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Managing to spare a moment and take his gaze off his wife, he sketched a bow. “I trust you’re having a good evening?”

“Why, yes, thank you. I am.” The Clydesdales, somewhat of social outcasts themselves at the time, were the first ones to extend an invite to Lydia. She should say the first ones to officially invite her, as the invites she’d received from people before were all of a forged nature.

She and Honoria had made quite the team. Together, they had concocted a plan of how Lydia could infiltrate the ton, with Lydia procuring blank stationery and Honoria forging Lydia’s name on it.

They had chosen the grandest events deliberately, knowing she would blend seamlessly into the crowd. Lydia would carefully avoid the hosts, instead engaging in calculated small talk with those Honoria had identified as the most welcoming souls. After appearing at three or four gatherings, the acquaintances she’d cultivated began including her in genuine invitations.

“We haven’t seen you in a while,” Lady Clydesdale said. “Perhaps you would join us for a play at Medusa Theater sometime?”

Lydia smiled. “Only if the rumors are true and Viscountess Gage is returning to the stage!”

“If I told you that, it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?” Lady Clydesdale said with a wink and a laugh.

“You don’t say? The infamous Josephine is returning to the stage?” A woman whose name Lydia couldn’t recall unceremoniously cut into the conversation, providing Lydia with a perfect opportunity to slip away.

She continued flitting around the ballroom, making her presence known, pretending she hadn’t a care in the world, although her eyes were practically glued to the entrance, waiting for Art’s arrival.

Lydia dreaded seeing him again. She also anticipated it, was afraid of it, and looked forward to it… It was very complicated.

Lydia knew he would be in attendance, as Honoria warned her that he’d asked the earl to extend an invitation toward an acquaintance of his and his family.

Yet, it had been an hour, and he had yet to show up. Lydia grew less and less optimistic about his attendance. She found herself fidgeting with the tips of her gloves and biting the inside of her lip to keep her nerves at bay.

And then he appeared in the ballroom, and the entire world stilled.

* * *

Thorn straightened his cravat and scanned the crowd. Mr. Prescott—the man he’d asked Caldwell to invite—stood in the ballroom flanked by two young women. His daughters.

The short, stocky man with balding gray—almost white—hair, kept wiping his forehead with a handkerchief, looking uncomfortable. It was understandable since most of the crowd avoided them completely and walked past them without an acknowledgement of their presence.

This could be easily rectified.

Thorn cut a direct path toward them. “Mr. Prescott.” He extended his arm.

Mr. Prescott’s eyes widened as he alternated between looking at Thorn and his proffered arm as if it were a snake. Finally, he carefully shook Thorn’s hand. “Lord Thornton.”

“I would like to speak to you in private, if you don’t mind.”

Mr. Prescott licked his lips and glanced at an older woman by his daughters’ side whom Thorn hadn’t noticed before, then jerked his chin in a nod. “Of course.”

As quickly as Thorn had arrived, they left the ballroom. Thorn led Mr. Prescott to Caldwell’s library and closed the door behind them.

Mr. Prescott, still tense and confused, watched Thorn’s every movement.

“Would you like to sit?” Thorn gestured toward the two leather chairs by the fire.

Prescott cleared his throat. “No, thank you. I’d rather you told me what this is about.”

He mistrusted Thorn. This wasn’t unexpected. After all, Thorn’s father was Mr. Prescott’s long-time nemesis.

Mr. Prescott was a social climber. He made money with his chocolate business and was determined to marry his daughters into high society using his money as leverage. So far, he’d been unsuccessful. Mainly, due to Wakefield’s actions.

“I understand your reluctance,” Thorn acknowledged. “I know you do not trust me. I know that your relationship with my father is… strained.”

Mr. Prescott scoffed. “Strained?”

“Unpleasant.”