Somehow Rowan smiled. Without baring his teeth.
“Do not worry,” Mr. Haws said, “I’ll still remember the working fellows when I’m raised far above you. But do not expect such informality as we currently enjoy. It wouldn’t be right for a duke’s father-in-law to be so familiar with a man of your sort.” He chuckled and disappeared down the stairs.
“That man is an arse,” Poppins said.
Rowan strolled to the window at the end of the hall. It offered a clear view of the street, and Rowan waited, watching his pocket watch. “That is all, Poppins. Have a good evening. I’m going out tonight.”
“You? Out?” Poppins’s laugh echoed off the walls.
“No. You, out, now.”
Still laughing, Poppins bounced down the stairs.
And Rowan changed his clothes, stripping quickly out of his usual practical but fine shirt and waistcoat and trousers and donning materials of a rougher sort, borrowed from one of his footmen. He swung an old, beaten brown greatcoat over his shoulders and pulled a worn hat over his head. He’d return to change into his formal evening wear later.
After.
Rowan peeked down at the street once more. Hestia’s front door opened, and Mr. Haws barreled out, escorted by daughter.
He had little time, and it was draining from the hourglass swiftly. He popped up the collar of his greatcoat and pulled the hat brim low. Then he left Hestia from the back alley and watched from the side of the building as one of Hestia’s hackney coaches set off with Mr. and Miss Haws inside. The man had not had long enough to put the letter somewhere other than his pocket.
But Rowan had had days to prepare for the Haws’s trip to the ball being held at Clearford House.
The driver of the coach crept forward with the pace of a snail. Rowan could easily follow at a distance, and when the crush of carriages grew too thick for the coach to move more than a few yards at a time, it sought a new route, turning into an alley between two buildings. Narrow, dark.
Rowan followed, trying not to think about the woman in the coach, trying only to keep tight control over the cold gun heavy in his greatcoat pocket. Not loaded.
Mr. Haws didn’t know that.
The carriage stopped, the wheels crunching against rock and mud in the shadows that Rowan stepped out of.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Isabella had been dancing for an hour. Her feet hurt, and her heart was heavy. Rowan… nowhere she could see. Neither were the Haws. Both should have arrived already. The music strummed to an end, and Isabella curtsied to her partner, then sought the stairs. Gertrude haunted the balcony above, had all night. But she’d found a friend during the last dance.
Rather, an enemy.
The young Earl of Avelford leaned against the balcony scowling, his light-brown hair hanging partially over his forehead.
“Good evening, Alex,” Isabella said as she reached the top step. “You should be downstairs.”
“It’s dreadfully dull, Issy. Besides, who can dance when Lady Glum is up here, bursting every champagne bubble with a single glance.”
“I am not,” Gertrude mumbled into a flute of champagne she’d not possessed before the dance had begun. “The colors are gorgeous. Lottie is a sorceress. Where is Mr. Trent?”
Where was Mr. Trent? The question of the night.
Below, Samuel circled the dance floor like a predator, his face drawn tight and pale, his hands clasped behind his back. Like her, he waited and watched. Mr. Haws would surely arrive soon as well.
Isabella hated being so in the dark. She turned her back to the dancing crowd below.
“Who’s that?” Alex asked.
As Isabella spun around once more, she followed the line Alex drew across the ballroom to the entrance.
Gertrude stood at the balustrade on the other side of Alex. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“He looks like he’s been in a fight with a puddle of mud and lost,” Alex said.
