Secrets in the Regency Ballroom. Joanna Fulford

sorry.’ Marcus sighed. ‘That was unpardonably rude after all you’ve done.’

      ‘Just promise me you won’t leave until you’re strong enough.’

      ‘You have my word. Besides, at this moment the thought of a journey to London fills me with dread.’ He ran a hand over his chin. ‘In the meantime I need to bathe and shave. I’m beginning to feel like a pirate.’

      Having spent over two weeks abed, Marcus was determined to get up and, as George provided no opposition to the idea, he did so the very next day. Though still weaker than he would have wished, the pain of the wound had almost gone and provided he made no sudden movement it felt almost normal. Somewhat reluctantly he submitted to wearing a sling for a few days, but felt it a small price to pay, all things considered. A message had been sent to his lodgings and his things were duly sent round. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, Marcus smiled wryly. The best that could be said was that the clothes were clean and serviceable and they fitted. They were hardly in the first stare of fashion. Just for a moment he saw his brother’s face in the glass and it wore a pained expression. Almost he could hear his voice:

      ‘Good Lord! What ragbag did you get those out of, Bro?’

      Marcus grinned. A ragbag indeed, by Greville’s standards anyway. His brother had always been both extravagant and elegant in his dress. They hadn’t met since Marcus had been packed off to India ten years before. Now they would never meet again, or not in this life anyway. His jaw tightened. If it was the last thing he ever did, he would find the men responsible for that.

      He finished dressing and made his way downstairs to the parlour. When he entered he discovered he was not the first there. A girl was sitting by the window, bent over the open sketchbook in her lap. For a moment he checked in surprise, sweeping her with a comprehensive gaze from the dusky curls to the toe of a small slipper peeping from beneath the hem of a primrose yellow morning gown. She looked familiar somehow. Then he remembered.

      ‘Ah, Miss Davenport. Good morning.’

      The pencil hovered in mid-air as she looked up. Claire had been so absorbed in her task that she had not heard him come in. For a moment she was rooted to the spot and could only stare. She had forgotten just how imposing a presence he was. In addition to that she was only too aware of the scene that had taken place in the sickroom earlier. Did he remember any of it?

      If he was discomposed by her scrutiny it was not evident. Indeed, the cool grey eyes met and held her gaze. His expression gave nothing away. Recollecting herself quickly, she returned the greeting.

      ‘Mr Eden, I am glad to see you so far recovered.’

      ‘If I am, it is in no small part due to you.’

      ‘I did very little, sir.’

      ‘George tells me you have been a most excellent nurse. An unusual role for a young lady.’

      ‘I…it was the least I could do.’

      ‘It is my profound regret that I have no recollection of it.’

      Claire’s spirits rose in an instant. ‘I’m so glad.’ Then, seeing his eyebrow lift, ‘I mean, so glad that I was able to help—in some small way.’ Knowing herself to be on dangerous ground, and growing warm besides, she changed the subject. ‘Please, won’t you sit? You should avoid tiring yourself unduly.’

      His lips curved in a satirical smile. Ordinarily he would have treated such advice as presumption and responded with a pithy set down, but on this occasion he said nothing. Having taken the suggestion, he watched her resume her seat. As she did so he let his gaze rest on her, quietly appraising. The sprigged muslin gown was a simple and elegant garment, but it revealed her figure to perfection. A most becoming figure, he noted. Moreover the primrose yellow colour suited her, enhancing her warm colouring and dark curls.

      ‘What are you drawing?’

      ‘It’s just a sketch that I wanted to finish.’

      ‘May I see it?’

      ‘If you like, but I wouldn’t want to excite your anticipation.’

      She rose and handed him the book, watching as he leafed through it, wishing she were not so aware of his nearness, wishing she could divine the thoughts behind that impassive expression.

      ‘You are too modest, Miss Davenport. These landscapes are very fine. You have a real eye for line and form.’

      ‘You are kind, sir.’

      ‘I speak as I find.’ He glanced up at her. ‘Who taught you to draw?’

      ‘My mother, mostly. She was a talented artist. And Miss Greystoke taught me a great deal.’

      ‘Miss Greystoke?’

      Claire was silent for a moment, conscious of having given away more than she had intended. Then she upbraided herself silently. It was a trivial detail and could make no possible difference.

      ‘Yes. She was once my governess.’

      ‘I see.’

      Marcus was intrigued, for suddenly another piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. However, he had not missed her earlier hesitation either. Why should she wish to hide the fact? Unwilling to antagonise her, but not wishing for the conversation to finish just yet, he continued to leaf casually through the book.

      ‘These are all local views, are they not?’

      ‘That’s right. The countryside hereabouts is an artist’s dream. It’s so wild and beautiful.’

      ‘And dangerous,’ he replied.

      Claire’s cheeks grew hot as the recollections of their first encounter returned with force. It angered her that he should allude to it again for he must know it was painful in every way. However, it seemed she was wide of the mark for Eden gestured to the newspaper lying on the occasional table beside him.

      ‘Another mill has been attacked by a mob and another loom destroyed, and all in the space of a fortnight.’

      ‘Oh, yes.’ Recovering her composure, she followed his gaze to the paper. ‘Men fear for their livelihoods. So many have been laid off and those who are still in work have seen their wages cut.’

      ‘Does that excuse murder?’

      ‘No, of course not, but it does explain why people are so angry. It is well nigh impossible to feed a family on eight shillings a week.’

      ‘You say that with some authority.’

      ‘I have been with Miss Greystoke to visit several families in the town. She and her brother do what they can to help, but…’ The hazel eyes met and held his. ‘It is no pleasant thing to see children starving.’

      ‘No, it is not.’

      ‘You must have seen much poverty in India.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Ironic, is it not, that it should exist in England too, a country we think more civilised in every way?’

      There could be no mistaking the earnest tone or the sincerity in her face and he was surprised by both. In his experience young ladies of good family were usually preoccupied with balls and pretty dresses, not the problems of the poor. Would she prove to be one of those worthy but tiresome females eternally devoted to good causes?

      ‘True,’ he replied, ‘but the war with France has been much to blame. Until trade can be resumed at its normal levels the situation is unlikely to change.’

      ‘And in the meantime the mill owners lay off more men. The introduction of the steam looms only exacerbates the situation.’

      ‘Progress cannot be resisted for ever. The wreckers will be brought to a strict accounting eventually.’

      She heard the harsh note in his voice and met it with a sympathetic look. After his recent experience it was not surprising