hand to Neville, who cringed at Quinn’s grip. “The lady’s husband. And how is it you know my wife?”
“As her friend. Her very old friend,” Neville said, trying to wring his hand free with limited success.
“And what’s an old friend doing in Paris?”
“He’s the ambassador’s secretary,” Viola put in.
“Ah! Well, no doubt Lord Cowley needs someone to open his mail and run errands. You appear marginally qualified for that post.” Quinn offered his arm to Viola. “Come, dear. They’re opening the door to the dining room.”
Neville started to follow them.
“You’re coming too?” Quinn turned back to him. “Does Cowley allow the help to dine with guests?”
Neville blinked in surprise. “I’m not the help.”
“No doubt that’s true. You’re probably very little help. Still, very enlightened of the ambassador. I’ll tell him so when I see him.” Quinn pulled Viola close and escorted her toward the dining room. “I thought you didn’t expect to see anyone you knew here.”
“I didn’t. Least of all, Neville.”
“Neville, is it? Not Mr. Beauchamp? Must be a rather close old friend.”
“I suppose you could say that. We were once engaged.”
Quinn stopped mid-stride. “So that’s the cad.”
“Yes, but he’s down on his luck now. I know what that’s like. I don’t have it in me to hate him.” At least when Neville broke it off with her, he’d tried to be honorable. He let her put about the story that she’d changed her mind and rejected him, so her reputation would remain untainted by their broken engagement. Neville wasn’t a bad sort. He was just a greedy sort and Viola no longer represented gain. She leaned toward Quinn. “Why were you so unpleasant to him before you even knew who he was?”
Quinn started walking toward the long dining table again. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”
“Oh? What way was that?”
“Like you were the last strawberry tart on the plate and he hadn’t eaten in weeks.”
Formal dinner parties were a ridiculous bore. Especially if one was stuck with Lady Wimbly at one’s side. The only bright spot for Quinn was that, like the unfortunate Lord Wimbly, he wasn’t required to contribute much to the conversation.
Viola on the other hand was seated between the ambassador and his secretary, Neville Beauchamp. Every time Quinn looked in their direction, the man was leaning toward her, trying to engage her in conversation.
The thought of Viola and him . . . Quinn suspected his blood had turned to molten lava.
“Neville Beauchamp, now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,” Lady Wimbly was saying. “If memory serves, he was heir apparent to Lord Sudbury with bright prospects until his uncle married again quite unexpectedly. Ah, well . . . they do say one mustn’t count one’s chickens before they’re hatched, don’t they? Of course, they do.”
Quinn grunted noncommittally and sawed at his beef. It was a tad stringy and overdone for his taste.
“I believe he and your new wife were quite attached at one ti—”
“Lady Wimbly, perhaps you can tell me if there are any here who have recently returned from India,” Quinn interrupted, taking a page from her book. If he couldn’t quiet her gossiping tongue, he could at least steer her prattle into something useful. “Since I spent more than a dozen years there, I’m always interested in comparing experiences with others who’ve lived in the East.”
“Why, yes, now that you mention it, I believe a gentleman recently turned up.” Lady W scooted her chair closer to Quinn and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “A Mr. Penobscot, Henry Penobscot. He’s seated next to Wimbly on the left. But I greatly fear you won’t get much out of him. Silent as the grave, that one.”
“Oh?”
“He arrived in Paris the same day Wimbly and I did and he wouldn’t speak so much as a word to us while we all waited in the anteroom to see the ambassador.” She chewed
“As her friend. Her very old friend,” Neville said, trying to wring his hand free with limited success.
“And what’s an old friend doing in Paris?”
“He’s the ambassador’s secretary,” Viola put in.
“Ah! Well, no doubt Lord Cowley needs someone to open his mail and run errands. You appear marginally qualified for that post.” Quinn offered his arm to Viola. “Come, dear. They’re opening the door to the dining room.”
Neville started to follow them.
“You’re coming too?” Quinn turned back to him. “Does Cowley allow the help to dine with guests?”
Neville blinked in surprise. “I’m not the help.”
“No doubt that’s true. You’re probably very little help. Still, very enlightened of the ambassador. I’ll tell him so when I see him.” Quinn pulled Viola close and escorted her toward the dining room. “I thought you didn’t expect to see anyone you knew here.”
“I didn’t. Least of all, Neville.”
“Neville, is it? Not Mr. Beauchamp? Must be a rather close old friend.”
“I suppose you could say that. We were once engaged.”
Quinn stopped mid-stride. “So that’s the cad.”
“Yes, but he’s down on his luck now. I know what that’s like. I don’t have it in me to hate him.” At least when Neville broke it off with her, he’d tried to be honorable. He let her put about the story that she’d changed her mind and rejected him, so her reputation would remain untainted by their broken engagement. Neville wasn’t a bad sort. He was just a greedy sort and Viola no longer represented gain. She leaned toward Quinn. “Why were you so unpleasant to him before you even knew who he was?”
Quinn started walking toward the long dining table again. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”
“Oh? What way was that?”
“Like you were the last strawberry tart on the plate and he hadn’t eaten in weeks.”
Formal dinner parties were a ridiculous bore. Especially if one was stuck with Lady Wimbly at one’s side. The only bright spot for Quinn was that, like the unfortunate Lord Wimbly, he wasn’t required to contribute much to the conversation.
Viola on the other hand was seated between the ambassador and his secretary, Neville Beauchamp. Every time Quinn looked in their direction, the man was leaning toward her, trying to engage her in conversation.
The thought of Viola and him . . . Quinn suspected his blood had turned to molten lava.
“Neville Beauchamp, now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while,” Lady Wimbly was saying. “If memory serves, he was heir apparent to Lord Sudbury with bright prospects until his uncle married again quite unexpectedly. Ah, well . . . they do say one mustn’t count one’s chickens before they’re hatched, don’t they? Of course, they do.”
Quinn grunted noncommittally and sawed at his beef. It was a tad stringy and overdone for his taste.
“I believe he and your new wife were quite attached at one ti—”
“Lady Wimbly, perhaps you can tell me if there are any here who have recently returned from India,” Quinn interrupted, taking a page from her book. If he couldn’t quiet her gossiping tongue, he could at least steer her prattle into something useful. “Since I spent more than a dozen years there, I’m always interested in comparing experiences with others who’ve lived in the East.”
“Why, yes, now that you mention it, I believe a gentleman recently turned up.” Lady W scooted her chair closer to Quinn and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “A Mr. Penobscot, Henry Penobscot. He’s seated next to Wimbly on the left. But I greatly fear you won’t get much out of him. Silent as the grave, that one.”
“Oh?”
“He arrived in Paris the same day Wimbly and I did and he wouldn’t speak so much as a word to us while we all waited in the anteroom to see the ambassador.” She chewed
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