In that moment, he saw her desire with crystal clarity and knew she saw his answering need.
Quite what he or she might have said next, they never learned.
Oliver appeared beside them and, while glancing around, stated, “I’ve learned precious little about our mystery man, but I did hear more about Edward and Charlie.”
Finally, he looked at Martin and Sophy. By then, they’d recovered their composures and redonned their social masks.
Oliver grimaced. “I also learned several useful tidbits about a business I might be interested in purchasing, but sadly, that doesn’t advance our collective aims—” He broke off as they noticed movement in the crowd. “Ah—suppertime.” He looked at Sophy and Martin and arched a brow. “Shall we? We might be able to snaffle a table sufficiently removed that we can talk freely.”
Sophy agreed, as did Martin, and they filed into the supper room along with a goodly percentage of the other attendees.
Sophy squeezed Martin’s arm. “I’ll go ahead. I know of two nooks over there”—she pointed to the far end of the room—“that should have small tables in them. I’ll go and claim one—”
“And meanwhile, I’ll fetch you a plate,” Martin said.
She flung him a smile and dove into the crowd.
Alongside Oliver, Martin grinned and charmed his way to the extensive buffet table. Between them, they quickly filled three plates with the most succulent of the offerings, then went to find Sophy.
She was seated at a small round table in an alcove tucked away in an adjoining anteroom. She’d managed to attract one of the footmen circulating with flutes of champagne and had three glasses waiting on the table.
Martin handed her a plate, then set his down and sat in the chair alongside her.
Oliver claimed the chair on Sophy’s other side and reached for one of the glasses. “I’m parched after all that talking.” He took a healthy swallow.
Martin picked up one of the remaining glasses and tipped it so that the rim clinked with the last—Sophy’s. “Here’s to our collective aims, frustrated though they may presently be.”
“Indeed.” Sophy picked up the glass, sipped, then looked at Oliver. “So what did you hear about Edward and Charlie?”
Oliver set down his glass and considered the morsels on his plate. “Firstly, everyone unanimously agrees that neither Edward nor Charlie has any interest—of any stripe, at any level whatsoever—in the steel industry, much less in Carmichael Steelworks.”
Martin nodded. “Everything we heard confirmed that as well.”
“More,” Oliver continued, “while Edward has remained in Sheffield and rarely travels anywhere else, Charlie normally haunts London’s streets and has for several years.”
Sophy frowned. “We already knew that.”
“However,” Oliver rolled on, ignoring the interruption, “last night, Charlie was seen in a local gambling den.”
“He was?” Sophy looked surprised.
Oliver nodded. “Not for long—he didn’t stay and play—but he was there, and the two who saw him have known him for years, well enough to be absolutely certain it was him.”
“Well, well.” Martin popped another oyster tart into his mouth and chewed. He swallowed and voiced what all three of them were doubtless thinking. “I wonder what’s brought him home?”
“And,” Oliver added portentously, “although Edward is here tonight—I saw him on my trek through the masses—apparently, Charlie isn’t. I even checked, very discreetly, with the hostesses—brave of me, I know—but it seems Charlie hasn’t been sighted, so it looks like he’s lying low.”
Eyes narrowing in thought, Martin said, “’Tis the season for rustication.”
Sophy studied his expression. “You mean he might be in debt?”
He focused on her face. “That’s usually the reason game cocks like Charlie flee London for the country. And May—at the end of the London Season—is often a time when impecunious young gentlemen find themselves without a penny to their name.”
He looked at Oliver. “We didn’t find anyone who had any idea who the man Edward met with might be, nor did we turn up any hint of who might be behind the accidents or any clue as to a possible motive. Did you learn anything pertinent about the man, the accidents, or a motive?”
Oliver grimaced. “Sadly, no. Nothing at all.” Frowning, he shook his head. “I’m starting to wonder if there’s anything to be found, at least in this”—he circled his fork—“sphere.”
Martin ate, thought, then confessed, “I, too, am starting to wonder if we’re looking in the right places. To have unearthed not the slightest whisper, even though, as we learned, everyone who’s anyone in Sheffield steel has heard about the accidents, suggests that the source of the attacks isn’t known to those here.”
