“You haven’t?” Islington’s exaggerated surprise nearly made her laugh as he poured her water, “How? By the graces, I have counted no less than five pairs of eyes following you these few steps from our fathers’ group to these tables.”
Taking the glass Adeline said, “You make it a habit to charm women, don’t you?”
“Does my reputation precede me?” the Viscount
said, his charming smile never fading, in fact, it got more devilish.
“You mistake me, good sir,” Adelaine said. “I know nothing of your reputation, but I saw you from the staircase and the poor lady you were speaking to was blushing so fiercely, a bonfire paled in comparison.”
“Ah, Lady Farthingale,” Islington nodded without a speck of shame and then shrugged one shoulder lightly. “It was a simple conversation about her newest puppies so I cannot conjecture why she would react that way.”
Now I’m the lamb with the lion.
Laughing in her glass, Adelaine felt that she was in the presence of a rake. She heard the beginning strains of the Pavane dance in the air and she set her glass down. “I think this is our dance.”
As they took their places on the dance floor and the music grew, Islington bowed and took her hands. As they danced, he moved with the grace of years of training and luckily, she matched him. As the crescendo built, she saw his eyes flit from her eyes to her mouth, but she did not acknowledge it. The music slowed and the dance ended but near the end, he leaned in. “Will you have another dance with me?”
She jerked head away at his indiscreet move, looking around to see if anyone—God forbid her Father—had seen but no one was looking in their direction. Her breath was nervous, “That was…impudent of you, My Lord.”
“Forgive me,” he said, still without a crumb of repentance. “I just don’t want to lose your beauty so soon.”
Adelaine was stunned. How could this man be the picture of politeness but was able to be the opposite when it suited him? His intentions could be impure but she felt to give him one more chance to be the gentleman he originally seemed to be.
“When the allemande comes,” she said as she drew away from him. “I’ll dance that one with you.”
He bowed and kissed the back of her hand. “I’ll be looking forward to it.”
Curtsying, she went to find something sweet to nibble on. She did not know much about Islington except what she felt. She felt that he saw women as nothing but playthings, which was probably something he had learned at Oxford with other bachelors, but she felt that under all that bluster, he was a true gentleman. She was going to give him the chance to prove himself.
Then again, can I even trust my intuition anymore? I hope I’m not wrong again, since I was so wrong with Caelan.
While picking up a cherry tart from the tables which were near an alcove, she overheard her father speaking. Edging as close to the entrance as she could, she heard him speak about the victory at Solway Moss.
“Those savages were misled. Anyone with a nugget of sense would have told them that instead of fighting against their betters, which had them losing many, they should have just surrendered to their superiors.”
“Speaking of, I am grieved about your son, My Lord,” a man said. “Have you carried his body home yet?”
“No,” her father said, his tone dark and rumbling. “His body was already decaying and it was too much to carry him home so I had him buried in Scotland. A doctor was barely able to perform an autopsy on him before he was committed to the ground.”
“Why would an autopsy be done?” someone else with a lighter tone asked. “Isn’t that for the lower class?”
“It was done to give empirical proof to the King to gain righteous cause of my executing the man who killed my son,” her father clarified.
“Ah, yes, that brute in your keep,” another said rather smugly, “Has he confessed yet?”
“No, and the leeway for him to do it voluntarily is gone,” her father added, “He will be under duress from now on. To put it delicately, an interrogation master from the Tower will be sent to me, and their methods can be…quite persuasive.”
At the unsubtle mention of torture, Adelaine felt her throat close over the piece of cherry tart and she nearly swallowed the wrong way. Caelan might have lied to her but he did not deserve those…devices.
Like almost everyone in England, she had heard horrendous stories about the rack, a devilish instrument used to dislocate limbs, ripping them from their socket and another called Skeffington’s Irons that instead of ripping the body apart, compressed it until it the bones shattered. Her blood went to ice when she thought of Caelan being killed that way.
He should be punished….but not that way.
Miraculously managing to control her reaction over those horrid thoughts, she walked away without a sound escaping her. Still, she worried about it until her attention changed to the reason why Caelan would be tortured.
An autopsy…that’s curious.
The merry sound of the galliard dance music was nearly drowned out by the stomps of the dancers’ leaps, jumps, hops, and laughter. Sitting at the sideline, she observed quietly. The galliard was a bit too athletic for her and she usually sat this dance out. Typically, another lively dance that she sat out, the Canary, was played after this. Could she possibly leave the festivities and go look for that report? It would show her definitive proof of Caelan strangling her brother.