Chapter 8

eight

R OYSTON WATCHED ANGELINE walk into the ballroom. Her small bustle swayed with each step, enhancing her lovely figure.

Of course, she was beautiful. She was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen. Her midnight eyes never failed to hold him captive, not only because they were glossy like obsidian, but also because they kept secrets, like whatever had happened with Mr. North.

She hadn't wanted to tell him anything about that man, and he hadn't pressed her further. But no matter. When she was ready to talk, he'd listen.

He snatched a glass of champagne from the passing tray of a footman, almost missing the days when he was a servant himself. Decent salary, no need to mingle with the crowd, and fewer responsibilities. Because of his past, he did his level best to ignore the dancing couples. They didn't exactly disturb him but didn't please him either. As long as he didn't focus on the dance, he could control the rising darkness.

Lord and Lady Redvers were talking on the other side of the ballroom, and he headed towards them. The second reason he'd come to the ball was to talk to the viscount. Now that the disastrous meeting with Havisham was over, he could focus on what really mattered to him.

"Lord Redvers, Lady Redvers." He offered his best bow. He was about to ask Redvers to have a word with him when the lady cut him off.

"Lord Wharton, finally we have a moment. I shall introduce you to my daughter Georgiana. She's eager to…" Lady Redvers gazed around, waving her fan. "She's here… somewhere. Where's that young lady? She was dancing with Mr. Wright a moment ago then disappeared."

"Mr. Wright?" Royston asked. "The famous pianist at the Opera House?"

Lady Redvers beamed. "The very same, Wharton. He's such a well-mannered man. I shall introduce you to him as well… as soon as I find him." She searched the room again. "People are vanishing right and left. Where is Mr. Wright?"

The mysterious pianist lover must be Mr. Wright. And the girl, Redvers's daughter.

"Since Miss Taylor is temporarily unavailable, I was wondering if I could have a word with you, my lord."

Lord Redvers didn't show the same enthusiasm as his wife, but he said, "By all means, Wharton."

"Thank you. My lady." Royston left with Redvers.

"But…" Lady Redvers kept searching the ballroom.

Royston followed the viscount to an adjoining room where a banquet with refreshments took up half of the space. The music wasn't as loud as in the ballroom, but he'd hoped for a more private place.

"I think I know what you wish to talk about," Lord Redvers said in a grave tone. "News about Parliament's decision on your proposed petition."

Good, so Royston wouldn't waste time. "Precisely, my lord."

The viscount seemed to age ten years in a moment. "Wharton, the empire has many challenges to deal with right now. Providing public funds for a group of fallen women isn't a priority."

"Many young women need only a chance to improve their lives and to abandon the path of their trade."

Bloody hell. It was infuriating that he couldn't have a seat in the House of Lords since he hadn't inherited his title. If he were among those stuffy peers, he would fight tooth and nail to grant financial help to the girls who wanted to leave a brothel. Girls like his mother.

While everyone was eager to invite him to a ball, none of them wanted to help him when it came to his cause.

The viscount straightened, which didn't give him an impressive change in height. Royston towered over him.

"Wharton, I'm the first to admit your bravery during the fire was unprecedented. You saved our queen's grandson. The empire will always be grateful, and your ability for making money is enviable. But politics is a different beast that requires a different set of skills. I'm telling you this in your interest." Lord Redvers sounded forlorn. "Unfortunately, no one will listen to you. The members of the House of Lords don't believe you know anything about governing the country."

Royston focused on his glass not to let his frustration be shown. "I don't care about being considered one of them, my lord. What I care about are those poor, young, abused women without a home or family. The government should help them leave the trade, find legitimate employment and save their lives."

"I understand," Lord Redvers said. "But even though I'm on your side, I'm afraid that charity for the sake of charity is not going to influence the House. If we start giving money to everyone, no one will want to work."

"I don't believe that."

"You will have trouble convincing others of that," Lord Redvers said. "It's our duty to educate the commoners and guide them towards higher moral standards. Ours is a difficult job involving many hard decisions. But providing homes for them? No one will approve the funds."

