Page 52 of A Relentless Rake

“I’m certain he went back to the house to find Lady Elizabeth. Oh, look—foxglove!” She tugged the matron quickly up the path. “Aren’t they just lovely?”

The woman blinked. “Aren’t they poisonous?”

“Well, no one’s perfect.”

Mrs. Peterson halted in her tracks and narrowed her matronly eyes on Olivia. “My dear, are you unwell? You look rather flushed.”

“Do I?” Olivia raised her hands innocently to her cheeks, but she knew darn well that the blasted blush was there. Just as she knew exactly what—andwho—had put it there. “It’s all the fresh air, the exercise of walking in the garden, the flowers…” Andonerosebud in particular.

“I suppose you’re right.” Mrs. Peterson glanced over her shoulder again. Not finding Alec, she frowned and cast her gaze around the rest of the garden. “Whatever could have happened to St James? I wanted to tell him more about my niece.”

“Your niece?” Olivia took her arm again, and this time she nudged the rotund woman more gently toward the terrace at the rear of the house and the group of ladies gathered there.

“Iphigenia Dunwoody. Have you met her? Such a lovely girl! Good family, robust figure, well-mannered…” Mrs. Peterson lowered her voice conspiratorially. “And as the daughter of a viscount, a good match for St James, don’t you think?”

“Yes.” Olivia forced a smile despite an inexplicable burst of jealousy. “Just perfect.”

Thirteen

Olivia leaned her elbows against the railing of the supper box and swept her gaze over the crowd. Despite the revelry unfolding around her, she was out of sorts and had been since she kissed Alec that afternoon.

Normally, she would have leapt at the chance to spend the evening at Vauxhall Gardens, and in such a grand box at the ground center of the main avenue, no less. But tonight the musicians sounded flat to her distracted ears, and the acrobats, dancers, and jugglers failed to hold her attention. So did the usual parade of ladies and gentlemen strolling along the avenue. Not even the hot-air balloon tempted her with its exciting ride high into the night sky or the promise of fireworks at the end of the evening.

She was too distracted to enjoy any of it.

Behind her in the box, Henry and a half dozen of his friends laughed and caroused loudly, drinking port and smoking cheroots despite her presence. That is, when they weren’t telling bawdy stories. They’d had a fine supper in the box of seven courses served by uniformed footmen, and now that the entertainments had begun, the men had pulled their chairs away from the table and up to the railing to gawk at the sights and call out obnoxious insults to the performers. They were behaving like a bunch of scapegrace lads on holiday from university rather than respected members of the community.

She glanced across the box at her brother, and her eyes narrowed. How had Henry managed to gain access to a private box? Where did he find the money to purchase the dinner, cigars, and port? Was he dipping into school funds to afford this, or was Alec right—had Henry been taking architectural commissions behind her back?

She didn’t want to suspect so, but when she’d pressed Henry for answers tonight, he’d dismissed her questions with a wave of his hand and a quick switch of topics.

His elusiveness only added to her unease. So had Alec’s warnings about the men he claimed Henry was working with. Had her brother truly taken up with revolutionaries? Doubtful…

Beside her, two of Henry’s cronies both let out loud belches and then laughed.

She rolled her eyes.Verymuch doubtful.

Henryhadbeen behaving strangely lately; there was no doubt of that. But he was also under pressure to make himself appealing to the Royal Society, which meant participating in all kinds of activities he wouldn’t normally have done. Including tonight’s visit to Vauxhall.

Henry had met her at the front door when she’d returned from Harlow House with an invitation to join him tonight for supper. She’d begged off, wanting only space and quiet to think about that moment of temporary madness in the garden when she’d let Alec kiss her. No, when she’d allowed him to do far more than simply kiss her.

Yet Henry wouldn’t let her refuse and insisted she come. She was certain, though, that it had less with wanting his sister with him and more about her newfound popularity among theton—well, with the Sinclairs and Lady Gantry, anyway. Henry was nothing if not ambitious.

Now, she sat troubled with thoughts of her brother—and unbidden ones of Alec—and waited impatiently for the fireworks that would signal the end of the evening. Then she could go home to find the peace and quiet to sort through her thoughts, figure out if she could trust either man, and plan out what to do next. She’d work through her current situation the way she worked through mathematical proofs—one piece of information at a time.

Henry came up behind her and leaned close to be heard above the noise. “You’re not having a good time.”

He reeked of port and cigar smoke, and she fought back the urge to crinkle her nose at the pungent stench. She deflected by asking, “Areyouenjoying yourself?”

He grinned as his friends burst into laughter over a joke about a prostitute and a vicar. “Having a deucedly good time.”

She frowned. This wasn’t like him. He might drink and laugh with friends, but not publicly and never to excess. This was unusual for—

No.

She wouldn’t let her doubts blossom into suspicions. Henry was her brother, for heaven’s sake! He wasn’t perfect, she knew that better than anyone. But he certainly wasn’t a revolutionary and wouldn’t knowingly be involved with anyone who was.

“Try to have fun tonight.” He teasingly nudged her shoulder. “Or at least look like you are.”