Sir Nathaniel had returned to London permanently only a few months ago. He now occupied a similar position at the Foreign Office as Powell and Christopher’s brother-in-law, North, reporting directly to Castlereagh.
Determined to avoid creating the sort of momentary opening he suspected Marion was waiting to seize, Christopher drifted toward the middle of the room so that, when he moved to the next group between him and his hostess, stationed near the door, he was surrounded on all sides by other guests.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Marion, who’d been unobtrusively drifting in his wake, check, then halt by the side of the room. She was of above-average height and somewhat more than passably pretty, with an alabaster-and-cream complexion that set off the lustrous golden-brown waves of her hair, currently swept up into an elegant knot on the top of her head. She was too far away for him to see her eyes, but he knew they were a curious shade of aqua blue, quite mesmerizing in the way they reflected her moods.
With her strong yet ladylike features—large eyes set under well-arched brown brows, pale rose-tinted lips, straight nose, and firm chin often set in determined lines—exuding an indomitable, intrinsically feminine resolve, in his younger mind, she’d featured as a slender and elegant Amazon.
He hadn’t forgotten how he’d viewed her then, or that he’d wondered whether the nascent attraction he’d felt for her—quite different to what he’d ever felt for other ladies—had been reciprocated. Regardless, that had been ten years ago and was surely water long under the bridge; they would both be very different people now.
Still, he had to admit he was surprised to find her hunting him; he wouldn’t have thought her the type.
Then again, an unkind observer might point out that she was twenty-eight and still unwed and he was more than eligible. Conversely, and possibly even more dangerously, her twenty-eight years notwithstanding, as Sir Nathaniel Sewell’s diplomatically experienced daughter, she would be considered an excellent match for him.
Now, she stared at him as if willing him to notice her and come to her; he could feel the compulsion in her gaze as it bored into him, but determinedly ignored it.
Step by step, group by group, he adroitly edged closer to the door. Finally, he crossed to Lady Selkirk’s side. When she turned to him, he took his leave of her with his customary flair.
Her ladyship smiled on him, then tapped his arm with her fan. “Do remember me to your mother when next you see her.”
Blithely, Christopher swore he would, reflecting that he would be able to discharge that promise sooner than anyone might suppose.
Without glancing at the room—at Marion, who he felt certain was still watching him—he walked out into the hall and started down the stairs. If his banishment from London held any silver lining, it was that he wouldn’t need to remain constantly vigilant against the wiles of the matchmakers and Marion Sewell. At the very least, he could forget such irritations existed until he returned to London.
The thought of appealing to his mother for advice rose in his mind and provoked an immediate, self-protective shudder. If his mother discovered that the matchmakers had started targeting him…it was entirely possible she would step in, take charge, and organize a campaign he wouldn’t be able to defend against. There was a reason she was still regarded throughout the ton as not just a grande dame but something of a social general.
No. He would have to make sure she didn’t get wind of the Marriage Mart’s sudden interest in him.
He collected his hat and greatcoat from a footman and made good his escape.
Reluctantly dismissing the notion of marching after Christopher and chasing him down the street, Marion Sewell drew in a deep breath, then released it in a slow exhale. It didn’t really help; her temper continued to smolder.
She felt frustrated and thoroughly exasperated. She was fairly certain that Christopher had been aware of her wish to speak with him and had chosen, instead, to avoid her. She was—now—loweringly aware of how her careful pursuit of him around the room might have appeared to anyone who had noticed and, most especially, to him. From his reaction, she assumed that, in the years since they’d last interacted, he’d grown sensitive over having ladies chase him; for all she knew, he might have cause to feel so. He remained an undeniably attractive man—handsome in a conventional way, with his tall, lean, ineffably elegant figure and a sophisticated aura that didn’t quite mask an underlying hint of sharpened steel.
From years past, she knew he was intelligent, with an incisive mind, quick wit, and a ready, often-honeyed tongue. Despite the impact of his physical attributes, it had been his intellect that had captured and fixed her attention all those years ago.
She could, therefore, readily imagine that, over the years, other ladies had pursued him with matrimonial intent. Not until some time after she’d embarked on her plan to stalk him—until she could engineer an apparently purely social encounter during which she could murmur her request in his ear—had she realized how he might interpret her behavior.
Bah! Bad enough that I’m committed to surreptitiously engaging with him, but now I’ve managed to put the wind up him.
She glanced around, then without any rush, made her way toward her hostess. Drawing on her extensive experience as an ambassador’s adult daughter, she paused to exchange farewells with several ladies and traded gracious nods with various others along the way. Given her age and said experience, her presence in Lady Selkirk’s drawing room without her mother or father in attendance was accepted without remark; most would assume she was attending in her parents’ stead.
Without conscious thought, she allowed polite words to trip from her tongue, while inside, she dwelled on the abject failure of her evening. Clearly, the simple plan of approaching Christopher at a social event wasn’t going to succeed, at least not without attracting attention from others, which, in the circumstances, was to be avoided at all costs; she suspected that, in the social sphere, Christopher would prove adept at avoiding unwanted encounters.
So she would need to find some other way of crossing his path, preferably in an unthreatening fashion—such as encountering him in the park—or alternatively, in a way he couldn’t avoid.
She finally found her way to Lady Selkirk. After thanking her ladyship and complimenting her on her event, head high, her customary serene mask in place, Marion glided from the room.
Apparently, accomplishing the task her absent twin had begged her to undertake wasn’t going to be as straightforward as he—or she—had supposed.
At five o’clock the next morning, Christopher walked out of his front door, closed it behind him, paused on the porch to tug on his driving gloves, then descended the steps to the pavement. His curricle stood waiting by the curb, the reins of his blacks in the hamlike hand of his recently acquired valet-cum-groom, Drummond.
After Lady Selkirk’s soirée, Christopher had returned home to find Fredericks and Drummond waiting for him. Fredericks had introduced Drummond as an operative with the firm who had been sent by the powers that ruled them to watch Christopher’s back.
“Just in case the Frenchies try to kidnap you,” Drummond had dourly informed him.
Christopher had exchanged a long-suffering look with Fredericks, then studied Drummond.