of course the first person Verity saw when they went in was Lord Randolph Gresham. He stood in the center of the large reception room as if the great crystal chandelier had been placed specifically to illuminate him. His auburn hair gleamed in the candlelight. His broad-shouldered figure seemed made for evening dress, and his face was a chiseled classic. Yes, all right, he was terribly handsome, Verity thought. That didn’t make him suitable for her purposes.
She vowed not to speak to him at all tonight. Why would he wish her to? She’d been positively rag-mannered the last time they met! He must think she was a shrew. Not that she cared. So it didn’t matter. Except that she wasn’t a shrew. Ask anyone in Chester, and they would tell you that the dean’s daughter was poised and amiable. The word sweet was often used. Too often.
“Can people talk of nothing but this German fellow?” asked Verity’s mother at her side.
It was true that everyone nearby was chattering about phrenology. Those who had managed a session with Herr Grossmann lorded it over those who hadn’t yet seen him. Remarkably, the former all seemed to possess exceptional skulls that revealed a host of admirable traits.
“It’s tedious,” Mama added.
Verity took in her mother’s bored expression and impatient gaze. Mama didn’t like London. She preferred small gatherings of neighbors to large parties—and a weighty book to either. She missed Papa. But she’d promised Verity a season, and she was keeping her word. She’d made use of her family connection to the Duke of Rutland, which she didn’t really like to do, to get invitations. She soldiered along to all the resulting events. And she didn’t complain. It was practically heroic. “There’s Mrs. Doran,” Verity said.
Her mother brightened. Mrs. Doran was an old friend from her school days, and they never seemed to tire of rehashing those bygone years. Their reminiscences painted a picture of deep erudition and nunlike dedication. Verity had sent up more than one silent thanks that her parents hadn’t sent her to that august institution.
As they moved toward the sofa where Mrs. Doran sat, Verity’s gaze strayed. Lord Randolph was surrounded by a striking group of people. She spotted Emma with her sister and Lord Sebastian. Verity would find her later. A third tall gentleman looked like another brother. Verity had discovered that there were six of them. What a sight that would be—a half-dozen of these striking men. A pretty dark-haired woman stood beside this man, along with a younger blond girl. When she found herself wondering how the latter might be connected to Lord Randolph, Verity reined in her errant thoughts. It didn’t matter. It was nothing to her. She turned away.
* * *
“This is a friend of ours from the Salbridge house party,” Flora, the dark-haired woman, was saying to Sebastian. “Miss Frances Reynolds.”
“Good to see you again,” said Randolph, shooting Robert a sly glance. His next younger brother had won Flora’s hand at Salbridge, and his wooing had been more difficult than anyone had expected for the most polished and fashionable Gresham. Robert pretended not to notice his look, and Randolph enjoyed it.
He turned his attention to Miss Reynolds. He’d always thought her rather pretty, with fair hair, blue-gray eyes, and a neat figure. She was scanning the crowd as if she’d lost someone. “Are you enjoying the season so far, Miss Reynolds?” he asked.
She turned to him. “Have you seen Mr. Wrentham in London?”
Startled by her abruptness, Randolph said, “As a matter of fact I have.”
“Here?” Miss Reynolds looked around eagerly.
“No, we were fencing.”
“Fencing? With swords? Was it a duel?”
“Of course it wasn’t a duel.” He frowned at her. “We met at Angelo’s Academy.”
Although she showed no sign of recognizing the name, she leaned a little toward him in her eagerness. “So you’re good friends?”
“Acquaintances, barely.” Randolph didn’t intend to pursue a connection with the hotheaded Mr. Wrentham.
“Oh.” Miss Reynolds resumed her survey of the other guests, appearing to lose all interest in Randolph.
Chagrined, Randolph examined her profile. Had he developed some inadvertent tone that made girls rude? “Are you a friend of Miss Verity Sinclair?”
“What?” Miss Reynolds looked mystified.
“Never mind.”
“Who is Miss Sinclair?” murmured Robert.
Randolph turned to face his brother’s raised eyebrow.
“Someone I should know?”
“No,” Randolph said.
“Ah.”
“Don’t give me your ‘ahs.’ She’s nobody. Forget I mentioned her.”
“Oh, I don’t think I can do that. You were so helpful to me at the Salbridges’, you know. I intend to return the favor.”
Randolph was considering this