Seconds later, the dark-skinned butler ushered him inside. The hall was long and narrow, the lights dim, the air smelling of linseed oil and roses from a hand-painted vase on a stand. He was shown into a green sitting room, where three faces turned his way.
The first was a blond-haired girl perched on the edge of a chaise lounge, with plain features and a demanding, curious stare. The second was Miss Gresham, who rose to her feet and smiled.
The third a gentleman. Tall and broad, dark hair, somber eyes—and a clenched jaw that seemed the result of a sudden and distinct dislike for the newest occupant of the room.
A tight smile spread William’s lips. “Good evening.”
Isabella swept closer to him, all elegance in her blue evening gown, pearl necklace, and matching earbobs. Cheeriness bubbled from her, like water gurgling from a stone fountain. “Mr. Kensley, do meet Miss Lilias Trewman and Lord Livingstone.”
William bowed to both.
The lady rose to curtsy, while the gentleman did little more than nod his head.
In a silence disturbed only by a clock on the mantel, all four took seats. Miss Gresham did her best to instigate conversation, but the room soon fell into silence, as Miss Trewman was too busy scrutinizing William, and Lord Livingstone was too busy glaring at him. Was such discomfort wont for dinner parties? Or was he especially unwelcome?
Perhaps his aunt had done him a service in forbidding him so many events.
At last, two more guests were introduced—a Miss Sophia Kettlewell and Colonel Nagel—after which a footman announced dinner. They followed the servant into the dining room, and each found their chair.
Miss Gresham took the head of the table, with Lord Livingstone to her right, and William was seated next to Miss Trewman, who smelled strongly enough of rosemary that he could scarcely smell the turtle soup steaming from tureens in the center of the table.
Murmurs began to fill the room, silver clinking glass, as the gentlemen engaged the women next to them and all began their soup.
Miss Trewman glanced over at William more than once, as if expecting him to speak. He wasn’t certain what to say, however, so he said nothing.
That is, until Miss Kettlewell cleared her throat. “Mr. Kensley, all of us around this table are rather intimately acquainted, having spent more than one season together.” She was a handsome girl with chestnut hair and dark-lashed eyes, dressed in vogue, though her sharp beauty was not as soft, delicate, and fresh as Miss Gresham’s. “But pray, I fear we have not the pleasure of knowing you at all. Have you been long in London?”
“No, hardly. I arrived nearly a week ago.”
“Do you intend to stay throughout the season?”
“My plans are not so determined.” He spooned more soup. “I cannot say.”
“La, to be a gentleman.” This from Miss Trewman. She sighed. “Ladies can never go where they wish, when they wish, and depart just as easily. Everything must be decided for them, is it not so?”
A murmur of feminine agreement arose, though not with much conviction, and Miss Kettlewell skewered him again with another gaze. “I presume pleasures have brought you to town?”
“Matters of personal interest, actually.”
At this, Miss Gresham’s brows inched up. She’d been watching him since his arrival—quick glances, all hurried away so fast she likely imagined he did not notice.
Even if William had been blind, however, Lord Livingstone was not. His complexion grew greyer and his lips tightened with every glance.
“Who are your connections in London?” asked Miss Kettlewell.
“None to speak of.”
“This is a puzzlement. Isabella, darling, you must explain how this came to be.” With a smile, Miss Kettlewell turned to her hostess. “He denies any connections—yet here he sits, dining with us, likely laughing at us this very moment. Do explain it, won’t you?”
“He has business with Father.” The explanation, though clearly one she wasn’t satisfied with herself, was spoken with confidence enough to silence Miss Kettlewell.
But not Miss Trewman. “What sort of business?”
All eyes turned upon him.
Clearing his throat, William reached for the platter of lamb cutlets. “You can hardly expect me to discuss matters involving his lordship”—he plopped a cutlet onto his plate—“without Lord Gresham present, can you?”
Miss Trewman huffed. “Oh, how droll. People are always giving me nonsensical responses to my very sensible queries. But tell us more of yourself.” Was it his imagination, or did the girl keep slipping secretive glances at Miss Gresham? What had they done—made a pact to puncture him with questions until he bled out all his answers? To what purpose? That they might whisper of them and spread them about through all the silly gossipmongers in their circles?
