“Through with what, dear girl?”
Tavy smiled hesitantly. “Pretending.”
Chapter 3
MAGNETISM. The quality or constitution of a body . . . a transient power, capable of being produced, destroyed, or restored.—Falconer’s Dictionary of the Marine
“Who was that lady last evening at the theater, Ben?”
He turned from the drawing room window. “Which lady, Constance? I spoke with several. Lady March, Alverston’s wife, the Countess of Savege. I believe you are acquainted with them all.”
Constance tilted her head, the diamonds threaded through her hair-ribbon glinting.
“You did not speak with her.” Her light brogue lilted across the chamber. “But you may as well have. A great deal was communicated in that exchange of glances, I think.”
He returned his gaze to the street traffic. Tradesmen mostly, thin at this early hour.
“I haven’t the foggiest what you are hinting at, as is often the case, my dear.”
She made a clicking sound of displeasure with her tongue.
“Communicating with me like one of your prized horses, Connie?” he drawled. “I am flattered. Truly.”
“Don’t patronize me. We have known each other far too long.”
“Then you should be aware that I do not wish to continue in this line of conversation.” He turned to her. “Disappointed Styles did not show last night?”
She tightened her lips and her forehead wrinkled.
“Very becoming.” Ben lifted a brow. “Hold your face in that manner for long and it will stick.” He moved away from the window to the pianoforte and sat at the bench. “Play a duet with me, will you?”
“After that comment? Absolutely not. You sound like you are thirteen again.”
“You bring out the best in me.”
She chuckled, moving toward him, and draped a hand over his shoulder.
“Are you certain we should not marry, Ben? It would be so much easier than—”
“Yes, Constance.” He spread his fingers and touched the keys.
“C minor. Amusing,” she murmured. “But I daresay it is best that at least one of us is strong.”
“I daresay.” He played another chord. Strong was not the correct word. He stood up and started toward the door. “You will be late for your breakfast party.” He paused and gestured for her to follow.
“How welcome you make me feel.” She came forward. “Yes, I am late. Please, won’t you accompany me?”
“Constance, you cannot continue using me like a crutch. A man has his limits.”
“Not many when it comes to me,” she said with a pretty shrug. “Admit it.”
He nodded. “But I still will not accompany you. I have business to attend to this morning, and you must face the gorgons on your own.”
She laughed, a tinkling sound full of high nerves and warmth. “Wretch.”
He allowed himself a slight smile but could not hold it. He turned toward the door. A woman stood upon the threshold, the footman beside her.
“Miss Pierce,” the servant announced, and withdrew.
Just as she had done twice the previous night, she met his gaze squarely now, her wide brown eyes direct. Ben remembered this the best about her—her forthright approach, entirely unlike what he had known of Englishwomen before her, a female devoid of subterfuge, secrecy, and manipulative lies. Or so he had thought for a time.
Otherwise her appearance was wholly altered. Her fashionable gown of icy blue, hair swept into an elegant arrangement, rigid posture, and the straight line of her mouth held little resemblance to the girl he had known. Especially her mouth.
“How do you do, Miss Pierce?” Constance moved forward and shook her hand. “I am Constance Read. I am pleased to make your acquaintance but must beg your pardon now as I am late for an engagement elsewhere.” She cast Ben a glance, murmured, “My lord,” and left the room with less fanfare than Ben had seen her do anything in his memory.
He met Octavia’s gaze.
“Hello, Benjirou.” Her voice was cool, another alteration.
“It is Ben now.”
“Really?” she remarked as though singularly disinterested. “Have you changed it?”
“It is the name I go by.”
“I see. But I suppose everyone calls you Doreé.” Her gaze flickered about the lavishly appointed chamber. He followed it. No trace of his father’s obsession with India lingered in this place, a dwelling entirely designed to lend consequence to the most English of English lords. Ben’s eldest brother, Jack, would have been proud. But then, he had always been proud of Ben, regardless.
“What brings you to my home this morning, Miss Pierce?”
“Then it is clearly Doreé for me as well.”
“Do you have a particular purpose in calling, madam, or are you conducting some sort of study on names?”
“I see you are quite as droll as ever.” She drew off her gloves and folded them between her slender hands. “I have come here to ask for your help.”
He allowed no flicker of surprise to show upon his face. But he should not be surprised. People applied to him for help every day. Never in his drawing room, however, and rarely beautiful women. Her lips were dusky pink, her skin like cream. She was the same all over, he knew, dusky pink and cream.
Her eyes narrowed. “A friend of mine is in some sort of trouble having to do with trade to the East Indies. Clandestine trade, I believe.”
Of course.
“A friend?”
“A gentleman. A friend of my family, rather.”
“Then I suspect you should be applying to your brother-in-law for aid.”
“I cannot. I do not believe St. John would be able to deal with this.”
“And how do you imagine I can be of assistance to this gentleman if his own friends cannot?”
“I know that your—” She paused. “—business interests are quite broad.”
“Do you?” He leaned back against the piano and crossed his arms loosely.
“Yes. One cannot live yards away from a person’s house for years without learning something of what goes on there. Anyway, it is common speculation in Madras amongst the permanent residents.”
The natives, she meant.
“Is it?” Ben turned his attention to the view beyond the window again. “Fascinating how mythology serves the imagination of the ignorant, isn’t it?”
“Mythology?” She stepped forward then halted, as though she had not meant to advance. “Eighteen months ago a band of sepoys defected from the army and stirred up trouble for hours throughout the city before they were apprehended. But I suspect you know that, and that you also know how they threatened every Englishman’s house in Madras except yours.”
Slowly he returned his gaze to hers.
“You recall,” he said smoothly, “that my mother, aunt, and cousins residing in that house are Indian.”
“Grenville Fletcher’s wife is Indian, but the rebels set fire to his property,” she retorted. “He of course is quite a minor trader, but—”
“And your brother-in-law’s home? He is hardly an unimportant figure in Madras. Was his house also targeted?” He already knew. This was a foolish gamble. He should end this conversation now.
“No.” Her brow troubled. “But the proximity to yours must have deterred them.”
“It must have,” he placated.
She stepped forward again, her gaze firm.
“You cannot throw me off with this. I know what I know, and I have nowhere else to turn. A man threatened Lord Crispin last night, a man of low speech. He was attempting blackmail, I think. I need assistance to discover who he is and what he wants.”