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She was deceiving him. What could her kiss have been but a lie?
“Well.” She withdrew her fingers. “Good night, then.”
She could feel his eyes on her as she walked from him down the hall. Once she’d closed herself in her room, she fell back against the door and pressed her hand to her chest, where the bubble of happiness had popped.
Chapter Twelve
The violin solo ended, and the guests at the Earl of Bettany’s musical afternoon resumed their conversations or rose to seek out more appealing company, drifting between the chairs toward the perimeter of the immense room. Alan glimpsed Neal out of the corner of his eye. His friend’s hands were in his pockets, and he was bouncing on the soles of his feet, all but running for the door. Philistine. Neal preferred rocks to Bach. For years, he’d gallivanted the world digging up plants for Varnham Nurseries. Now he managed the nursery—a large operation with locations in London and Truro—which kept him in England. As did his wife. Lavinia didn’t share his love of foliage, or of sleeping al fresco on frigid mountaintops. She was certainly the reason he’d attended today’s party, and the reason he hadn’t already bolted.
Alan started after him. Neal was never hard to locate. He’d be in the wildest corner of the garden, jacket on a bench, sleeves rolled up, grubbing for God knew what in a flower bed.
“Lord Alan.” Bettany blocked his path. “Are you enjoying the music?”
Alan stopped. Geoffrey joined Bettany, his face alight with fury. He hadn’t responded to Alan’s letter, but his expression proved he’d received it.
Alan smiled at both men. “Very much.”
“Henri Chevillard is my personal discovery.” Bettany gestured to the red-haired violinist who leaned on the piano making eyes at the accompanist as the peevish baritone tried to recapture her attention. “I found him on the hot pavement, in Paris, playing to beggars and birds. A talent like that!” He shook his head. “I invited him to London for a proper debut.” He paused to wet his lips with champagne. He’d debuted many of his discoveries over the years, usually very young chanteuses, their salient attributes not always musical in nature.
Alan didn’t like him least of Geoffrey’s friends.
Bettany disburdened himself of his empty champagne flute, pushing it into a passing footman without looking away from Alan, his expression aggrieved. “Umfreville says I should be prepared for you to debase his performance.”
Alan glanced at Geoffrey. “Then my brother wasn’t listening to it. The performance was brilliant. I’d as soon debase Bach himself.”
“Brilliant?” Bettany drew in his chin with surprise and smiled, before his forehead crinkled with suspicion. He thrust his head forward. “Where’s your notebook, then? Your pen scratches away when you’re favorably struck.”
Alan cut his eyes again to Geoffrey. “Perhaps my brother has something to say on that subject as well.”
Geoffrey’s gaze dropped to Alan’s left hand, and his lips tightened.
Alan hadn’t bothered with the bandage. The swelling had subsided somewhat, but the middle knuckles were livid, and his fingers had a greenish cast.
His secretary’s pen should have been scratching. But two days had gone by since Miss Finch left for cake tins, and she’d not returned.
At random moments, Alan felt her absence anew, a sudden tightness in his chest, followed by a violent thud of his heart.
“Brilliant,” repeated Bettany. “And you’ll put that in a music column? I want Chevillard to be the rage.”
Alan gave him a cool look. “Henri Chevillard will receive the review he deserves.” Not the one you deserve. Or Geoffrey. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He continued toward the door, a smooth saunter. Painless today, at this pace.
“You’ve come to your senses.” Geoffrey overtook him. They passed together into the garden.
“Don’t be absurd.” Alan chose a path at random. “That violinist is extraordinary. I wish he weren’t. I’d rather annoy your associates.”
“Bettany was pleased, which pleased me.” Geoffrey linked his hands behind his back as he walked. “He’ll have a cabinet position in the next ministry. Perhaps I will too.”
“Angels and ministers of grace defend us,” quoted Alan, turning through a gap in the hedges.
Geoffrey followed. “I accept your atonement, even if you won’t admit to it.”
Alan said nothing. The sunlight felt strident. He looked at the beds of colorful flowers lining the path.
Miss Finch appeared before his eyes, as he’d first seen her, in a maid’s livery, with those enticing dimples and plush, petal-soft lips.
He’d forgotten himself, kissing her. If she hadn’t stopped him, he would have rucked up her skirts and taken her there, in the vestibule. Is that why she kept away? She’d chosen to protect herself from the amorous attentions of her employer. Or else—had some harm befallen her?
