Page 67 of A Figure of Love

“Very good, sir. And Mrs. Lombard?”

“Mrs. Lombard?”

“You are escorting her to the King’s Head in six minutes.”

Oh, that.

He reached up to scrub a hand through his hair and saw Jessup wince. He lowered the hand and left his hair untouched. “Have the carriage take her. Please tell her I shall be along shortly.”

The butler bowed and left.

Gareth’s mind bounced between Declan’s condition and Mrs. Lombard. He would go to this town, wherever the hell it was, and fetch the idiot home. But he did not think he need do so in the middle of the night. He would go to the dance and leave at first light. Leaving tomorrow had been part of his plan, in any case. He would simply be going to a different destination.

He wrote a brief message and included a draft for an amount well in excess of the standing bill, indicating he would consider it payment toward adequate discretion. Although he doubted there was a person between Rushton and Bicklesfield or Bigglesworth, or whatever the hell it was called, who wasn’t aware of Dec’s debauch.

Gareth went to the kitchen himself, his appearance causing the skeleton staff to leap to their feet and fidget. He’d given all his employees the evening off to go to the dance and most had taken him up on the offer. The only ones who remained were Cook, Horrocks, one of the gardeners whose name he’d never heard, two scullery maids who could not have been older than ten, and a wiry man with the look and build of a postillion.

“You are waiting for a message?”

“Aye, sir, Mr. Lockheart.” The man pulled his forelock and dropped a clumsy bow.

“Sit and finish your meal,” Gareth instructed. He tossed the sealed missive on the table when the man had complied. “I’ve written a letter for your master and included a draft. See to it that it ends up in the correct hands.”

The postilion half rose, recalled himself, and then sat, nodding. “Aye, sir. I’ll be off in a tick.”

Gareth paused on his way to the kitchen door. “Not on the same beast, I presume?”

“Oh, no sir, I changed in town ’afore coming here.”

Gareth passed Jessup in the corridor and ordered the curricle brought round. He’d have rather walked but wouldn’t make it a mile in the ridiculous dancing slippers Chalmers had insisted he wear. He suspected his black pantaloons, tailcoat, and whites would make him vastly overdressed, but could not be bothered to argue with his valet, whom he had never disputed before. He wondered at this sudden concern for appearances. Surely it was not some foolish worry about what that woman would think? He’d schooled himself to think of her only as that woman—not Mrs. Lombard and certainly not Serena—in the privacy of his own mind.

Gareth had decided to avoid her company as much as possible tonight. That decision was sorely tested half an hour later when he found himself cheek by jowl with every person in the county, watching that woman dance with a strapping young farmer and give every appearance of having the time of her life.

The de facto head of the town, in the squire’s absence, was a Mr. Pillsbury, a farmer of some importance, whose land ran continuous with Gareth’s on the western side, not that the man knew it, of course. Mr. Pillsbury and his wife, a woman a head taller and half the girth of her rotund spouse, had trapped Gareth beside the punch bowl, making it impossible for him to get out and dance with that woman. Not that he wished to, of course.

“And will you be having entertainments up at Rushton Park this year, Mr. Lockheart?” Mrs. Pillsbury asked, fluttering her eyelashes in a way that was distracting, but not in the way she probably intended.

Gareth realized he’d been staring. “Entertainments?” he parroted the only word he could recall hearing. It was bloody hot in here and there was not a window in sight.

“Yes, balls, dinner parties, and so forth.”

“I had not planned on it.” His words were met by a sighing sound, making Gareth notice they’d been surrounded by townsfolk—primarily women—without him being aware of it. Frowning female townsfolk.

“Er, that might change if the gardens are completed on time,” he lied.

A sigh of relief swept through the room, the ripple of air cooling his neck. Mrs. Lombard was now chatting with the bull-necked farmer, while a group of other, equally healthy-looking men hung back a respectful distance, like supplicants awaiting their turn at a shrine.

Gareth put his untouched cup of whatever on the table. “If you would excuse me,” he murmured, not realizing Mr. Pillsbury had been speaking until he stuttered to a halt.

“Oh, of course, sir.”

Gareth wove his way through the bodies, his eyes flickering between her laughing face and plunging neckline, both of which seemed to beckon him like a false lighthouse beacon luring a ship toward hidden rocks. He vaguely recalled his intention of ignoring her but could no longer recall why he’d thought that was such an excellent idea.

Well, there was no shame in adjusting one’s plan, not that he’d ever done such a radical thing before.

She looked up just as he eased past a clutch of young girls dressed in pastel shades and resembling a cluster of flowers.

“Mr. Lockheart.”