Page 34 of The Wallflower Ruse

“Oh, I wouldn’t be afraid,” he said, and everyone laughed. Lucinda wished she weren’t blushing. She’d known the company would be different from at Mrs. Haraldson’s, but knowledge and experience were quite different. Here, one dare not be too outspoken, nor even verge on outrageous, for fear of being seen as fast.

She glanced up to see Mr. Haraldson in the doorway, watching her. Lucinda smiled and nodded politely, and he favored her with a brief, preoccupied smile before turning away.

Lucinda was beginning to wonder when they might move on to something else—partly because of Monsieur Beaudry’s scrutiny, and partly because she’d had enough of assessing these people. The two ladies seemed rather vapid. One played well but showed no sign of real intelligence, while the other paid scant attention to the cards. Instead, her gaze flitted about the room, in search of...someone in particular? Or merely anyone who would provide amusement, perhaps of the carnal sort.

She couldn’t help wondering if Restive was seeking amusement as well. He would no doubt find it, if that were so. How would that affect his ability to discover what was to happen on Beltane Eve?

And what about Mr. Pearce? Why invite her here if he didn’t plan to attend?

“Time for some refreshments,” Lady Alice said suddenly. “Come, my dear.”

Lucinda scooped her winnings into her reticule and stood.

“You seemed uncomfortable,” Lady Alice whispered once they were a safe distance from the table. “I don’t think Monsieur Beaudry meant any harm, though.”

“No, I expect not, but I don’t relish being eyed like that. As for the ladies—” She wrinkled her nose.

“I know, dear. They’re unhappy, poor things—and I don’t think they’re what we’re looking for. Maybe we’ll have better luck elsewhere.”

They found platters of seed cakes and a particularly delicious plum cake on the dining room table, presided over by a footman who served them wine and lemonade. Lucinda followed Lady Alice to the drawing room. Monsieur Fortin, the other Frenchman, was there, speaking in a low voice to Mrs. Spence.

Drat, what a shame she couldn’t hear what they were saying! But surely they wouldn’t discuss secrets in such a public place. Maybe they were making an assignation. Mrs. Spence was a widow, so she might feel free to have an improper liaison. If so, Lucinda didn’t want to hear them!

She began to be bored. Where was Mr. Pearce, the only reason she had come here?

The footman set their refreshments on a small table at Lady Alice’s elbow. Lady Alice performed introductions; she seemed to know everyone here, just as she had at Mrs. Haraldson’s.

“Darling! Dearest Miss Belair!”

Lucinda gasped, choked on a bite of plum cake, and was taken by a fit of coughing. Crumbs flew everywhere.

Mr. Pearce dropped to one knee and grabbed the hand that wasn’t covering her mouth. “Forgive me, please forgive me, my darling. I didn’t mean to startle you, but the sight of your beauty was so overwhelming that I wasn’t thinking.”

“Evidently not!” Lady Alice patted Lucinda firmly on the back.

“It’s all right,” Lucinda croaked, tugging at her hand. She tugged harder, but Mr. Pearce didn’t let go. Everyone was staring at them.

“Say you’ll forgive me,” Mr. Pearce begged, brushing off crumbs she had coughed onto his waistcoat, which was embroidered with daffodils and buttercups.

“Yes, of course,” Lucinda snapped. “Let go of my hand. You’re hurting me!”

He released her immediately. “Oh, no, oh, no,” he gabbled. “Now I must beg forgiveness for that, too.”

“You have it, Mr. Pearce,” she said, wishing she could just tell him to go away. She reminded herself forcibly that England needed her. “Why don’t you get yourself some wine and join us?”

“Perhaps lemonade would be preferable,” Lady Alice said. “You seem quite overwrought, young man.”

“Alas, yes, my lady,” the poet cried. “Love is to blame.” He stood and tottered away.

“What a quiz,” Lady Alice said. “But very well dressed; his waistcoats have the most beautiful stitchery.” She smiled at the other ladies. “I don’t know Mr. Pearce well. Tell me, is this sort of behavior usual for him? Last night, he fell madly in love with Miss Belair at first sight.”

“It’s not really love,” Lucinda said. “He doesn’t know me well enough for that. It’s lust—which I suppose is flattering.”

“I’m sure it’s more than lust,” Mrs. Haraldson said, coming into the room. “He’s a little shy with the ladies, not the sort to boldly express his adoration.”

“True, but I’ve never seen him quite so effusive,” said one of the ladies, a Mrs. Pinkston. “And he does have a sense of drama, evidenced by some of his poetry.”

“He certainly seems épris,” Monsieur Fortin said, and his friend Beaudry, who had strolled into the room after Mrs. Haraldson, gave a sardonic smile. Interesting, Lucinda thought, that neither of them believed wholly in Mr. Pearce’s sincerity. Were they merely observant—or did they already know his infatuation was a ruse?