Jack studied her face, still pale. “Sophie, my dear—please believe I would never knowingly do anything to cause you pain.”
Sophie’s heart turned over. Tears pricked, but she would not let them show. She tried to speak, but her throat had seized up. With a smile she knew went awry, she inclined her head and looked away.
He escorted her to her friends, then, very correctly, took his leave of her.
Jack did not immediately quit the house. Something was wrong, and Sophie wouldn’t confide in him. The unpalatable fact ate at him, gnawing at his pride, preying on his protective nature, prompting all manner of acts he was far too experienced to countenance. His restless prowling, disguised beneath an air of fashionable boredom, took him by the alcove where Ned Ascombe stood, keeping a glowering watch over his prospective bride.
His gaze on the dancers, Jack propped one broad shoulder against the other side of the alcove. “It won’t work, you know.”
The laconic comment succeeded in diverting Ned’s attention. He turned his head, his scowl still in evidence, then abruptly straightened, his face leaching of expression. “Oh, excuse me, sir.”
Jack sent the youngster a reassuring grin. “Boot’s on the other foot. It was I who interrupted you.” Briefly scanning Ned’s face, Jack held out his hand. “Jack Lester. An acquaintance of the Webbs. I believe I saw you at Lady Asfordby’s, as well.”
As he had expected, the mention of two well-known and well-respected Leicestershire names was enough to ease Ned’s reticence.
Ned grasped his hand firmly, then blushed. “I suppose you saw…” He abruptly shut his mouth and gestured vaguely, his gaze once more on the dancers. “You were with Sophie.”
Jack smiled, more to himself than Ned. “As you say, I saw. And I can tell you without fear of contradiction that your present strategy is doomed to failure.” He felt rather than saw Ned’s curious glance. Straightening, Jack extricated a notecase from an inner pocket and withdrew a card. This he presented to Ned. “If you want to learn how to pull the thing off, how to win the blond head you’ve set your eye on, then drop by tomorrow. About eleven.” Very used to younger brothers, Jack ensured his worldly expression contained not the slightest hint of patronage.
Taking the card, Ned read the inscription, then raised puzzled eyes to Jack’s face. “But why? You’ve never even met me before.”
Jack’s smile turned wry. “Put it down to fellow-feeling. Believe me, you’re not the only one who’s feeling rejected tonight.”
With a nod, very man-to-man, Jack passed on.
Left by the alcove, Ned stared after him, his gaze abstracted, Jack’s card held tight in his fingers.
* * *
“WELL, M’DEAR? DID Jack Lester disappoint you?” Propped against the pillows in the bed he most unfashionably shared with his wife, Horatio Webb slanted a questioning glance at his helpmate, sitting sipping her morning cocoa beside him.
A slight frown descended upon Lucilla’s fair brow. “I don’t expect to be disappointed in Mr. Lester, dear. I really should have organized that waltz myself. However, matters do seem to be progressing along their customary course.” She considered, then banished her frown to cast a smiling glance at he
r spouse. “I dare say I’ve just forgotten how agonizingly painful it is to watch these things unfold.”
Lowering the business papers he had been perusing, Horatio peered at her over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles. “You haven’t been meddling, have you?”
The slightest suspicion of a blush tinged Lucilla’s cheeks. “Not to say meddling.” She dismissed the notion with an airy wave. “But I really couldn’t allow Mr. Lester to sweep Sophie into matrimony before the child had even had a taste of success. Not after her last Season was so tragically curtailed.”
“Humph!” Horatio shuffled his papers. “You know how I feel about tampering with other people’s lives, dear. Even with the best of intentions. Who knows? Sophie might actually prefer to have her Season curtailed—if it were Jack Lester doing the curtailing.”
Head on one side, Lucilla considered the idea, then grimaced. After a moment, she sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. When did you say the horses will be here?”
“They’re here now. Arrived yesterday.” Horatio had gone back to his papers. “I’ll take the troops to view them this morning if you like.”
Lucilla brightened. “Yes, that would be a good idea. But we’ll have to give some consideration to escorts.” She touched her spouse’s hand. “Leave that to me. I’m sure I can find someone suitable.”
Horatio grunted. “Wonder if Lester brought that hunter of his up to town?”
Lucilla grinned but said nothing. Finishing her cocoa, she laid her cup and saucer on the bedside table and snuggled down beneath the covers. Smiling, she reached out to pat her husband’s hand. “I’m really quite in awe of your far-sightedness, dear. So clever of you to help the Lesters to their fortune. Now there’s no impediment at all to concern you, and you may give Jack Lester your blessing with a clear conscience.” An expression of catlike satisfaction on her face, Lucilla settled to doze.
Horatio stared down at her, a faintly astonished expression on his face. He opened his mouth, then abruptly shut it. After a long moment of staring at his wife’s exquisite features, Horatio calmly picked up his papers and, settling his spectacles firmly on the bridge of his nose, left his wife to her dreams.
CHAPTER EIGHT
AT PRECISELY ELEVEN the next morning, the doorbell of Jack’s townhouse in Upper Brook Street jangled a summons. Jack looked up, his brows lifting. “I believe that will be a Mr. Ascombe, Pinkerton. I’ll see him here.”
Here was the parlour; Jack sat at the head of the table, Pinkerton, his gentleman’s gentleman, had just finished clearing the remains of Jack’s breakfast and was lovingly glossing the mahogany surface.