Page 46 of Gentleman Jim

And perhaps he was.

The very thought of it caused Maggie pain, but there was nothing to be gained by hiding her head in the sand. She forced herself to be realistic. Had she not surprised St. Clare that night in Grosvenor Square—had she not met him so totally by chance—would he ever have sought her out? Would he ever have returned to Beasley Park to find her?

“Wait for me, Maggie,” Nicholas had said all those years ago. “No matter how long it takes, I will come back for you.”

But Nicholas hadn’t come back. Not for her.

And St. Clare showed no sign that he’d ever intended to. Rather the opposite. He was settled here in London. Settled, and looking for a bride. She’d thought that bride was to be her, but now…

Well. What did it matter anyway? She was as unable to marry him as he was unwilling to marry her. There was no point in repining.

Still, she couldn’t help wondering if all of her questions about Nicholas had had some small part in driving St. Clare away. If she hadn’t pressed him so relentlessly, would he have returned to her side? Or would he have grown bored with her regardless?

A depressing thought.

Unfurling the painted fan that hung at her wrist, Maggie wafted her face. More guests had arrived, and the ballroom was becoming stuffy. She made her away along the edge of the floor, toward the doors that led out to the terrace.

“Margaret,” a familiar voice called out.

It wasn’t the voice she’d been hoping to hear.

Steeling herself, she stopped and turned. “Fred. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

He stood in front of her, garbed in fashionable evening dress. Too fashionable. His neckcloth was folded in a fantastical design, and his ivory satin waistcoat shimmered like a jewel. It suited his brawny frame not at all.

There was no sign of the sling he’d worn on his arm during their last encounter. No concession to his recent bullet wound at all, save a certain stiffness in the way he carried himself.

“Naturally I’m here. You said you’d be attending. Though not to dance, I trust. You can’t mean to exert yourself.”

“I may dance,” she said. “The waltz is, I understand, not terribly fatiguing.”

Fred’s face tightened. But he didn’t argue. Instead, he gestured to a gentleman behind him. Like Fred, the man was extravagantly attired—high shirt points, an even higher neckcloth, and a black coat and knee breeches cut so snugly he minced when he walked. “Miss Honeywell, may I present Mr. Lionel Beresford. Beresford, Miss Honeywell.”

“Beresford?” Maggie inquired as the man bowed over her gloved hand. “Are you any relation to Lords Allendale and St. Clare?”

“Distantly, ma’am. Distantly.” Mr. Beresford released her hand, affecting an air of fashionable boredom. “I claim the honor of calling the earl my uncle, and Lord St. Clare—a relative only recently brought to my attention—my cousin.”

“We met at Tattersall’s,” Fred said. “Beresford likes a bit of hunting. I’ve invited him to come and enjoy the shooting down at Beasley Park.”

Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “Have you.”

Fred already acted as if Beasley was his own, making decisions about the estate that should rightly have been left to her, but inviting guests down to stay was a new level of presumed ownership.

“Is Letchford Hall not a more appropriate place to entertain your guests?” she asked.

Located next door to Beasley Park, Sir Roderick’s estate was equally as grand and had the added benefit of being Fred’s actual home.

“Not with the renovations. There’s plaster and stonework everywhere. Isn’t safe for company. Besides”—Fred turned back to Lionel—“you can’t beat Beasley for hunting and shooting. The best in the West Country, that’s what I always say. You may bring your mother, too,” he added magnanimously. “Miss Honeywell could do with a bit of female company.”

“Obliged to you, sir.” Mr. Beresford gestured to someone in the crowd. “There’s Madre now. Allow me to introduce you, ma’am.”

There was no way Maggie could politely refuse. She permitted Fred to escort her back through the crowd to a row of chairs populated with elderly ladies and wallflowers. Mrs. Beresford sat among them, a thin, bird-like woman with unsettlingly sharp eyes. She regarded Maggie with a thin smile as Mr. Beresford made the introductions.

“You’re not dancing, Miss Honeywell?” she asked. “A shame to have dressed in such a singular gown and not dance. To be sure, the design looks quite French.” She tittered. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like it on any of the young ladies of my acquaintance.”

“Miss Honeywell cannot dance,” Fred replied. “She’s an invalid.”

Maggie’s fingers clenched so hard on the ivory handle of her fan, she feared she might crack it in half. “How droll you are, Fred. Indeed, Mrs. Beresford, I can dance. I’m merely conserving my energy for the waltz.” She inclined her head. “Good evening.”