A Proper Scandal by Charis Michaels Page B

that.
    Thankfully, a footman appeared with the platter of fish, and they shifted to be served. Aunt Lillian took the conversation skillfully in hand, drawing in each guest, allowing everyone to bid some self-serving welcome to the viscount. Lady Frinfrock, she was surprised to see, did not insinuate herself again—in fact, she did not speak at all. She ate heartily, scolded the footmen consistently, and listened closely, but she did not interject.
    When at last the meal ended, the ladies went through to the drawing room while the men lingered over port and cigars. Elisabeth was compelled by Lady Beecham to lead a game of Whist among the other young ladies. Ten minutes later, Quincy knelt beside her to whisper that Stoker had returned through the kitchen door and wished to speak to her. She could have wept with relief.
    Elisabeth glanced at her aunt. Lillian discreetly shook of her head. No, you would not.
    She stood up. Yes, I would and I will.
    Beside her, Quincy cleared his throat discreetly. “Perhaps you would consider meeting the lad just there?” He inclined his head to the double doors of the balcony at the far end of the room. “The rain has prevented us from opening them tonight,” he said, “but you may safely step outside. It’s dry enough under the eave, and you will be away from the party but not too far.”
    â€œ Thank you, Quincy. Please, tell Stoker.”
    â€œVery good, my lady.”
    Just as she made her way to the balcony, the men came through. Before she could stop herself, she sought out the viscount. He looked too, and their eyes locked again. Awareness tingled at the back of her neck and her arms above her gloves. She felt herself blush. For the first time in her life, she understood the need for a fan in an otherwise comfortable room. She hurried to the balcony.
    The air was cool and damp, and she sucked in two gulps. The debutantes’ heavy perfume had been suffocating. Now, perhaps, she could breathe again and reclaim some measure of calm, and think . Now, perhaps, she could answer how she’d managed to progress from shy and speechless in the stairwell to bold and verbose at the table. Or why she kept staring at this . . . this . . . man. No, not simply staring; she had been blushing at him.
    Ultimately, she’d spoken to him very little—there had been no opportunity for private chatter at the lively table—but oh, how she’d wanted to do. And not about the weather. Or anyone’s failing health. She’d gritted her teeth with each vapid new topic. Did no one want to learn about the viscount’s life? His opinions on the current Parliament or prime minister? His impression of London? Where he’d been? What he read?
    Elisabeth opened her eyes and blinked. She was being ridiculous. Of course no one else was interested in what he read. Why then, could she think of little else? Even while Stoker and his crew were darting around South London in the rain, risking their very lives.
    And if they had spoken, where could it all lead? She had no wish to revisit their past. Almost certainly, he would eschew her charity work. She felt an interest—well, perhaps, if she was being honest, she could term it closer to an attraction, not that it mattered. Whatever it was, it had absolutely nowhere to go. Her interest (or attraction) was not greater than her desire to remain anonymous in their shared past.
    She heard Stoker then, effortlessly scaling the garden wall, and she shook her head to clear it and straightened her shoulders. The youth deserved her full attention now. He rarely called on Denby House after sunset, and this was his second visit in one night. God knew what had happened with the scouting mission.
    He leapt the railing and sank to the balcony floor, ever cautious.
    She crossed her arms over her chest. “What is it? Is someone hurt?”
    â€œBrothel’s gone,” he said, rising. “The whole lot, moved on.