St. Clare’s felt a twinge in his midsection—the veriest ache somewhere in the region of his heart. Stupid, really. He supposed he’d begun to believe that his grandfather cared for him. Not for what he could do to secure the title, but for him. The man. “I’d expect nothing from you, of course.”
Allendale inclined his head. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. His expression was inscrutable, his gray eyes cold as hoarfrost. “So long as we understand each other.”
Maggie paced from the marble fireplace to the tall damask-curtained library windows and back again, her arms folded at her waist. It had been hours since Fred had called on her in Green Street. Long, anxiety-filled hours during which Jane had persuaded her to exercise patience.
Patience!
Every instinct within Maggie had told her to leave at once for Grosvenor Square. To find St. Clare and to tell him everything. But Jane had warned against it.
“Your recklessness will only expose the both of you to further censure,” she’d said.
It was sound advice. Reasonable and wise. It was also deeply infuriating. Maggie wasn’t accustomed to inaction. And in the present circumstances—
“I’m certain he’ll come to you, Margaret,” Jane said from her place on the library sofa. A leather-bound book lay open at her side. “If you will but wait a while longer.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Maggie had no sooner posed the question than the Trumbles’ butler materialized at the door carrying a silver salver. A calling card lay upon it.
“Who is it, Olmstead?” Jane asked.
“Lords St. Clare and Mattingly, ma’am,” he said. “Shall I show them in?”
Maggie stopped where she stood on the thick Aubusson carpet. She shot an anxious glance at Jane.
“Yes, do.” Jane rose from the sofa to smooth her pale green day dress. “And have Carson bring in the tea tray, if you please.”
“He’s brought Lord Mattingly with him,” Maggie said. “I wonder why?”
“For me, obviously.” Jane smiled slightly. “He’s meant to distract me from my duties as chaperone. Not that my role has made one jot of a difference in this affair.”
Maggie sighed. Jane wasn’t deaf to the gossip that had begun swirling about town. Much more of it and it would begin to reflect on her. Maggie was her houseguest after all.
A rather poor one, at that.
She felt a flare of guilt for putting her friend in such a precarious position. “Oh, Jane. What a trial this all must be.”
“It’s rather an adventure, truth be told.” Jane moved to stand next to Maggie. “But you must take care, my dear. At present there are only whispers about the pair of you, but it wouldn’t take much to instigate a full-blown scandal. Not now that the papers are on the scent.”
“I know that,” Maggie said.
Lord St. Clare appeared a moment later, with Lord Mattingly close behind. The pair of them were as impeccably dressed as always, looking as though they might have come straight from a strut on Bond Street or a promenade in the park during the fashionable hour.
It gave Maggie to wonder whether St. Clare had heard about her departure at all. Perhaps his visit was nothing more than the natural consequence of their romantic interlude at Grillon’s? A brief interview to ascertain that she was well, and that her feelings were unchanged?
“Miss Trumble,” he said, bowing. “Miss Honeywell.” It was impossible to tell that he’d been injured. There was no stiffness about his arm, no awkwardness in the way he held himself.
Maggie suspected that he was used to ignoring his pain. “Lord St. Clare. Lord Mattingly.” She curtsied along with Jane.
Lord Mattingly smiled, revealing a flash of perfectly straight white teeth. “I trust we’re not interrupting anything?”
“Not at all,” Jane said. “Do come in.”
Upon entering, Lord Mattingly wasted no time in singling out Jane for his attention. On her invitation, they sat down together on the sofa and commenced an animated discussion about the theater.
Maggie didn’t join them. Instead, she walked to the cushioned window seat at the far end of the library. Framed by heavy claret-colored curtains, the diamond-paned glass faced out toward the garden—a view that had grown dusky in the approaching twilight.
St. Clare followed her in silence, and when she sat down, he took an immediate seat at her side. “I came as soon as I could,” he said. “As soon as Mattingly was free to accompany me.”
“Do you think it makes any difference?” she asked. “This fig leaf of propriety?”
He frowned. “I don’t know. But I’d as soon not add