Royston's chest tightened. The disinterest in the so-called fallen women was hard to fight. But while the lords debated what was morally appropriate and what wasn't, those women died from diseases, starvation, or even murder. Like his mother.

"Some battles can't be won." Lord Redvers gave a paternal pat on Royston's arm.

He was about to say the battle had barely begun when Lady Redvers swept into view.

"Lord Wharton, finally I can introduce you to my daughter." Lady Redvers gave her daughter's arm a light tug, leading her forwards.

Royston could barely focus on the introduction, catching a glimpse of glossy curls and large, scared eyes. Miss Taylor curtsied and said some pleasantries. He bowed and replied with the same platitudes, his mind still replaying the conversation with Lord Redvers. There had to be something he could do to push for his proposal to be approved. Hell, he'd worked with the best solicitors in town to put it together and make sure it was a strong argument, but no one in Parliament took it seriously.

"You should dance with Lord Wharton," Lady Redvers said.

That got his attention.

Miss Taylor stepped closer to him. The girl looked intimidated by him if the way her eyes flared wide was any indication.

"I'd be delighted, my lord." She sounded anything but.

"Thank you, Miss Taylor, but I don't dance." He got distracted again when he caught a glimpse of Angeline and her mother talking in a corner.

Lady Redvers laughed. "Every gentleman dances, and tonight there are so many of them."

"Yes, but I don't dance."

"But surely you won't refuse a lady," Lady Redvers insisted.

"Mother," Miss Taylor whispered. Her hair was a tad dishevelled now that he noticed that.

"I never dance, my lady." Perhaps rephrasing his statement would let the message sink in.

"A gentleman never refuses a lady's offer." Lady Redvers's pleasant attitude changed into an annoyed one.

But as images of his mother being forced to dance with that man crossed his mind, a cold, sickening shiver crawled down his back. It was as if a file of scorpions marched down his spine.

He almost choked on air. He'd come to the ball only because Lord Havisham had insisted and because he wanted to talk with Lord Redvers; both reasons had proven to be a waste of time.

The evening had been a complete fiasco. Aside from meeting Angeline again. Dancing was out of the question on a good day; it was impossible on a bad one.

He bowed. "Lady and Lord Redvers, Miss Taylor, if you'll excuse me." His voice cracked as cold sweat dampened his neck.

Miss Taylor curtsied while her mother pressed her lips in a hard line. Lady Redvers said something, but a buzzing noise rang in his ears, and he couldn't acknowledge her words.

No, it wasn't simply a noise but the strident music he'd heard that night. That awful music played by an inexperienced violinist to torture his mother. Royston had screamed and begged, but the jockey hadn't listened. He needed a breather.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. A funny taste poisoned his mouth. Leaving the room, he swallowed a couple of times, feeling as if his tongue had grown in size. Had he been rude to Lady Redvers and her daughter? He had no idea.

He flexed open his hands, reminding himself that, unfortunately, his mother was dead. She'd died that night. Her heart had given up. The jockey had fled in a panic, leaving Royston alone with his dead mother.

There was no reason to torture himself with the scene of her death. It wouldn't bring her back and would only ruin his present.

His logic was solid. Yet those images kept emerging again and again in his mind, unbidden. Although, if he was going to be honest, he felt guilty every time he tried to push them down. It seemed an act of disrespect towards his mother. But how could he live with a ghost that dragged him into a dark pool of memories?

He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing until his pulse returned to normal and the horrible images vanished.

As he staggered along the path in the garden to take some fresh air, he spotted Angeline with her mother and paused. Likely sensing his stare, she turned towards him. Her expression changed from tense to… he dared say happy? Her plush lips curved up in a Mona Lisa smile that he'd gladly spend hours watching and trying to understand the meaning of.

He couldn't help but smile back, which was odd, considering a moment ago, he'd been on the verge of passing out. Yet a small smile from the spirited Angeline washed away his pain.

She raised a hand in greeting. He did the same.

That was the best exchange he'd had that night, and in a long time.