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“Not aloud, perhaps.”
Sir Lionel turned towards Judith and appeared to notice the offending article for the first time.
“What is wrong with it?”
“Nothing is wrong with it,” Judith said firmly.
Edward bent over his plate, his shoulders shaking.
Judith turned upon Baines. “You are remarkably interested in female attire for a gentleman who claims to occupy himself with horses and cards.”
“I possess hidden depths.”
“They are extremely well hidden.”
Baines smiled broadly as Lady Dunsmore laughed again.
Judith concentrated upon her oxtail soup. That was the difficulty with charmers. They made enjoyment appear harmless, and by the time one remembered that amusement could be used as efficiently as flattery, one had already revealed far more than intended. She knew the sort—at least, she thought she did.
Charmers moved easily through life because other people removed obstacles before them. They smiled at servants and received better service, teased dowagers and were forgiven, then flirted with unmarried women and departed, leaving the poor creatures to wonder whether some careless compliment had contained meaning. Judith despised the entire practice, and particularly despised herself for wondering whether the flowers had contained any.
He was here to investigate Blackthorn, and she must remember that fact.
When she glanced up again, Baines was speaking with Lord Cranford. His posture appeared indolent, his manner no more serious than before, yet Judith saw the difference immediately. He asked almost nothing directly and instead encouraged Cranford to speak until the gentleman had supplied far more information than he had doubtless intended. Within minutes they were discussing the Scottish rising.
“The whole affair was inevitable,” Cranford said. “Government should have expected it after Peterloo.”
Lady Beckenham frowned. “That is a dangerous opinion.”
“It is an observation, not approval.”
“There is very little difference in London at present.”
Sir Lionel waved one hand. “People must be permitted to discuss politics without being accused of treason.”
“Tell that to the men awaiting trial,” Cranford replied.
Baines sipped his wine. “What would you have done?”
Cranford considered. “Given them reform ten years ago.”
“Universal suffrage?” Sir Lionel scoffed.
“I said reform, not madness.”
“Where does one end and the other begin, though?” Lady Beckenham asked.
Judith set down her spoon. “At the point where the gentleman defining madness begins to fear losing his own advantage, I should think.”
Silence fell across that portion of the table.
Sir Lionel looked amused. Cranford appeared surprised, whilst Lady Beckenham regarded her with new interest.
Baines simply looked at Judith. His amusement had vanished entirely.
She had never wanted so badly to kick a gentleman beneath a dining table.
Instead she lifted her chin before returning to her soup, though she knew perfectly well he had filed the remark away with everything else he collected: servants, doors, conversations, deliberately missed billiard shots, and women who said more than they ought.
