Chapter Three

      There was no competing with the Comtesse de Charentes when the company gathered in the drawing room for dinner that night. Alina made a grand entrance, alone, at five minutes after seven, exuding confident sensuality in a watered sage-green satin that commanded the attention of every male in the room and the jealousy of every female.

      The choice was carefully calculated on her part. There was no doubt in Channing’s mind she’d done it on purpose. It was a bold strategy, one that said she was ashamed of nothing. She would meet head on the stories that had already started circulating in fits and starts after tea. They were the same stories that always accompanied her: her husband had died suddenly without reason. It made her both a tragic figure and a suspicious one. He’d heard the tale and had immediately gone to work steering it in a useful manner. He’d done so, he clarified for himself, not out of any lingering empathy for the comtesse, but because Amery would have done so if he’d been here. It was his job.

      The rise of the old story was not unexpected. This was a crowd to whom the comtesse was only partially known. Some of the more highbrow guests like Durham and Barrett had encountered her in London, but the others present did not run in such high circles or stayed closer to home at their country estates. They were entirely reliant on gossip in forming their first impressions of this relative newcomer. Still, she had come to this house party where she knew what she’d be up against when surely there were easier invitations to accept, making this a most interesting and almost illogical choice. Now she stood among a room of strangers, garnering all their attention, both good and bad.

      That, he could understand. Channing saw her stratagem at once. She had cast her net wide to catch all the fish in the hopes of catching the attention of the one that mattered most. In this instance, that fish was Roland Seymour. The gambit had worked, Channing noted. Seymour’s eyes followed her about the room just as every other man’s had.

      For his part, Channing wasn’t much taken with Seymour and he was hard pressed to imagine what Alina saw in him. For that matter, he didn’t know what Alina saw in this house party. Lady Lionel’s circle wasn’t exactly the haute elevations Alina had so painstakingly cultivated.

      The supper bell rang and Channing silently commended Alina’s choice of timing. Like all else about her, it was immaculate. She’d come down in enough time to command attention, but close enough to the bell so that she wouldn’t have to make small talk, or worse, risk a cold shoulder from jealous matrons.

      Lady Lionel was fussing over getting everyone paired for the dinner parade, another sign that this was not the high set he or Alina were used to frequenting. In his circles, people knew their place in line implicitly and needn’t be herded. Channing rather resented the parade that separated natural couples and pitted social ranks against one another. When he was growing up, his mother had assured him it was to facilitate the meeting of new people. But Channing felt the only thing it facilitated was the prevention of people associating with others of an inappropriate station.

      However, he did fight back a twitch of a smile as he watched Lady Lionel struggle with where to place Alina. As a countess, she was the highest-ranking woman in the room next to Lady Lionel, but she was a French countess who teetered on scandal, which was quite different than being an English countess of good standing. Lady Lionel erred on the side of caution and partnered Alina with her husband. Alina tossed Channing a smug victory glance over her shoulder.

      He’d take that as a gauntlet being thrown down. So they were to play, were they? He wondered if she’d meant to play with Amery or if this was a signal that they were to resume their usual warfare. There was power in sex and they both knew it well. It didn’t matter that he was paired with a baronet’s daughter or that he was sitting a little further down on the opposite side of the table. He was adept at flirting at a distance. He smiled politely at something the baronet’s daughter said and offered her his arm. Supper was about to get interesting.

      * * *

      The meal turned into a covertly wicked affair. He cupped the bowl of his wine glass; she stroked the stem of hers, idly, of course, and without even looking at whom the message was intended. That was the trick of the game, not to get caught. He bit into the duck as if it were the most tender of flesh. She bit into a berry and used a quick flick of her tongue to wipe a droplet of juice from her lips.

      That had been risky, almost too overt. The other trick of the game was to keep the gesture questionably vague so that anyone who happened to pick up on it could only wonder if the gesture was actually meant for them. Roland Seymour had caught the lick and from the sly smile on his face was even now contemplating whether that lick was meant for him.

      By the time the cherry ices arrived, Channing was contemplating other things beyond spoon sucking that could be done with the refreshing after-dinner treat. He wondered if Seymour was as well. He rather regretted the ladies’ departure for the drawing room. Buttonholing the port around the table wouldn’t be nearly as much fun. But it would be a chance to further Alina’s agenda, whatever it was, with Roland Seymour. Channing settled into making himself agreeable. He knew two or three of the men present and Sir Lionel made it easy.

      ‘So, Seymour, Durham here tells me you’re an investor.’ Lionel filled his glass and slid the decanter to the right. ‘What do you invest in?’

      Seymour gave an unnatural smile, one that Channing thought the man must practise in front of the mirror to achieve the proper amount of wryness. If so, he could use more practice. It didn’t quite ring true. ‘In land, it’s the one thing that will outlast us all. I believe it’s the only true investment out there. It won’t short-change you and it will always hold its value.’

      A few of the older gentlemen at the table exchanged uncomfortable looks. They were weighing the acceptability of such a profession or even if it was a profession at all. That was the sticking point. A profession wasn’t acceptable at all. A real gentleman didn’t work. Did investing qualify as work? A few of the younger men present seemed intrigued, however.

      ‘Do you develop the land? What do you do after you invest in it?’ Parkhurst’s son asked. Channing’s gaze drifted back to Seymour. It was a trick question. Was Seymour well-bred enough to know it? Land development would definitely classify as work, whereas simple land ownership and real estate could be excused. Channing himself held several deeds for properties all over London. Buying was all right. It was a show of wealth.

      Seymour took a swallow of his drink. ‘I hold on to it until it’s time to let it go,’ he replied vaguely. Channing was starting to dislike Seymour more and more. The conversation shifted to other things and Channing used the opportunity to take Seymour’s measure.

      Dark-haired and of medium height, Channing supposed women would not find him unattractive. He’d probably appear more attractive one on one with no other males around for comparison. But there was an insincere quality to him that gave him the perception of being oily, a certain slickness that branded him as bourgeois. He wasn’t Alina’s type at all for business or for pleasure. She’d been adamant it was business in this case,