Chapter Four

      ‘We meet again, Miss Ashfield.’

      ‘In circumstances even more trying than the last time, I am afraid, Lord Wesley. Mr Friar is newly come from the Americas and seems to have a poor understanding of the word “no”. His ability to pretend to be something he is not must be the only thing allowing him entrance here for he has few other redeeming features.’ She knew she was babbling, but couldn’t seem to stop. Surprise and relief at the earl’s presence obliterated her more normal reason and fright had made her shake.

      As he joined her, Gabriel Hughes placed two fingers across the pulse on George Friar’s neck. ‘A trifle fast, but given the circumstances...’

      Today he looked tired, the darkened skin beneath both eyes alluding to a lack of sleep. His glance had also taken in the telltale mark on the unconscious man’s cheek.

      ‘His dress sense is appalling, would you not say?’

      At that she smiled. There was a certain sangfroid apparent in the comment. Indeed, he did not look even the least perturbed about what had happened.

      ‘I didn’t push him. He fell across that potted plant and down into the garden.’

      ‘After you slapped him?’

      She felt her own blood rise. ‘I had asked him to remove his hand from my person, Lord Wesley, and he did not.’

      He looked up quickly. ‘He didn’t hurt you?’ His gold eyes were darker tonight, though when she shook her head the anger in them softened.

      ‘Perhaps then it would be better if you were gone when he awakes?’

      Taking that as a hint, she turned.

      ‘Miss Ashfield?’

      She turned back. ‘Yes?’

      ‘If you say nothing of this to anyone, I will make certain that he never does, either.’

      ‘How?’ The question tumbled out in horror.

      ‘A firm threat is what I was thinking, but if you want him dead...?’

      Could he possibly mean what she thought he did? Friar’s explanation of how Wesley had killed Henrietta tumbled in her mind to be dismissed as the upturn of his lips held her spellbound. He was teasing, but already she could hear the voices of others coming closer and knew she needed to be gone. Still she could not quite leave it at that.

      ‘Sometimes I am not certain about just exactly who you are, my lord. Amongst the pomp and splendour of your clothes and the artful tie of your cravat I detect a man who is not quite the one that he appears.’

      But Gabriel Hughes shook his head. ‘It would be much safer for you to view me exactly as the rest of the world does, Miss Ashfield; a dissolute and licentious earl without a care for anything save the folds in his most complicated cravat.’

      No humour lingered now, the hard planes of his face intractable, and as George Friar groaned Adelaide fled. She could not fathom the Earl of Wesley at all and that was the trouble. He was nothing like any man she had met before. Even when he laughed the danger in him was observable and clear. But the colour of his eyes in this light was that of the gilded hawks she’d seen as a young girl in a travelling menagerie that had visited Sherborne, the quiet strength in them hidden under humour.

      Lady Harcourt looked up as she came to her side. ‘You are always disappearing, my dear. I am certain that is not a trait to be greatly encouraged. If your uncle were here and he asked me of your whereabouts, I would not know, you see, and so it would be far better if...’

      Her words petered off as a shout at one end of the salon had them turning and Adelaide saw Mr Friar burst into the room using a large white handkerchief to wipe off his bleeding nose. She was glad he was heading straight for the exit even as she stepped back into the shadow of her chaperon.

      Gabriel Hughes came into view behind him, accompanied by Lord Montcliffe, and the Earl of Wesley’s left hand was buried deep in his pocket. Walking together, the two men were of a similar height and build and every feminine eye of the ton was trained towards them as well as a good many of the masculine ones.

      ‘Goodness me. What is society coming to these days?’ Lady Harcourt lifted her lorgnette to her face to get a better view. ‘A fist fight in the middle of a crowded ball? Who is that short man, Bertram, with Lord Wesley and Lord Montcliffe?’

      Adelaide’s heart began to beat fast and then faster. Would there be a scene? Would she be revealed as the perpetrator of the American’s questionable condition?

      ‘Mr George Friar is an arrogant cheat,’ her cousin drawled. ‘Perhaps the Earl of Wesley has finally done what many of the others here have not been able to.’

      ‘What?’ Imelda’s voice was censorious. ‘Broken his nose?’

      ‘Nay, Aunt. Shut him up.’

      The Earl of Berrick, standing beside them, frowned. ‘I have my doubts that Lord Wesley would put himself out for such a one unless it suited his purpose.’

      Bertie nodded in agreement. ‘He’d be far more likely to be in the card room or cavorting with the numerous women of the ton who are unhappy in their marriages.’

      Lady Harcourt gave her grand-nephew a stern look. ‘You are in the company of a young girl in her first Season, Bertram. Please mind your tongue.’

      ‘Pardon me, Aunt, and I am sorry, Addie.’

      Her cousin gave her one of the smiles that Adelaide could never ever resist.

      ‘Make it up to me, then.’

      ‘How.’

      ‘Come with me as my chaperon to the Royal Botanic Gardens at Kew. There is a physic garden there that I have always wanted to see.’

      * * *

      ‘You look like hell, Gabe.’ Daniel Wylde did not mince his words as they left the Harveys’ ball. ‘You need some beauty sleep.’

      Gabriel heard the concern behind the words. ‘I’ll live.’

      ‘Who was he, to you? Mr Friar back there?’

      ‘No one. He’d tripped over the balustrade and had fallen. I was the first to find him.’

      ‘I doubt that.’ Montcliffe’s words were low. ‘Unless you have taken to slapping strange men I would say there was a woman involved. Besides, you would hardly take a hard swipe at an injured man unless you had some gripe with him?’

      Gabriel swore, but didn’t answer.

      ‘Your sister, Charlotte, was unkind, Gabriel, but you were always nicer.’

      ‘It’s been a while. People change. I’d be the first to admit that I have.’

      ‘Why?’

      One word biting at his guts, so easy just to spill the worries and feel better. Even easier to not. Still it might not hurt to sound Montcliffe out on a little of it.

      ‘What do you know of Randolph Clements?’

      ‘His wife, Henrietta, died in the fire at Ravenshill Chapel. It was rumoured you had something to do with that, but it was never proven.’

      ‘I think Clements killed his wife.’

      ‘And walked away?’

      ‘Unconvicted. Mr Friar here is one of his American cousins.’

      ‘You think he was involved, too?’

      ‘Odds are that he is here in London for a reason.’

      ‘He