A Stolen Heart

“Lord Thorpe’s?”

“Of course,” the woman answered impatiently. “Mamas keep close watch on their daughters when Sebastian is around.”

This woman must know him well to refer to him casually by his given name, Alexandra reasoned. She had discovered that the British were amazingly formal about such things.

“They do so with good reason,” the woman went on, her blue eyes frosty.

“And what is that reason?” Alexandra asked, matching the freezing tone of the other woman’s voice.

The woman gave a small, twisted smile. “Ah, I can see that he has already worked his spell on you. Just take my word for it—he is well-known for his seductions.”

“I am surprised that he is received in polite society, then.”

“Money and a title have an amazing power to make up for all sins.”

“Lady Pencross.” Both women, engrossed in their conversation, started and glanced up at the sound of a masculine voice a few feet from them.

It was Lord Thorpe, and his eyes were fixed on Alexandra’s visitor. His face held no emotion, but the tone of his voice was as unyielding as iron. A little shiver ran down Alexandra’s spine. She would not relish having Thorpe look at her in that way.

“Sebastian.” Lady Pencross opened her eyes a little wider, her mouth turning down in a hurt way. “You don’t sound pleased to see me.”

“I doubt you are surprised,” Thorpe replied dryly. “I am sure you have business somewhere else, don’t you?”

Alexandra drew in a sharp breath at his blatant rudeness. The blond woman’s eyes flashed, and for an instant Alexandra thought she was going to lash back with something venomous, but then she merely smiled and moved away.

“Another person with whom you are not interested in extending your acquaintanceship?” Alexandra asked lightly.

Thorpe, who had turned to watch the woman walk away, swiveled to Alexandra. His eyes were dark, his face etched in bitter lines. He looked at Alexandra for a moment, then relaxed, letting out a little laugh. “Yes. Lady Pencross and I have had far too much acquaintanceship as it is.”

Alexandra was filled with curiosity about the incident, particularly what had caused the ill will between the lady and Thorpe, but, infuriatingly, Thorpe did not elaborate on the matter. He seemed to shrug it off, handing Alexandra her plate and sitting beside her.

“I hope I did not keep you waiting too long,” he said. “The tables were rather busy.”

“No. I was well entertained.”

He glanced at her sharply. “Did Lady Pencross disturb you?”

“No. Not disturb, precisely. She was, ah, concerned about my virtue in your company.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Trust me, she is not disturbed about anyone’s virtue, especially her own. I would not refine too much on what Lady Pencross says.”

“I won’t. I am well able to make up my own mind.”

Thorpe looked at her, a smile beginning in his eyes. “Of course. How could I have forgotten that?”

They ate their food, a delicious repast that had Alexandra regretting the supper she had eaten earlier, and occupied their time with discussing the various people around them. Thorpe knew most of them and their foibles, and painted them with an acid wit that kept Alexandra chuckling.

“How hard you are on your peers,” she told him.

He shrugged. “I am a mere novice compared to many of them. Malice and vitriol are the oils that keep the ton running.” He set aside their plates. “Are you ready to return to the dancing?”

“Of course. It will be much more enjoyable watching everyone now that I know all their secrets.”

“You have barely scratched the surface, my dear girl.”

They left the room and made their way to the stairs, but Alexandra paused to look at some of the paintings that hung on the walls of the huge entry hall.

“That is the present Duke’s mother,” Thorpe told her, pointing to a picture of a woman with her arms around a young girl and two toy spaniels at their feet. “Painted by Gainsborough.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“He has some fine art, nearly all portraits, of course—that is what the former Duke valued in art.”

“His favorite, doubtless, was the horse.” Alexandra nodded toward the massive portrait of the animal that she had noticed when they first walked in.

“Definitely. Would you like to see some of the other things?”

“Why, yes, if you think it would be all right.”

“I’m sure of it.” He guided her up the stairs and away from the ballroom, heading down the long gallery. Just past the stand of armor began a row of portraits, many dark with age.

“Why, this looks like—”

Thorpe nodded. “A Holbein. It is of Isabella Moncourt, the lovely young wife of the then Marquess of Moncourt. The young woman met an untimely end.”

Alexandra eyes widened. “Really? She was murdered?”

Thorpe shrugged. “Who knows? She died young—a fall down the stairs one night. Murder was definitely rumored—a charge the Moncourts vehemently deny to this day. But it is said that she had caught the eye of one of the Howards. And her husband was known to be a jealous man.”

“Caught his eye? That was all? Why didn’t the husband kill the Howard, then? It sounds to me as if he were more at fault.”

Thorpe chuckled. “No one even knows if it is true. But if it is, I would guess that the lady was not entirely blameless.”

They continued along the hallway, peering to see the portraits in the light of the wall sconces. “I would love to see them by day,” Alexandra commented.

“I can show you an even better collection another day, if you’d like.”

“Your family’s ancestors?”

“No. My family’s art, such as it is, is primarily at the estate in the country. I spend little time there. And my house, as you know, is given over to ‘heathen art,’ as Lady Ursula has told me.”

“Who?”

“The daughter of a very good friend of mine. I hope you will be able to meet her tonight.”

“Lady Ursula?”

“No, although I dare swear we will be unable to avoid that if the Countess is here. But it is the Countess I want you to meet.”