Page 37 of The Wallflower Ruse

“We all know what piquet stands for here. Don’t waste your time, Pearce. She’s Restive’s doxy.”

Mr. Pearce shot to his feet, almost losing his balance. “Sir, you forget yourself. Miss Belair is a respectable lady, and this is naught but a game of cards.”

“Ha! I saw her alone with him in his drawing room.”

Lucinda stood as well. “I am no man’s mistress, and you are a dead bore.” She glared, trying to shake off the feeling of being a rabbit cornered by a ravenous fox. “Stop ogling me!”

By now, others were listening. Unfortunately, all the whist players were ladies, so not much help would come from them—even if they believed her innocent, which they likely did not.

“Stop ogling a slut?” He laughed. “Now, why would I do that? If he’s too shy to fondle you, I’m certainly not.”

“Sir, I must protest!” Mr. Pearce said. It sounded more like a plea than a threat. He looked positively terrified, poor man. She would rather he didn’t get hurt—in fact, she couldn’t risk it, for he was their clue to some sort of plot.

But what was she to do?

Wharton ignored him and put an arm around Lucinda. “Come to me, sweetheart.”

“Let go of me,” she snapped, trying to wrest herself away, but he tightened his arm. Where was Restive and his so-called protection?

“Leave her be!” Mr. Pearce cried, trying to pull Wharton’s arm away. Wharton slapped him, and Mr. Pearce clenched his fists. “Dastard! I demand satisfaction!”

Lucinda, meanwhile, dug frantically in her reticule. Where was the penknife? She came out with her scissors instead.

Wharton laughed at Pearce and eyed Lucinda’s decolletage. His fingers snaked forward to caress her.

She jabbed his hand with the scissors. He yelped and let her go, bumping into the table and knocking the cards onto the floor.

Restive strode into the room and gave a bark of laughter. “Well done, Miss Belair.”

Wharton cradled his injured hand. “Why, you bitch! I’ll—”

Restive’s fist shot out, and Wharton fell to the floor, blood spurting from his nose. He choked out a truly vulgar curse. “If you’re so fond of your doxy, Restive, don’t let her play with other men.”

“She’s no one’s doxy,” Restive growled. “She’s my responsibility.”

Oh, she was, was she? With difficulty, she refrained from glancing at the tittering whist players.

“Shall I demand an apology on your behalf, Miss Belair?” Restive asked, while a shaken Mr. Pearce gathered up the cards.

“No, for an apology from such a man is worthless,” Lucinda said, eyeing the blood on her scissors with distaste.

“True.” Restive took the scissors, wiped them on his handkerchief, and handed them back. “Come then, let’s go.” He tossed the handkerchief to Wharton, who took it with a snarl.

“Not yet,” she said. “First I must speak to Lady Alice about Mr. Pearce’s kind invitation.”

“What invitation?” Restive demanded.

~ * ~

Bloody hell, thought Restive. Needing to come to her rescue had been damned inconvenient. He’d been eavesdropping on a significant conversation—in French.

On the other hand, she’d shown just the sort of initiative required of an agent of the Crown. She’d realized that uncovering the plot mattered more than obeying his orders.

Coming from Pearce, the invitation must be significant. He hurried Lucinda from the room; best not to let Wharton hear.

“Miss Belair insists that you must escort her and Lady Alice to my aunt’s party,” the poet said, following them. “I shall do my best to acquire an invitation for you as well, although it may be difficult.”

“If you want Miss Belair to attend, you shall have no choice,” Restive said. “When is this gathering to take place?”