Page 35 of The Wallflower Ruse

“I’d rather not be unkind to him. He seems quite desperately sincere.” Lucinda paused as if considering. “He is extremely handsome, and he does write lovely little poems. Shall I humor him for a while at least?”

“Why not? He’s harmless enough,” Lady Tollister said, which made Lucinda immediately suspicious. Did she want him to encourage Mr. Pearce, and if so, why?

“Or at least as far as one knows,” a third lady said. “No gentleman is truly harmless.”

“A true gentleman is,” Lady Alice said, “to ladies in any event. To other men, he is whatever he needs to be.”

Another lady made a wry face as Mr. Pearce reappeared with a cup of wine and a slice of seed cake. After glancing about, he left them on a table by the door and pulled a chair forward to sit next to Lucinda.

“Don’t you want your wine and cake?” Mrs. Haraldson teased.

“I need no other refreshment than the most beautiful lady in the world,” he intoned softly.

Mrs. Haraldson rolled her eyes and beckoned to a servant. “Footman! Bring this gentleman’s refreshments. He is too inflamed with love to realize that he needs ordinary sustenance.”

Mr. Pearce hardly seemed to notice the titters and teasing looks. He took no part in the conversation, merely gazing at Lucinda like a puppy dog, but at least his tongue wasn’t hanging out. He took her hand again.

She couldn’t help but notice that he was perspiring, and that he smelled more than a little rank. From neglecting to bathe...or from anxiety? It behooved her to find out, but how?

He took her hand again. Duty bound, she let him. His palms were wet with sweat. He leaned in and whispered, “Dear Miss Belair, I have a request to make of you.”

Dear God, she hoped he wasn’t about to propose marriage.

No, surely that wasn’t it—it made no sense. He didn’t love her. If Restive’s judgement was correct, Mr. Pearce was part of a dastardly plot. “What request?” she murmured.

He glanced uneasily about, and she followed his gaze. Which faces were avid with interest, and if so which sort? The prospect of juicy gossip? Or treasonous intent? “A slightly—er—improper one, I fear.”

“Dear me,” Lucinda said. “Only slightly?”

He flushed, but seemingly her jest had encouraged him. He threw himself to one knee again. “Please, oh please say you’ll play piquet with me!”

Was that all? She turned coyly away. “Alas, I am not permitted to play piquet tonight. Such a pity, for it is my favorite card game.”

“Who forbids you?” he cried. “Lady Alice, surely you don’t object! You know how perfectly proper I am. I merely wish for a tête-à-tête with the woman of my dreams.”

Lady Alice raised her brows at Lucinda. “My dear, I warned you that this might happen. Gentlemen are wont to get ideas into their heads.”

“I know, my lady, but ideas do no harm,” Lucinda said, thinking as she did so that this was a flat-out lie. Ideas were responsible for a great deal of havoc—such as what might be plotted right here, tonight. She took a breath. “As long as it’s a simple game of piquet, surely it’s not dangerous?”

“As long as you remain in sight of others, I suppose it’s safe enough.” Was Lady Alice’s reluctance real or feigned? Did she fear going against Restive’s orders? She sighed. “But I can’t say I’m happy with the notion.”

“Please, please, my lady,” Mr. Pearce begged. “I don’t mean any h-h-harm, I swear!”

“Then why the hitch in your speech?” Mrs. Haralson chuckled. “Merely by playing piquet here, you may damage the girl’s reputation—and you know it.”

“I love and adore Miss Belair,” the poet claimed. “One day, she will consent to be mine. Her reputation is precious to me, I swear.”

“Why such a fuss over a few innocent hands of cards?” Lucinda said. She knew an inkling of sympathy for Restive. How annoying, not to say perilous, to be always in danger of entrapment. “People have such vulgar minds!”

“They do, my dear child, they do,” Lady Tollister said. “But I dare swear these ladies won’t spread any gossip—will you, my dears?”

They all swore to say nothing, which Lucinda didn’t believe for an instant. She tried to read the faces, but discerned nothing unusual—sly interest, amusement, a hint of disapproval. She glanced at Lady Alice again, who gave the slightest shrug. “I don’t think it’s wise. You are old enough to make your own decisions—but I fear my nephew will be annoyed with both of us.”

“Pooh! Who cares what Restive thinks?” Lucinda said. “Just one little game, I promise, and we’ll play for farthing points. What could be more innocent than that?”

Either Mr. Pearce was an exceedingly poor player, or he was too anxious to concentrate. However, Lucinda could hardly say so, so she did her best to play a mediocre game.

Not mediocre enough, for in the middle of a hand, he laid down his cards. “I’m so sorry, Miss Belair. I’m a dreadful player and I know it, but I couldn’t think of any other way to speak to you alone.”