said. “I am quite content to watch from beside the fire.”
“If there are to be no professional dancers cavorting for us, I have no preference,” Sophronia said.
“If you want to give a scandalous party for your own friends, I am sure I could help you arrange it,” Ellie said. “But I will not be hiring any more opera dancers for this house.”
“That is a shame,” Marcus mused. “I quite like it when you hire opera dancers.”
Sophronia tittered. Ellie almost rolled her eyes — she knew, even if no one else did, that his thoughts had turned to Lucia. But she caught herself in time. “If no one has a suggestion, I shall consult Lord Folkestone. Aunt Sophronia, please ensure that Mr. Claiborne behaves himself in my absence.”
“I will if you promise to hire opera dancers for my party,” Sophronia said. “And you must find a smuggler who will sell us real French champagne. Respectability is no excuse for drinking swill.”
Most definitely insane. What did it say about her friends and family that Ellie was grateful to take her leave, even when Nick was her destination?
Or what did it say about herself? Even after the revenge he’d plotted for so long, she still felt his pull through the rooms like a tether. He’d hooked her, set the hook too deep to dislodge, and could pull her in without the slightest effort.
But a hooked fish still struggled. Ellie didn’t fight the pull. If she was a fish, then she was a stupid fish, perhaps even a suicidal fish — willing to leap into the boat to lie, gasping, at his feet.
Perhaps everyone else was sane and she was the madwoman.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ellie knew Norbury held her in esteem. He loved his wife, but she was often sickly, and Ellie was a convenient partner at card games and dances when his wife could not attend. But when she reached his side, he looked more grateful than she had ever seen him. “Lady Folkestone,” he said, bowing over her hand. “Have you come to rescue me?”
She hadn’t, but she saw why he needed it. Nick alone was a force too strong to deny. But they had been joined by Sir Percival, whose poetic foolishness was of the same magnitude as Nick’s intensity. Ellie stifled a laugh. “I cannot imagine why you want to be rescued.”
Nick clapped him on the back again. Norbury winced and said nothing. Nick spoke instead, with a friendliness that would have done a charlatan proud. “I cannot imagine it either. We’ve had such an interesting conversation about India. Lost on Pickett, I’m afraid, but Norbury is quite knowledgeable.”
Percy shrugged. “Can’t see anything poetic about India. Too much heat, don’t you know.”
“And aren’t we glad the heat didn’t stop Dante from exploring hell?” Ellie asked.
Percy seemed struck. “Never thought of that, Lady Folkestone.”
He retreated into a daydream. Ellie smiled and turned to Norbury. “What’s this about your knowledge of India? I trust you aren’t planning to forsake these shores for hotter climes?”
“I’m sure I will see hell long before I see India,” he replied.
Nick laughed, loudly, in a way that sounded forced to the point of mockery. “But you’re a veritable saint, Norbury. With your influence in Parliament and no hint of family drama, you’re surely bound for heaven. I never liked most of the investors in the East India Company, but you seem to be the exception.”
Ellie saw the dislike in Norbury’s eyes suddenly — a steeliness he never showed in her presence. But it was gone just as swiftly. “If you’ll excuse me, Lady Folkestone, Folkestone, Pickett — I promised Salford I would partner him in whist.”
He was gone an instant later. Ellie narrowed her eyes at Nick. “Do you care to explain why you abused that poor man?”
“No.”
His tone was final. But then his eyes swept over her, turning finality into a promise of things to come. “I didn’t expect you to seek me out so soon. May I help you, Lady Folkestone?”
She ignored the innuendo. “I came to see if there is an entertainment you prefer tonight, my lord.”
“You would offer that in front of your guests? I am shocked, my lady.”
Percy, forgotten beside them, snickered. “Our fair, cruel mistress is too discreet for that, Lord Folkestone. She is Artemis, not Aphrodite. She drives men before her in the hunt, but is never touched by them.”
Percy was a poetic fool, but he was a perceptive one. If she wasn’t mistaken, that comment almost sounded like a warning.
Nick didn’t