Page 21 of A Scoundrel in the Making

Abigail ducked her head and took a bite of her quail in an effort to hide a smile. The way Lord Reade said ‘stuck in the mud’ gave her the distinct impression he meant that Lord Chaluim was a stick in the mud.

Lord Chaluim nodded to a waiter who hurriedly filled his wine glass. “My driver is quite skilled,” Chaluim said. “He has yet to have the slightest difficulty driving in the rain.”

“You are most fortunate,” Reade said.

“Indeed,” he replied, then pointedly turned his attention to Abigail. “What good fortune that you are here, my lady. I have looked for you at the parties I attended, but to no avail. Now we shall be able to spend some time together. Is it too presumptuous of me to claim the first dance at tomorrow evening’s ball?”

“You are too late for that,” Lord Reade said before she could reply. “I am pleased to say that I already claimed that dance.” He smiled at Abigail and she read a hint of humor in his eyes.

“Then I will have to settle for the second dance,” Chaluim said stiffly.

Abigail smiled. “Forgive me, Lord Chaluim, but my second dance is claimed, as well.” It wasn’t, but she would make sure to have a partner for that dance.

“I would like to claim a dance, as well,” Baron Aidair interjected.

“Third dance?” Viscount Chaluim said in such a pitiful voice she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

“I am afraid so,” she said.

Frustration flared in his eyes. “Perhaps it is best if I ask what dance you have available.”

“Lady Buchman,” the young baron said, but Abigail answered Lord Chaluim.

“The seventh dance.” She would be in a devil of a fix if she didn’t find five more partners. Four—the baron would take any dance she offered.

Viscount Chaluim offered a tight smile. “I suppose I should count myself fortunate to be able to dance with you at all.”

Abigail wanted to slap him. If she were just plain Abigail Matheson or even Lady Buchman, that is exactly what she would have done. But spies didn’t alienate party guests.

She looked at him from beneath her lashes. “I feel certain you will forgive me, particularly since I had no idea you would be here.”

Uncertainty played across his features, then he smiled magnanimously. “Nothing to forgive, my dear. I’m pleased to be added to your dance card, at all.”

Now she only had to find a way to excuse herself from that dance.

Twenty minutes later, the gentlemen adjourned for cigars and brandy. The ladies left the dining room and gathered in a lavish parlor on the second floor. Abigail went straight for the balcony and gazed out over the gardens. She breathed deep of the cool night air. How she longed for a walk. The wine at dinner had been good—too good, in fact—and a walk would do wonders for clearing her head. She imagined Lord Reade’s expression should he return to the parlor to find her gone and walking alone in the garden. A perverse desire to see that now-familiar frown of disapproval on his handsome face almost motivated her to head for the parlor on the ground floor where a balcony opened into the garden. But The Raven would never forgive her for bungling a mission because she wanted to get a man’s attention.

Her thoughts came to an abrupt halt. Why in the world had she thought that? She didn’t want Lord Reade’s attention. Did she? Nae. He lived for women who wanted his attention. She had no intention of being one of the empty-headed females who batted her eyelashes at him as Lady Julia had done at dinner. Abigail glanced over her shoulder and saw the lady in question seated on the divan near the fire in deep conversation with another woman Abigail didn’t know. Interestingly enough, with no male in the room, Lady Julia’s coquettish behavior had disappeared.

Abigail returned her attention to the garden. The rain had cleared the sky and the stars shone brightly.

Male voices filtered to her and Abigail realized the men had arrived. She hated to leave the quiet of the balcony. The other women had stayed indoors, so she’d had the night to herself. Lord John’s voice boomed over the other men’s voices. The man was boorish. Still, she needed to return to the festivities.

When The Raven had said she had another mission, anticipation had hummed in her. But she’d lost her taste for this mission. Why? Perhaps because she didn’t believe Mr. Russell had stolen the Honors. But it wasn’t her place to question an order from a superior.

She put on a smile and returned to the parlor to find Lady Julia’s hand on Lord Reade’s arm, the coquettish expression back on her face. She lowered her gaze and Abigail was startled at the boredom that flashed across his face.

“Lady Buchman,” Lord Chaluim called.

She had to find a way to get rid of the man.

He reached her side an instant later. “Won’t you sit with me?”

She had no choice.

To Lord Chaluim’s obvious frustration—and Abigail’s amusement—Baron Aidair sat on the divan opposite them and joined in the conversation. When Mr. Wesley, a wealthy investor from Edinburgh, joined them, Abigail felt certain Lord Chaluim would come to blows with one or both men.

“Lady Buchman and I are old friends,” Lord Chaluim assumed the superior tone the peerage used when addressing anyone not born to the noble class.