Buchanan heaved a sigh. “She’s barely raised a smile since her mother died.”
Evan wondered what was worse. Never knowing a mother’s love or feeling its loss so intensely.
“But I thank ye for showing her life is worth living.” The Scot raised his hand. “I know ye’ll go yer separate ways when this is over, but she’s happy now, and that counts for something.”
Buchanan’s statement roused a host of questions, roused emotions too complicated to consider when consumed by lust. And the sudden appearance of Vivienne Hart at the top of the stairs did little to calm Evan’s mental chaos.
“Sorry to have kept you.” She floated down, her silver slippers barely touching the steps. “I forgot to bring the silk cloak the countess gave me and had to wear this old thing.”
Evan hadn’t a clue what Miss Hart wore beneath the thick wool cloak, but the teasing braid dangling over her shoulder held him riveted. As did the smile so brilliant it could light the night sky.
His gaze drifted to her earlobes, free of adornments. And while he longed to take each one into his mouth and suck softly, old feelings of inadequacy surfaced.
“Wait here. I shall be but a moment.” Evan darted past her and mounted the stairs in his heavy cavalier boots, returning a few minutes later clutching a black leather box. He stood before her and raised the lid to reveal two pairs of earrings. “It’s difficult to know what to choose without seeing your costume, but pearls and diamonds complement any gown.”
Miss Hart’s eyes widened as she studied his offering, though she looked at him more than she did the sparkling jewels. “It’s kind of you to think of me, but I cannot wear another woman’s earrings.”
Her clipped tone said she had misunderstood. Like the new stockings she’d discarded in favour of Lamont’s dandified clothes, she assumed they belonged to a lover.
“They were my mother’s earrings, Vivienne.” Hell. A lump formed in his throat. “They’ve been in this box for thirty years. It would please me if you wore a pair this evening.”
“Your mother’s?” She pursed her lips so tightly her nostrils flared. She looked at him, at the box, dabbed tears from the corners of her eyes and blinked almost as many times as she swallowed. “I—I would like that very much. Pearls would be perfect with my gown.”
Evan offered her the box. He lacked the dexterity to remove something so precious without showing signs of his inner torment. Words failed to describe the strange combination of emotions as he watched her slip on the earrings.
Fitchett appeared, the wrinkles on his weathered face deepening into a smile upon noticing the pearls. “Turton insists on driving tonight, sir. He said he’d die of boredom if left in his sickbed.”
“Turton is to refrain from all strenuous activity for two weeks.” Thank the Lord the same didn’t apply to Evan. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could resist Miss Hart’s charms.
“Morris agreed to accompany him should he get into any difficulty, sir.”
Evan nodded. “Did Daventry send the invitations?” Having discovered evidence of Lord Newberry’s wicked misdeeds, Daventry often bribed the peer to do his bidding.
“Morris has them, sir. And Miss Hart’s mask is in a box in the carriage.”
Hmm. The mask might hold a clue to her costume. But Evan didn’t long to peer inside the box the way he longed to peer inside Vivienne’s cloak. The mere thought of the woman made him hard of late. Indeed, he was rather glad he wore a knee-length frock coat, else the thirty-minute drive to town would be embarrassing with a cockstand.
* * *
Lord Newberry knew how to host a lavish party. Carriages barged and jostled their way for a coveted place in a queue that stretched around Cavendish Square and as far as Henrietta Street. Doors opened and slammed as impatient guests, dressed in elaborate costumes, took to parading through the streets. A Turkish prince, a Greek goddess, and a monk passed the carriage window.
“Come, we should follow the crowd,” Evan said, eager for Miss Hart’s uncloaking. “The sooner we accomplish our task tonight, the sooner we can go home.” And amongst other reasons for spending time alone together, they had the problem of Mr Wicks’ involvement to address.
Miss Hart pulled her cloak tighter across her lap, though he glimpsed a cerulean blue skirt. “So, our first task this evening is to find the countess and inform her of our betrothal. Are you sure that’s wise?”
“We need to dangle the bait if we’re to separate the guilty from the innocent. We’re going to tell her we’ve been secretly meeting for months and have fallen in love. That I’ve secured a special licence and we will marry within the week.”
Daventry had sent his man to watch Miss Hart’s house in Silver Street. Both the countess and Mr Ramsey had called. Both had resorted to hammering the knocker, banging the window and rattling the sash. Both had questioned the widow living next door. Neither had appeared at Bow Street fraught with worry, keen to report her missing. Neither had visited the lawyer’s office in Long Lane.
“She won’t approve.”
“You’re of age. You don’t need her permission or her approval.”
“She will insist I return home until after the wedding.” The anxious hitch in her voice was unmistakable. “I cannot tell her I am staying at Keel Hall.”
“No.” Evan didn’t give a damn what the countess thought, but it took one malicious whisper to ruin a lady’s reputation, to ruin it for good. “We will say you’re staying with Ashwood. She cannot complain if you’re a guest of Lord and Lady Hawkridge.”
And considering Ashwood and his wife had agreed to attend the ball and play chaperone, it sounded plausible.