Devlin flicked a glance towards Ned before coming back to her. ‘Pleasant enough to tempt Mr Stratham on to the dance floor so I hear. A hitherto unheard-of feat.’
‘I would not know, having been absent from society for so long.’
He smiled at the barb, a smile that did not touch his eyes. Took another sip of his champagne. ‘It is quite the accomplishment, I assure you.’
‘I will take your word for it.’
He smiled again.
‘He’s new money,’ he said in that same disparaging tone with which all of the ton viewed self-made men.
‘So I have heard.’
‘Men like Stratham do not play by the rules of our world. Some of them do not play by any rules at all.’ He paused, then added, ‘Especially when it comes to women.’
‘That is rather rich coming from you.’ The whole of London knew that Devlin was an out-and-out rake.
‘Maybe.’ Devlin smiled. ‘But my affairs are conducted with those who know the score.’
There was a silence and in it lay his unspoken insinuation over Ned. He held her gaze.
‘Why are you telling me?’
‘For the sake of my friendship with your brother.’
‘Friendship? Is that what you called it?’ She raised her brows.
‘And even if it were not so, given Stratham has expressed such an...interest in you, I would not be a gentleman were I to keep quiet and say nothing.’
‘One dance does not constitute an interest.’
‘I think, in this case, it rather does.’
‘I am sure you are well intentioned, sir.’ She kept her voice quiet and light, as if they were in truth discussing nothing more than the weather or the latest summer theatre show. ‘But what I do, and with whom, is not your concern.’
‘Maybe not.’ Devlin’s gaze flicked down the table to Ned and when he looked at her again there was a strange, almost possessive expression in his eyes. ‘And then again maybe it is more of my concern than you realise.’
The expression was gone so quickly that she doubted she had really seen it. She stared at him, wondering if he had just actually said those words.
He smiled again, that charming smile that had so many women fluttering their eyelashes and hoping to be the one that tamed him.
There was the clatter of dishes, the scrape of cutlery, the chink of glass and glug of wine being poured as the meal was served. Footmen