He tipped his head, his eyes holding hers. “Two seasons and no suitors?”
Her lips curved, rather smugly. “If you must know, I had several perfectly eligible gentlemen vying for my hand, but I had already inherited a comfortable fortune from two great-aunts and felt no pressing need to take a husband purely to secure my future.”
“Ah.” He nodded sagely. “You’re a lady of substance.”
“An independent lady of substance.” She quirked a brow at him. “According to my mother, acquiring wealth made me picky.”
He’d learned what he’d wanted to know; it was time to move on—before she wondered too much about his motives. They turned again, swinging past Robbie and one of the Walton girls; even while he waltzed, much to his partner’s chagrin, Robbie was trying his best to keep an eye on Julia Kirkpatrick, who was waltzing with Alex Huntly.
“It occurs to me,” Christopher murmured, drawing Ellen just a tad closer and pulling her attention from her brother, “that this is a venue at which we should see if we can’t confirm the answers to some of our questions.”
Obligingly distracted, she looked at him. “Which questions?”
“I think we should see what we can glean about Tilly and Nigel Fontenay.”
Ellen was grateful to have a definite topic on which to focus her attention and her wits. She’d waltzed with gentlemen times without number, yet waltzing with Christopher was an entirely different experience. There was an elegant strength in him that became particularly evident while dancing; waltzing with him had fascinated and enticed her and absorbed every iota of her awareness. She’d barely registered the others around them; even the sight of Robbie had been insufficient to break the hold of the moment.
As if on cue, the music drew to a close, and they swirled to a halt. Christopher released her, and she curtsied while he bowed. She straightened, scanned the room as best she could, then smiled and looped her arm with his. “This way.”
She led him to where Tilly was standing, patently bored, with a group including the Entwhistles, their son Tolliver—who had been dancing with Tilly—as well as three other young gentlemen, all of whom were vying for Tilly’s smiles.
The way Tilly’s eyes lit when Christopher appeared told its own tale.
Confident in Christopher’s social skills, Ellen engaged the Entwhistles, asking about the local plum harvest—a subject likely to appeal to local landowners; courtesy of her work with her uncle’s estate, she was well versed in such topics.
The younger men took that as their cue to redouble their efforts to fix Tilly’s attention, but the girl’s sharp eyes had latched, gimlet-like, on Christopher.
For his part, Christopher divided his attention between the Entwhistles and Ellen, contributing several comments to the discussion.
Predictably, Tilly didn’t like being ignored by a London swell. Brazenly, she attempted to draw Christopher’s interest with an overloud comment regarding the lack of experienced dance partners.
When all that gained her was a sharp glance from Mrs. Entwhistle and a depressingly dismissive look from Christopher, Tilly sulked.
Eventually, she allowed the still-eager young gentlemen to distract her.
Ellen viewed Tilly’s petulant performance for another minute, then excused Christopher and herself and moved on to pause beside a group of young men gathered about the Walton sisters. Nigel Fontenay was holding court.
Ellen drew the attention of Parthenope, the elder sister, complimenting her on her gown. She continued chatting with the girl—a sensible sort—leaving Christopher, who remained beside her, his arm looped with hers, to listen to Nigel’s boasting of his exploits on the hunting field, his prowess with the whip, and his plans to attend an illegal boxing match to be held on the Downs in a few weeks’ time.
Several of the other young men made various comments about the latter, to which Nigel replied in sharp and dismissive fashion.
Then Henry Dalton obligingly remarked, “Not a bad evening last Friday.” Henry grinned. “I came away quite happy.”
Displeasure flashed in Nigel’s eyes. “No need to be so smug—not if you want an invitation to the next evening.”
Over Parthenope’s shoulder, Ellen saw Nigel’s gaze shift pointedly to Christopher, who had kept his gaze on Ellen and Parthenope rather than attempting to engage the younger men.
“Oh.” Henry’s face fell. “Yes—of course. I didn’t realize…”
“I’ve told you before,” Nigel went on, his tone rather nasty, “we’re keeping things exclusive.”
The implication that loose-lipped acquaintances like Henry might find themselves excluded in future was plain.
Ellen brought her exchange with Parthenope to a close, releasing the girl to return to the group. With a vague smile at the others in the circle, Ellen steered Christopher on.
Once they were out of earshot, Christopher lowered his head and murmured, “Both Tilly and Nigel are as sharp as tacks. I’ve met their sort before—they’re out to get what they want, regardless of what that might involve. I believe we can conclude that neither is Mrs. Kirkpatrick’s unwitting pawn.”
“No, indeed,” Ellen murmured back. “Both are very much wide awake.”
They fetched up beside a group of older guests anchored by their hostess. Mrs. Carstairs smiled and turned aside to speak with Ellen and Christopher. A certain hope gleamed in her eyes. “I’m delighted to see you entertaining each other. I hope the evening has lived up to expectations thus far.”
They assured her it had.
Christopher had known Mrs. Carstairs—and she, him—all his life; he seized the opportunity to state his pleasure at catching up with so many local acquaintances he hadn’t seen in recent times. He glanced back at the group he and Ellen had just quit. “And, of course, meeting the more recent additions to the local circles.” He looked at Mrs. Carstairs, met her blue eyes, and arched a brow. “I hadn’t met the Fontenays before.”
Mrs. Carstairs primmed her lips, then shot a glance at Ellen and moved conspiratorially closer. She lowered her voice. “Mrs. Kirkpatrick is one thing—despite her snide comments and observations, she walks an acceptable line. But those two—Tilly and Nigel.” Mrs. Carstairs gave vent to a derogatory sound. “They are unbecomingly grasping and forever giving themselves airs. As for their tongues, someone needs to blunt them.”
She shook her head, and her corona of gray curls bounced. “If they are examples of London’s younger generation, then I don’t know what society is coming to. At their age, they should be enjoying life and gratefully accepting all that comes their way, not constantly on the lookout to advance their own cause.” She paused, then humphed defiantly. “At least, that’s the way they strike me.”
Christopher murmured, “That’s much as we found them, too.” He paused, then ventured, “We”—he nodded at Ellen—“have heard about the card parties Mrs. Kirkpatrick holds at Goffard Hall. From all we’ve gleaned, the events are restricted to younger gentlemen. That seems a rather odd undertaking for such as Mrs. Kirkpatrick—certainly as a regular happening.”
“Oh, those.” Mrs. Carstairs flapped her hand. “Apparently, Mrs. Kirkpatrick dotes on Nigel and is happy to host the card parties as a way for him and his friends to have fun. From what I’ve heard, even his most distant acquaintances are invited, and they do seem to flock to the Hall.” Mrs. Carstairs’s eyes narrowed, and the shrewdness born of age infused her expression. She leaned in and lowered her voice further. “Between you and me”—she included Ellen with her gaze—“I’m not entirely sure that it’s solely for Nigel’s benefit that Mrs. Kirkpatrick hosts those card parties, although I understand it is, indeed, only his peers who are invited.”