Chapter 4
Harry slipped his finger between his neck and his overly starched collar and cravat and gave the fabric a gentle tug. His valet had gone to excess with his costume this evening, but then it had been a while since Harry had attended anything but a family dinner at his parents’ house.
The discomfort of his overly elegant clothing extended to his mood—he didn’t like these kinds of events. Pomp, fabrication, and excess. Though his parents did better than most as far as whom they invited and the expense they laid out, it was still far and beyond what Harry thought was necessary. Why not just invite a handful of friends over to play cards?
Because there will be dancing!
Harry heard his mother’s dissenting opinion in his head along with her effusive laugh and couldn’t help but smile. Yes, dancing, and he’d avoid it like the bloody plague.
Settling back against the squab and dropping his hand to his side as the hack turned onto Bond Street, he thought back on another pointless afternoon watching The Ardent Rose. The past five days, he’d either stationed himself across the street or observed the alley, onto which the back entrance opened. He had yet to see Madame Sybila leave the perfumery. She was either watching him and adjusting her departure, or he was incredibly unlucky.
Four days, actually, since he’d deduced that she hadn’t been there on Thursday. He’d paid someone to go in and ask about the fortune-teller’s schedule. She didn’t make appointments on Thursdays—or of course Sundays.
What he really needed, however, was to learn what she did during her appointments. He supposed it was possible she wasn’t up to anything fraudulent, but he wasn’t going to wait for her to cheat his mother or one of her friends to know for certain.
His mind turned to the other investigation weighing on him: that of the Vicar. Harry had visited St. Dunstan-in-the-West and asked to see the Vicar only to be told there was no person by that name, just the actual vicar of the church. So Harry had watched the church for hours at a time—and seen nothing. He’d also asked around Blackfriars and learned that there was still no one willing to discuss the Vicar, let alone give a description of what he looked like. The man either paid people well or inspired a deep loyalty.
The hack turned onto Grosvenor Street, and soon cut through Grosvenor Square before turning onto Charles Street, where Harry got out.
He strode into the mews behind his parents’ house, where he greeted one of the grooms. “Good evening, Barker.”
“’Evening, sir,” Barker said. “Surprised to see you here tonight. But not surprised you’re stealing in the back.” He chuckled.
“You know me well.” Harry winked at the groom, then took himself to the house, entering through the back door that the servants used.
Sounds from the kitchen carried up the backstairs, giving indication of how busy they all were for the soiree. It was early yet, and Harry could only hope Lady Gresham and her sister arrived near the start so he could leave as soon as possible.
Harry opened a door and stepped into the corridor that led to the library at the back of the house, where his family typically gathered before dinner—and before events such as this. He heard their voices before he stepped inside.
His brother Jeremy, Viscount Northwood, and whom everyone but Harry called North, stood just over the threshold and noticed him immediately, his dark auburn brows climbing his forehead in a combination of surprise and amusement.
Harry put his finger to his lips. He wanted to see how long it took before anyone else noticed he was there.
“That’s a beautiful color on you,” his youngest sister, Imogen, was saying to the oldest of his three sisters, Delia. “And the drape is perfection. It’s hardly possible to tell you’re increasing.”
“That can’t be true,” Delia said. “I feel as large as Lord Blakesley’s ridiculous new coach.”
“An absolute monstrosity,” Delia’s husband, Edward, Baron Moreton, said with a sniff.
Delia arched a chestnut brow at him. “You say that, but we will need one that big if we’re to cart four children about.”
“What a marvelous idea,” Imogen said, her dark brown eyes lighting with inspiration. “A vehicle for an entire family. One would think those would be readily available.”
“I believe that’s called a caravan, darling,” Imogen’s husband, Sir Kenneth, said with a smile from beside her.
“Well, that’s the definition of such a thing, and it involves multiple vehicles. Perhaps someone should design a family-sized vehicle called a caravan, so the whole family could travel together,” Imogen suggested. She cocked her head to the side. “Whom do we know who could do that?” Glancing about the room as if she’d find such a person within their family, she settled her gaze on Harry. “Well, look who’s here.” Her lips spread in a wide grin.
Every head in the library turned toward Harry. His mother gasped.
“Harry!” She came forward, her arms outstretched so that she took his hands when she reached him. “You came!”
“I said I probably would.”
“You always say that.” Her tone was wry, but her eyes were alight with pleasure. Letting go of one of his hands, she kept hold of the other and turned to face everyone. “Everyone is here—save the grandchildren, of course. How lovely.”
Harry’s middle sister, Rachel, narrowed her eyes at him. “Why are you here? Is there an investigation afoot? Have Mama and Papa invited a criminal to the soiree?”
“Goodness, I hope not.” Harry’s mother sounded scandalized. She grimaced at Harry. “Is that why you’re here?”
“No, Mother.” He exhaled. “I finally come to a soiree, and everyone thinks I have an ulterior motive.”
Jeremy clapped his shoulder. “Because they know you.” He laughed. “Brandy?”
Harry nodded. A smile crept over his lips in spite of himself.
Their father walked to Harry with an approving look. “It’s good to see you here. I’m glad you came, whatever the reason.”
Harry knew the sentiment was genuine. “Since I asked you to add a pair of guests, I thought it only right I attend.”
“So you do have an ulterior motive,” Rachel said with a touch of triumph. Of his three younger sisters, she’d always teased him the most, and he expected nothing less since he’d been the one to teach her how to do it effectively.
“Not really. Mother and Father were delighted to welcome these guests as they are new to town. Since when is helping someone an ulterior motive?” Harry accepted the glass of brandy from his brother.
“And who are these guests?” Imogen asked.
Mother answered before Harry could. “Lady Gresham and her sister, Miss Beatrix Whitford.”
Jeremy stared at Harry. “They’re women? How on earth did you meet women who are new to town? They weren’t brought in front of the magistrate, were they?”
Several people in the library chuckled. Harry rolled his eyes. “No. I met Lady Gresham the other day. It’s a long story.”
“Please tell it,” Delia said with an eager smile.
“Later,” Mother said. “Guests will be arriving shortly. Come, girls.” She gestured for her daughters to join her. “Let us make one last pass through the main rooms to ensure all is ready.”