The young man grinned down at her. “Honored,” he said, sketching a bow.
“Where are Stanley and Cecil?” asked Miss Deeping.
Her brother gestured vaguely at the crowd. “They’re about somewhere.”
“Well, find them and bring them here.”
“I thought you said you’d rather be a wallflower than dance with a brother,” teased Henry Deeping.
“That was before I saw the walls.” Miss Deeping surveyed the large ballroom with uncertainty. Not quite as assured as she liked to appear, Arthur concluded.
“Right.” Her brother offered an amused salute. “I’ll be back in a tic.”
“And don’t think you can slope off,” added Miss Deeping. “You know what Mama said.”
“We are to do our duty to launch our odious little sister into society.”
“Beast.”
“I would say beauty, but I’m an honest fellow.”
“You are a pig,” said his sister.
With a grin and another bow, Henry Deeping departed on his mission.
“I won’t dance with Cecil,” declared Miss Finch. “He looks ridiculous. His waistcoats hurt one’s eyes. And all those fobs he wears clink when he moves. It’s the most distracting thing.”
“You can have Stanley,” said Miss Deeping. She seemed eager to make up for her earlier comment.
But before any of Miss Deeping’s brothers returned, a formidable dowager approached with a young man in tow. She introduced him to Miss Finch as a desirable partner, and he immediately asked her to dance. The beginning of a campaign to win a fortune, Arthur thought. He hoped Miss Finch might come to enjoy the process. Her demeanor suggested that so far she wasn’t.
Miss Ada smiled up at her promised husband. “We can show everyone how you have benefited from your dancing lessons,” she said.
The young duke grimaced. “Would you say ‘benefit’? But then, you are a generous creature.” When the pair had exchanged fond glances, Compton looked at Arthur. “Will you join me in a prayer that the first dance isn’t a quadrille?”
In fact, it was a country dance, to his obvious relief. Miss Deeping’s brothers turned up. The young ladies joined the set, and Arthur was left standing next to Miss Julia Grandison, wondering if he was obliged to ask the formidable lady to dance. There was nothing for it. He broached the subject.
“What? Nonsense. Of course I will not dance.”
Arthur was relieved. He was a good dancer. But partnering Miss Grandison must be rather like guiding a great frigate through a crowded channel. The potential for mishaps was high.
“You can do something for me, however,” she added.
Her tone made Arthur wary. He knew, because Miss Grandison had told him, that she was a lady bent on revenge, itching to punish her brother for past humiliations.
“Have you seen John?” she continued, confirming his suspicion. “He’s been peacocking about town bragging that his daughter is to be a duchess. As if he’d arranged the match all by himself, when in fact he did nothing. Less than nothing. My brother is odiously full of his own consequence.”
Arthur thought this was probably a fair assessment, but that didn’t mean he would be pulled into their quarrel. He was sorry that Miss Grandison had been drenched by an upended punch bowl in the year of her come-out. He was even sorrier that her brother had known of the plot to humiliate her, had done nothing to help, and had later pretended to have no connection to his beleaguered younger sister. The man was clearly an ass. Arthur actually wished Miss Grandison well in her quest to make her brother regret his sins. But he wouldn’t be a party to her plot.
“I need a gentleman who can reach John inside his club,” she continued. “White’s, that is.”
“Reach?” repeated Arthur.
“As a woman, I am barred from entry,” she said. She gave him a look. “As you know.” Her expression revealed what she thought of this exclusion.
Which many men saw as one of the chief benefits of their clubs, Arthur thought. Some avoided the females of their families for days on end.
“So I need an…agent to further my plans,” she added.
Visions of mayhem filled Arthur’s mind. What schemes would Miss Grandison require of her…henchmen? He tried to remember when a member had last been expelled from White’s. Hadn’t there been someone who cheated at cards?
“Well?” Miss Grandison was nearly his height and built on heroic lines. She challenged him eye to eye with a glare that might have quelled a riot.
It was best to be clear. If he hedged, the request would only rise again. “No,” said Arthur. He left it at that. Any embellishment might open a path to