“Gentlemen. Lady Margaret Huntington, granddaughter of the Duchess of Ramsbury.”
The men bowed in unison. Henry then stepped forward to introduce the potential suitors.
“Lady Margaret, you will remember The Viscount Warwick, heir to the Earl of Uckham.”
Warwick shot Lucy a warm grin that immediately raised her suspicions. When last she’d seen him, he had laughed at her expense. His smile seemed discordant with that unpleasant memory.
“The Viscount Rayleigh,” Henry continued.
Though not much past thirty, the man’s lined face spoke of hard living.
“The Lord Jeffrey Benthall, second son of the Duke of Alderheath and likely heir to his title.” The young but balding man winked and bowed again, catching her by surprise. She forgot her place and curtsied.
“The Lord Canterfield,” Henry said of a short, stocky man near her age. The lord regarded her with sharp black eyes.
“And Sir Hugh Chisholm, formerly of His Majesty’s army and lately a principal officer for Bow Street.”
Lucy blinked rapidly before catching herself. Bow Street? Had Henry brought the enemy to her very doorstep? She glanced at Henry to find him offering a look of reassurance. She forced a smile and eyed the uniformed knight, whose warm return smile contrasted the haunt of his eyes.
“I am pleased to renew old acquaintances and make new ones,” she said, her voice jittery. Unsure of what to do next, she stood awkwardly silent. A welcome announcement rescued her from further torment.
“Dinner is served,” said one of the footmen.
Grateful for a reprieve from the undivided attention of the men, she led them to join the assembly in the dining hall. The collected bodies filled nearly every chair around the great table. This time, however, Lucy was shown to a chair at the center of the table with Isabella to her left, James directly across, and the other suitors flanking his left and right. Henry, on the other hand, remained out of conversational distance next to his sister where Lucy could not air her grievances with him. Charlotte stood to speak.
“Welcome, honored guests, to Ardmoore. I bid you a fair stay.”
She sat again and motioned the footmen to commence dinner service. Light conversation soon emerged and built to a steady murmur, mostly between those in neighboring chairs. Warwick, however, engaged Lucy directly across the table. “You look well, Lady Margaret. I daresay the country air suits you more than the soot of London does.”
She dipped her head with genuine appreciation but maintained a level of wariness. Lord Jeffrey, to Warwick’s left, leaped at the opening. “I believe Lady Margaret would look just as well in London, particularly to those appreciative of her ample charms.”
Lord Canterfield and Lord Rayleigh rushed to add agreement. James added a “hear, hear,” eyeing her as one might a prized mare. Sir Hugh simply nodded silent affirmation. In the glow of such admiration, genuine or not, she began to lose her bearings. Rough and uneducated men she knew. Thieves, brigands, and cheats she knew. Men of cultivation she did not. Her desire to initiate meaningful conversation was overshadowed by her inability to determine what might constitute appropriate small talk. To her dismay, Isabella noticed.
“Gentlemen. What a fine assembly of British gentility you are, and so generous with your praise for our Lady Margaret. Though at the moment the cat has her tongue, I can assure you it is sharp enough to carve a swathe of lively conversation.”
Five pairs of eyes shifted to regard Isabella with interest. Again, Sir Hugh proved the outlier and maintained his gaze for Lucy alone. With the diversion, Lucy leaned forward to catch sight of Henry watching Isabella as well. Had he invited her with amorous intentions? She could not quell her disappointment and turned to stare at her plate. Isabella placed a comforting hand on her wrist.
“I would not be concerned over your taciturn manner, dear. After all, in many societies, silence is a virtue.”
Lucy continued to stare at her plate as her anger swelled over the slight. Then, she recalled her umbrage and Henry’s words about playing the game. She lifted her head and turned calmly toward her neighbor with a warm smile.
“You have my deepest gratitude, Lady Isabella. You are very kind to consider my feelings. To show thanks, I will devote myself to praying that you find a virtue, as I have.”
Isabella’s pompous facade briefly wavered. Lucy glanced past her toward Henry near the foot of the table. His half smile told Lucy that she had hit the mark. Without giving Isabella time to recover, she engaged the reserved knight.
“Sir Hugh. Do I detect a Highlander accent?”
For the remainder of the mealtime, she asked questions and listened attentively to the answers, never allowing Isabella an opening for invasion. The men pressed for Lucy’s attention, forcing her to carefully manage the conversation without stunting it. Meanwhile, the duchess and Lady Garvey watched with tacit approval and the secretive glances reserved for those who had been friends long enough to speak without words. In the quiet of her mind, Lucy yearned for such a friendship and wondered which of these men might afford her that opportunity. However, she could not help but feel Henry’s presence down the table, mostly unseen. Despite her anger with him, the separation stirred an ache in parts of her soul she had not known existed before.
Chapter Twenty-One
As the assembly transitioned from the dining hall to the ballroom, Henry pushed aside the crush of his guilt and strode to catch Lucy’s elbow, hopeful of offering encouragement. She flinched as he leaned near.
“You are doing well.”
She squared on him with a harsh whisper. “Why did you invite her? My worst enemy. I could stone you right now.”
He recoiled but understood immediately. “So you may defeat her.”
Her brow knotted. “I fail to understand.”
He guided her aside to the cusp of the library. “Lady Isabella and her cohorts are far beneath you, regardless of your rank, and yet they savaged you unjustly. If you are to survive this new life, you must conquer those who dare disrespect you. I extended the invitation so you might put them squarely in their places.”
He withheld the most important reason—that her ability to fully inhabit her station might provide the razor-thin margin between life and death, depending on what Sir Hugh reported and the Bow Street magistrate decided. Lucy blinked rapidly as her umbrage seemed to recede. “You believe I can do that?”
He beat back despair at his duplicity and gently took her hand. “My faith in you is matched only by my desire to see you triumph.”
She glanced at her hand in his and heaved a defeated sigh. With seeming agreement, they released each other’s grasp. She accepted his offered elbow and they resumed walking toward the ballroom.
“What can you tell me of the suitors?” she asked discreetly.