He held her eyes. “My plans are uncertain, ma’am.”
“No doubt! I mean, are they?”
“Until I have had leisure to look about me, yes.” Aware that a number of eyes were on them, he bowed again. “I will hope for an opportunity to better our acquaintance, ma’am.”
“Yes, indeed. Sooner rather than later.”
There was a snap in her voice, but her colour returned again as she glanced at the Master of Ceremonies, who was looking a good deal surprised. As well he might. Giff had accosted the fellow on Sattar’s advice, learning that his good offices were apparently essential to introduce him into the society of Weymouth. His henchman had thankfully not wasted his time in the town while keeping an eye on Piers’s men.
“I must beg you to excuse us, Miss Burloyne,” said this worthy, waving an expansive hand. “Mr Giffard has a number of people to meet.”
“Yes, of course.” Delia cast him a meaningful look. “I was on my way to the library.”
“You are a great reader, ma’am?”
“No! Yes! I have a letter to write. Or, no, I don’t any longer.” She gave a little shudder, closing her eyes briefly. “Your pardon, sir. Excuse me, if you please.”
Delia bobbed a curtsey and slipped past, head down as she exited the card room. Amused, and a little guilty at having caused her so much discomfiture, Giff watched her leave, finding the sway of her hips under the muslin gown unexpectedly enticing. How soon could he end this farcical spate of introductions and find the library?
“Come, Mr Giffard, I must present you to some of our oldest and most faithful summer visitors.”
Turning his attention to the indicated table where a quartet of elderly persons were engaged at cards, Giff discovered he was under the scrutiny of a pair of sharp eyes belonging to a formidable dame of advanced years. A riffle of familiarity went through him. Could he know her? Surely not.
“Allow me to present…”
Mr Rodber went into his litany and Giff strove to pay attention as he indicated that very female.
“Lady Matterson, who is responsible for bringing our young Miss Burloyne with her this season.”
So this was Delia’s aunt? She looked to be little the worse for wear after her ordeal at the hands of Piers’s tools, he decided, as he murmured a greeting and made his bow. On the other hand, she was regarding him with a gimlet eye that he would have found intimidating if he was not as interested in her as she appeared to be in him. That eye continued to appraise him as the other members of the four were introduced, Giff surreptitiously noted. Had she seen his exchange with Delia? Disapproval, then? She could not suspect, could she? His flower girl would never betray him, that he would swear to.
The introductions done, Mr Rodber took it upon himself to present Giff’s credentials. “Mr Giffard has lately returned from India. I have no doubt he will have many interesting tales to impart.”
“India?” Lady Matterson’s brows were climbing her forehead. “How long were you in residence there, sir?”
“All my life, ma’am, bar my first few years.”
“Then you are English?”
“Indeed. My people were from these parts.”
“Your people? I don’t recall any of the name of Giffard.”
The accusatory note was pronounced. Did she suppose him to be some upstart mushroom trying for a rise in the world? He kept his tone bland.
“The Giffards were never of note, ma’am. I doubt your ladyship will have encountered them.” Bowing, he looked enquiringly at the Master of Ceremonies and glanced at the next table whose occupants had paused in their game to watch.
“Indeed, we must move along. My lady, my lord.”
With a bow, Mr Rodber extracted them and moved away. Giff followed with alacrity, conscious of the eyes boring into his back. Lady Matterson promised to be as acute as her niece, which did not augur well for his scheme to find an opportunity to be private with Delia.
Once all the occupants of the card room had been introduced, any hope Giff had of escaping was thwarted as Mr Rodber led him into the principal room where he was immediately waylaid by a stout woman of middle years with a masterful air.
“Mr Rodber, there you are! I am determined to reorganise the expedition to Sandsfoot Castle for tomorrow, provided you can assure me of the weather’s continuing clement.” She cast a cursory glance at Giff and her eyes widened. “Why, who is this? Do I detect a fresh arrival come amongst us?”
The master of ceremonies appeared a little flustered. “Yes, yes, Miss Watkinson. I would have presented you at once, only you were elsewhere at the time.” He altered his tone to one of urbanity, which Giff suspected was habitual. “Yet no time like the present. Allow me to introduce Mr Giffard, who is, as you surmised, newly arrived.” He turned to Giff and wafted a hand towards the woman. “Our most assiduous visitor, Mr Giffard. We are indebted to Miss Watkinson for a great many enhancements to our sojourns in this place. Indeed, I don’t know what we should do without her.”
This was uttered with an unctuous inflexion and a sycophantic bow towards the creature. She looked to Giff like one of these pushy battle-axes who constituted themselves, for no good reason, the leader of any society in which they found themselves. He’d known one or two in Kolkata. Intimidating females, every one of them. At least this one did not appear to have a henpecked husband in tow.