Page 15 of The Truth Serum (My Lady’s Potions #2)
He waited, watching her too intently when he was supposed to be a devil-may-care nob. But then he was rewarded. She turned in the movement of the dance. He lifted his hand as if to wave to her. And she stiffened to the point of nearly stumbling.
He held his breath as she recovered. Her partner helped in this, and the peacock grimaced at having to support her for that split second’s change. Nate watched as her cheeks darkened in embarrassment. And then…
She pointedly caught his gaze before sharply turning her back on him. Ouch! A cut direct, only marginally disguised by the movements of the dance.
Becca was still angry then. He deserved it, of course, so he let his chin dip in acceptance—not that she could see it—and turned to find a chair. He needed to rest his feet.
He made his way to the dowagers. They always had the best gossip.
Sadly, they were much more interested in the tale of his attack than in sharing any interesting tidbits.
He regaled them with a fictional account of what had happened.
He pretended it was one ruffian plus a small boy who caught him unawares.
He bemoaned the loss of his boots and laughed at any suggestion that he had been by the docks.
Apparently, Fletcher had already spread that rumor.
He reassured everyone that he had been at a less than reputable gambling den and got exactly what he deserved.
It was gratifying to see his version of events quickly make the rounds. Soon, just as he predicted, he was surrounded by lovely girls enchanted by his tale. It was during this gratifying bit of attention that he realized two things.
The first was that Becca was watching him.
He caught her several times as she glanced his way, but that was because he couldn’t stop searching for her.
That gave him hope for some kind of reconciliation, though she remained stubbornly on the opposite side of the ballroom.
At least, she wasn’t indifferent to him.
The second, much more alarming realization was that something was wrong with Baron Courbis.
The man was a lecher, albeit a wealthy one.
Nate had no quarrel with any man indulging his proclivities, assuming he had the coin to pay for it and the lady was willing.
Like everyone, he thought the baroness’s death was a tragedy, but at least she didn’t have to suffer having Courbis humiliate her at every turn.
The man was not subtle about his entanglements.
But the one thing that could be definitely said about Baron Courbis was that he was an excellent dancer.
He moved with grace, loved being the center of attention, and never, ever appeared in public at disadvantage.
Whereas Nate played a ne’er-do-well for the ton, Baron Courbis displayed excellence, at least in all the ways of polite society.
Until tonight, that is.
Tonight, he danced like a man with no rhythm and leaden feet.
He wasn’t obviously drunk or ill, but his debonair smile looked more like rictus. His brows were drawn down in concentration, and he was sweating—profusely. But just as Nate readied himself to investigate the situation further, his opportunity arrived.
He looked up at the dias where Madame Joguet sat and saw a stern-faced maid appear, carrying a wrap for her mistress. In keeping with French styles, Madame’s gown was nearly diaphanous, but since she wasn’t prone to vigorous dancing, she always called for a wrap sometime during the first set.
And that was his cue.
“Well, well,” he said to his crowd of admirers, “I have spilled my tale for all your ears, and now I must go say my proper hello to our hosts.” He turned to the matron nearest him.
“Unless, of course, you want to tell me something salacious.” He waggled his eyebrows.
“Something like what your son-in-law has been doing with your daughter’s plump little dowry.
” He leaned forward. “Did he take your advice?” It was a serious question.
The boy thought he could make a fortune in the Exchange, but he hadn’t the wit to do it properly.
“You might as well go,” the dowager said, “because I shan’t say a word.” But there was a smirk on her face that told him she’d managed to guide her son-in-law into repairing their canals instead. A much better investment, and one Nate had recommended.
He kissed her hand by way of good-bye and then maneuvered gingerly to his feet.
He was halfway to the dais when the musicians ended the first set.
There was the usual bit of commotion as the dancers made their final bows and curtsies before everyone separated and began a great milling about.
That was the problem with a crush, everyone got in everyone else’s way.
And who was making the biggest fuss? Baron Courbis as he blundered his way to Becca’s side. He made a show of bowing with overlarge movements and then holding up his arm as if he were demanding her attention. And she took it.
In fact, she took his arm and began walking with purpose.
Nate frowned. What the hell was Becca doing, accepting the arm of an obviously inebriated gentleman? Except the baron wasn’t exactly stumbling drunk. But something was clearly wrong. Surely Nate wasn’t the only one who could see that.
And where the hell was Fletcher? Becca couldn’t have come here alone.
Nate grimaced, seeing his hostess fretting. Madame Joguet wasn’t the most patient of women. She’d seen him now and was gesturing him over. And Becca had made it clear that he needn’t be concerned about her. She wanted nothing to do with him.
His duty to his country demanded that he continue with his plans. There was no reason to jeopardize a smooth transfer of information just because Becca might be in trouble.
And yet, damn it! She and the baron were going out the French doors into the back gardens. Out where anything might happen.
He turned to follow but then saw Madame Joguet’s brows narrow. Oh hell. The lady wasn’t his contact, per se, but he couldn’t get access to the maid without a friendship with Madame. At least not easily. Which meant his path was clear.
Country came first. Even before Becca. He turned his back on the French doors and headed up the dais.