Reynaud frowned. “I separated from you at the Indian camp and never saw you again until the other day. What could I possibly know that you don’t?”
“I don’t know.” Vale shrugged. “But I think we should meet with Munroe and pool our individual recollections.”
“Munroe survived the camp?” Reynaud’s eyebrows rose. He hadn’t thought of the naturalist in years.
“Aye, but he’s scarred.” Vale looked away. “He lost an eye in that camp, Reynaud.”
Reynaud grimaced. He knew well what fate befell Indian captives. Seven years of his life had been lost, and now it seemed it was all because someone—one of their own—had betrayed them at Spinner’s Falls.
“Then let’s meet with Munroe and figure this thing out,” he said with decision. “Let’s find the bastard and make sure he hangs.”
“HE’S SET A date to plead his case before the parliamentary committee.” Lord Blanchard whispered the news as if the potted plant behind them might have ears.
Lister raised an eyebrow, looking bored as always as he surveyed the crowded ballroom. “Are you surprised?”
Blanchard’s face reddened. “You needn’t sound so unaffected. If St. Aubyn gets my title, your political career will be a toss-up as well.”
Lister shrugged, though his face had turned stony.
“Come, gentlemen,” Hasselthorpe said softly. “Fighting among ourselves does not serve our cause.”
“Well, then what does?” Blanchard was looking sullen. “None of you have offered your support to me. I am alone—even my niece has turned against me. Hope is courting her, the bastard.”
“Is he?” Hasselthorpe turned to glance at Hope, who was walking with Vale about the perimeter of the ballroom. “A clever stratagem. If he has a wife, he can dispel these rumors of insanity. A man always looks more settled with a wife by his side.”
“Indeed,” Lister drawled. “Wouldn’t you agree, Graham?”
Nathan Graham blinked. He’d been staring at his feet as if lost in thought. “What?”
“I say, a wife makes the man’s career,” Lister said. “Don’t you agree?”
Graham’s handsome face flushed. There were rumors flying about the ballroom tonight that he’d argued with his wife. He answered steadily enough, though. “Naturally.”
Lister’s eyes narrowed as if he scented blood.
Hasselthorpe pursed his lips. “I haven’t seen an event filled with such luminaries of our society in quite some time.”
Lister turned to him, a puzzled question in his eyes.
Hasselthorpe smiled. “I confess, I admire Miss Molyneux’s courage.”
“What do you mean?” Blanchard asked.
Hasselthorpe shrugged. “Only that if her nephew has an attack of madness in such a venue, all of society will see.”
Young Graham was the first to understand. His face went blank as he darted a look at Lord Hope across the room.
Lister opened his mouth to say something, but he was interrupted by Adriana, who came fluttering over to land at Hasselthorpe’s side. She wore a pale yellow and lavender gown and looked like nothing so much as a particularly frivolous butterfly.
“Darling!” she crowed. “Oh, do come leave your stuffy political discussions and dance with me. I’m sure these gentlemen won’t mind if you pay a tiny bit of attention to your wife.”
And she batted her eyes at Lister, Blanchard, and Graham.
Lister, who’d been eyeing the soft expanse of her exposed bosom, bowed. “Not at all, ma’am.”
“There, you see! His Grace has given his kind permission.” Adriana curtsied flirtatiously.
Hasselthorpe sighed. If he protested, Adriana would only cajole and flatter in ever more irritating ways until he was forced to give in or make a scene. “Very well. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen?”