Page 44 of The Wallflower Ruse

What, Lucinda wondered, was the meaning of that fleeting glance between husband and wife? Probably nothing, and it would be impolite to ask. Cecil strolled away to his club to listen for gossip, and Dorothea, yawning, retreated to her bedroom for a nap.

Lucinda went into Cecil’s study, where he had given her a desk to use. She ordered tea and set to work coding a message for Sir Frederick Darsington.

She couldn’t concentrate. What if she had spoiled the plans for Beltane Eve? It was kind of Cecil to tell her not to fret, but she couldn’t help it. She wished she could explain to Mr. Pearce, to let him know she wasn’t trying to trap him into marriage. And yet, if she did that, it might make matters even worse. If he knew she wasn’t falling in love with him, if he felt unsure of her, would he find someone else to take to the masquerade?

She had to decide what to do, and then act on that decision. Then perhaps she would be able to concentrate on encoding.

The footman came into the room. “Mr. Pearce to see you, miss. Mrs. Hale is still in her bedchamber. Shall I tell him you are not receiving callers?”

Without even pausing to think, she said, “No, no, put him in the drawing room. I’ll be right there.”

Perhaps Mother had already found and spoken to him, which would be embarrassing, but at least that was one less decision to make. She folded her papers, slid them between the pages of the book (Fuente Ovejuna by Lope de Vega; what a pity she didn’t read Spanish better, but for the purpose of encoding it didn’t matter), and hurried to the drawing room.

Mr. Pearce bowed. Today’s waistcoat sported dazzling green vines and crimson berries. He grinned almost frantically. “I come bearing invitations to the masquerade, dear Miss Belair!”

“How very kind.” Seemingly, Mother hadn’t spoken to him yet—but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t find him soon.

Lucinda weighed her options. Should she simply warn Mr. Pearce about Mother, thus risking spoiling Restive’s plans even more?

Or...should she explain herself as much as she dared, and perhaps waken Mr. Pearce’s chivalrous side? She was almost certain he had one, and if his chivalry were awakened, so might his conscience be.

He proffered the invitation cards. “For you, Lady Alice, and Mr. and Mrs. Hale.”

“Thank you so much.” She took them, thinking furiously.

He frowned. “You don’t seem pleased.”

“Oh, I am,” she said. “Very pleased, and excited, too, but weren’t you able to acquire one for Lord Restive?”

“No, alas. My aunt fears he will take advantage of being in disguise to seduce hapless maidens.”

She suppressed a snort. Restive didn’t need a disguise to take advantage. Not only that, he could slip in easily with someone else’s invitation—such as Cecil’s.

“Fear not, you will be safe with me.” Did the poet’s voice quiver a little?

Was Restive’s reputation truly the problem, or did the plotters suspect he was a government agent? She must do her best to counter that with a lie. “Actually, I’m relieved that Lord Restive won’t be there. Mr. Hale will escort us, and he is much more gentlemanly than Restive.”

Hesitantly, gently, Mr. Pearce asked, “Has he—has Lord Restive importuned you, Miss Belair?”

“No, never. I am not to his taste, thank heavens. The thing is...” She made a decision. Whatever the poet might have been forced to do, she didn’t believe he was evil.

“Do sit down, Mr. Pearce. There is something we need to discuss.” At his sudden wariness, she smiled and motioned him to a chair, then sat nearby. “Tell me, are your parents here in town?”

Sadness crossed his face. “My father died many years ago.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said politely. “And your mother?”

“My dear mother lives retired in Kensington,” he said, more emotion surfacing. “She takes good care of me. It is she who embroiders my waistcoats.” He paused. “Why do you ask?”

“Because...” She turned her head away, embarrassed even while playing a role. “It is mortifying to confess this, but I suppose I must. I fear my mother will call on yours, and it’s all my fault.”

“Your mother is in town? Then why are you not with her, rather than with your friend Mrs. Hale?” He paused. “Ah, I remember now. Mrs. Haraldson implied that your mother would never permit you to attend her salon.”

“That’s true, because my mother disapproves of forward-thinking females,” she said. “But that’s only part of what is mortifying. Mother is determined that I shall marry Lord Restive, and I am equally determined not to, and so is Lord Restive, but she is a relentless matchmaker. She believes that because Restive drove me to London in an open curricle, I am now compromised, which is absurd.”

“Absurd indeed,” he said. “However, she cannot force you to wed him.”

“No, but she can make a huge scandal, saying he has compromised me.” She sighed. “She thinks that will force us to wed, but she is wrong. We shan’t marry, and everyone will assume he seduced and abandoned me, and I shall be ruined. It’s so unfair.”