Page 3 of Unmasking the Diamond
She frowned, unsettled by how easily he seemed to read her. “Would it matter to you if it did?”
His smirk was infuriating. “Is this our first quarrel?”
She rolled her eyes in answer, the gesture dangerously close to unladylike. He was insufferable.
At last, Lord Luca turned to acknowledge her brother and Jane, offering a nod. “Alcott. Lady Alcott.”
Jane, ever gracious, smiled. “How are you faring, Lord Luca?”
“Well, thank you,” he replied, his tone shifting to polite civility. “I wanted to extend my congratulations on your wedding. Do you intend a wedding tour?”
“Not at present,” Alistair answered. “Perhaps once the Season concludes and Charlotte is happily settled.”
Charlotte bristled. Alistair’s words always came with the weight of expectation, of duty.
An amused gleam entered Lord Luca’s eyes. “Is the diamond being courted, then?”
Charlotte snapped before her brother could answer. “No, the diamond is not. And you needn’t speak about me as if I am not standing right here.”
“Pity,” he mused, his smirk deepening. “Perhaps I shall throw my hat into the ring, then.”
Her retort came sharp and swift. “Then I would pick up your hat, stomp on it, and toss it far, far away.”
He chuckled. “How I enjoy our little chats.” With a bow, he added, “Have a pleasant evening, Diamond.”
“That is not my name,” Charlotte shot back, her voice rising despite herself. But he was already retreating into the crowd, the smirk lingering, as though her indignation had been precisely what he wanted.
Drat. He never seemed to care—and worse, she suspected he knew exactly how to unsettle her.
Charlotte turned her gaze on her brother, irritation simmering beneath her practiced poise. “Why do you insist on being friends with Lord Luca?” she asked, her tone hovering between a question and a demand.
Alistair only smiled, his arm sliding protectively around Jane’s waist. “Because he was part of the reason we were able to arrest Jules Leclerc, ending the threat on our lives. I owe him a measure of respect for that.”
Charlotte sniffed. “He vexes me.”
“All the more reason to like him,” Alistair teased.
Before she could retort, movement in the corners of her eyes caught her attention. Mr. Trotter strode towards her with his usual overeager smile. “I have come to claim you for our dance,” he said, offering his hand.
At once, her mask slipped back into place. “I was hoping you would,” she replied with deliberate sweetness.
His face lit up, his chest puffing like a pigeon in the park. It was too easy, she thought. How easily men were undone by the smallest compliment.
As Mr. Trotter led her towards the dance floor, Charlotte’s gaze wandered over the room, the part of her that wasMr. Fairchildalready cataloguing details for next week’s column.
Lady Weatherby stood near the refreshment table, her diamonds winking under the chandeliers as she spoke far too closely to Lord Henshaw. How curious—wasn’t it common knowledge her husband had been banished to the country for gambling debts? Charlotte would need to note how intently Lord Henshaw leaned towards her, how his hand brushed hers as he offered her a tart. Such gestures often bloomed into scandal.
And there, against the far wall, Lord Greaves—red-faced and sweaty—slipped a flask from his jacket when he thought no one was looking. Oh, but Charlotte had seen. She always saw.
Her lips curved as Mr. Trotter guided her into the first steps of the dance, mistaking her smile as encouragement meant solely for him. He would have no idea that behind the coquettish tilt of her chin, her mind was already arranging tonight’s observations into tidy paragraphs, each barbed with just enough wit to delight her readers.
The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of the entry hall, spilling golden light across the marble floor as Luca made his way towards the dining room. He straightened his cravat with a practiced tug, already thinking ahead to the stack of work waiting at his office atThe London Gazette.Leads to chase, articles to edit, endless words to marshal into meaning. Itwas an unpredictable life, but he relished the chaos. It kept him sharper than the monotony of titled ease ever could.
He entered the dining room to find his elder brother, Jude, already settled at the table. The Earl of Pendryn looked the picture of idle contentment, coffee steaming at his elbow and the morning newssheets spread wide in front of him.
“Good morning, Brother,” Jude greeted without looking up. “Since you are here, I should inform you that your newssheets are rather dull today.”
“Thank you for that,” Luca muttered, sliding into a chair. “Any other pearls of wisdom you wish to impart before breakfast?”
