“Clearly you know little of sea nymphs, Mrs Worthing.” Vivienne spoke with renewed confidence. “Mr Sloane has no control here. I lured him with the promise of a wild adventure. Now the man is besotted, infatuated, and has no desire to bed any woman but me. Ask him if you doubt my word.”
Mrs Worthing sneered. “You know what they say about sirens, Sloane. An old crone lurks beneath the vision of beauty. Better the devil you know, I say.”
“That might be true of sirens.” Mr Sloane looked at Vivienne and his gaze softened. “But I’ve fallen in love with a sea nymph. Every other woman pales in comparison.”
Vivienne’s pulse thumped in her throat. Oh, he was so good at this game, so believable she might get lost in the fantasy. What would it be like to be loved by this man? To be worshipped above all others?
Mrs Worthing gave a half shrug, and one breast almost escaped its confines. “You’ll be bored within a week. Visit me if you’re looking for someone to plunder.” And with that, the woman turned her back and was soon lost amid a sea of heads.
Despite the raucous laughter and boisterous antics of the crowd, Mr Sloane’s mood plunged off a precipice into an abyss. Grave was the only way to describe the harsh look spoiling his handsome features.
“Are we to dance?” Vivienne asked, hovering at Mr Sloane’s side as if they were both lost in the darkness. People were staring. Some took to whispering. Some nodded in their direction. “Mr Sloane?” she muttered through clenched teeth.
“Dance?” He shook himself from his reverie. “No. We should leave, leave now. We need to find Ashwood.”
The next ten minutes passed in a blur. His friends were equally surprised at his insistence they leave the masquerade. Bluntly, he explained they had completed their task for the evening and had no need to remain. Mr Sloane demanded his friends escort Vivienne to the carriage and instruct Turton to wait on Henrietta Street. He would join her there shortly.
A heavy silence marred the journey to Keel Hall.
Suspicion clouded Vivienne’s thoughts. But whenever she examined the conversation with Mrs Worthing, she came to the same conclusion. Mr Sloane was plagued by regret. The thought of marriage and losing his liberty must be the reason for his depressing disposition.
“You’re quiet,” she said when she could no longer bear the tension.
He continued to stare out of the window at the sprawling blackness of Little Chelsea. “We have much to do tomorrow,” he said as if that were the reason for his disquiet. “And it’s late.”
Perhaps she might have ignored him, yet she couldn’t help but wonder if he’d gone in search of Mrs Worthing during the fifteen minutes he’d spent alone at the ball. What had he told the woman? That he would tire of his wife within a week? That he would seek her services as soon as he was finished with this dreadful business?
“Late? Does that mean we won’t take a drink in the drawing room or play our little game?”
He swallowed. “Not tonight.”
The pang of disappointment was nothing compared to the sharp stab of jealousy. So this did have something to do with Mrs Worthing. Annoyance surfaced—though she had no right to be angry. Not when he’d made it clear he didn’t want to marry, didn’t want to have anything to do with the contract. Not when he’d been coerced into keeping his ancestor’s vow.
So why did she feel the usual jolt of electricity when he clasped her hand and helped her from the carriage? Why did he look like a man starved of air when his gaze dropped to her mouth? Why did he linger in the hall and struggle to say good night?
If ever there was a perfect time
to play a game of honesty, this was it.
“Go to bed,” she said, slipping off her cloak before Fitchett hurried to attend to them. “I’m in need of something strong to drink and might mix my own concoction.”
“We have an early start tomorrow, a busy day. I suspect the masked rider will do something wicked to scupper our plans.”
They were to meet at the office of the Order to receive an update from Mr D’Angelo, as well as visit Mr Howarth, make arrangements to marry and see if the Hatton Garden constables had located Mr Golding.
She shrugged. “All the more reason to relax and gather my thoughts. Good night, Mr Sloane.” She walked away so he couldn’t see the desperate loneliness etched on her face, the loneliness that left her chest empty, her hopes hollow.
“Vivienne.”
“Yes.” She stopped and glanced over her shoulder.
“It’s unwise to be alone together, to drink when spirits lower one’s inhibitions.”
She laughed. “Do you fear I might prance around barefooted?”
Green eyes with the allure of polished jade settled on her face. “You know what I’m trying to say.”
No. She had no idea. All thoughts of a romantic evening had abandoned her after the mild tussle with Mrs Worthing. “Perhaps a glass of brandy might loosen your tongue. Or perhaps the reality of our situation leaves a bitter taste in your mouth that makes everything unpalatable. Either way, I bid you good night again, Mr Sloane.”