Lady Diana glared at him, obviously not prepared to give him an inch. She stood close to him. Too close. He turned the latch and, aware of the scented warmth of her body, reached around her to push open the door.
She sailed out, chin high.
He followed and glanced up and down the empty corridor. “Say nothing about this to anyone, not even your grandmother,” he called after her, wishing he hadn’t weakened. That he’d made his argument more forceful.
“Of course I won’t,” she said over her shoulder.
With deep regret, he watched her bottom swaying as she crossly walked away. Could he rely on her to let the matter drop? He believed so. Lady Diana was smart. She would know better than to speak of this to anyone who could endanger them both. But he was less sure she’d leave him to deal with it alone. He should have been smarter, more convincing. Why was it so difficult to keep a clear head around her? Probably because all the blood rushed from his brain to other parts of his body.
With a muffled curse, he made his way back to the salon, where the men still continued their intense discussions. During the time he had been in the room, more had entered, while a few others had left.
Once seated, he studied those who might be of interest. And those he could cross off the list of people she could have overheard. Close to a dozen men had been in the room with him at the time. Many of the others he eliminated for other reasons. He remembered the Frenchmen, Moreau, and de La Touche had left the room before him. There were few French here. Could one of them be one of the men Lady Diana had overheard? It was certainly possible. But right now, he was more concerned with discovering the identity of the Englishman, should her observations prove true. He glanced casually around the room. Was he of interest to anyone here? Did anyone here harbor malevolent intentions concerning him? Impossible to believe it of the men around him. Might this Englishman be the one who’d gained access to the war office, where an important dispatch had recently gone missing? It would have been virtually impossible for either of these Frenchmen, with their heavy accents and Gallic appearance, to pull it off at Horse Guards.
And why target him? When had he become a threat to these men? Information must have leaked from Scovell’s office about him, too.
The convivial Baron Holland rose from his chair. “Shall we join the ladies in the drawing room for a glass of wine or coffee, gentlemen?”
The parliamentarian Lord Rowntree struck up a conversation with Damian as they filed out of the room. He spoke of the diverse entertainment on offer. “The baron and baroness can be relied upon to put on a good show,” he said as they walked along the corridor. He turned to Damian, his eyes sharp. “I saw you go into the library with Lady Diana Stafford.Be careful there. Her father has his sights on some gentleman he wants for her. To calm her down, the duke says.” He laughed. “A bit ungovernable, apparently.”
“I do not know her well,” Damian said crisply. “The lady merely asked me for advice.” He walked ahead to avoid further conversation.
When he entered the drawing room, Lady Diana was beside her grandmother. She gave him a studied look before glancing away. Did she think he’d made light of her discovery? It would keep her at arm’s length. He should have been glad of it—but somehow wasn’t.
The dark-haired poet, Lord Byron, limped into the room favoring his club foot. An appreciative murmur rose from the ladies. He smiled at them before his sensual, brown gaze settled on Lady Diana, sparking with interest.
Damian frowned. He should have welcomed it. Byron could be the perfect distraction for the duke’s daughter. The man was renowned for his affairs as much as his romantic poetry. Damian groaned inwardly. Surely, that wasn’t a twinge of jealousy he felt?
Annoyed with himself, Damian clamped down on his jaw. He must deny this attraction. There was no way he would risk Lady Diana’s life, even if it meant walking away from something that could be special.
Chapter Five
Her tense backpressed against the sofa cushions, Diana watched Lord Ballantine enter the drawing room with several men a few steps behind him. Had what she’d told him concerned him more than he was prepared to admit? He’d made it clear he did not want her involved. She should do as he’d suggested and not bother him again. It would allow her to continue her search for a suitable gentleman. Regrettably, the murky world she suspected Ballantine inhabited ensured that he was not a suitable subject for a liaison. But that didn’t prevent her from being filled with curiosity about that world, and her lively mind wouldn’t let go of the matter.
She realized, suddenly, that Lord Byron had addressed her from his seat opposite and was waiting for a reply. How rude of her! She had no clue what he’d said or even if it required an answer. A moment passed as she gazed blankly at him, hoping he would continue. His attractive, brown eyes widened. Was she the only woman he’d met who had not hung upon his every word? She suspected she was, and at any other time, she would have relished the opportunity to talk to him. “I enjoyed ‘Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage’ immensely, my lord,” she said hurriedly, by way of apology.
He nodded with a pleased smile before a lady laid a hand on his arm and distracted him, inquiring as to when they might see the third canto published, for she simply could not endure the wait. While the two discussed the poem, or rather, Byron did andthe woman, in a frilly gown of pea-green lace, rapturously hung on every word, they left Diana free to study the group of men and women who seated themselves around Ballantine and engaged in cordial conversation. Women seemed to take to Ballantine as they did her father, Diana thought, a little disgruntled. But she couldn’t really blame them. Papa and Lord Ballantine were both attractive, interesting men, when so many—she glanced around the room—were not.
She forced herself to concentrate. Might the two whose murmured conversation she had overheard at the monument be here in this very room? There were two Frenchmen here, which was unusual in and of itself. The moon-faced man seemed amiable enough as he chuckled and flirted with the ladies. Surely, it could not be him? The other one certainly looked more the part with his narrow, dark face, heavy eyebrows, and coal-black eyes. He spoke with a heavy French accent. She thought he looked dangerous. But were spies always what they seemed? Listening to his voice failed to jog her memory. She studied both of them, but in the end was none the wiser.
Her gaze turned to the rest of the men. Who might the French-speaking Englishman be? Surely, he would be here? But again, her contemplation of each of them gave her no clue. It was impossible to pick him out from the other erudite Englishmen present. If only she had caught a glimpse of them at the monument. It occurred to her they might return to their meeting place to continue their discussion. If she noticed one of them leaving, she would follow him and hide somewhere nearby where she could clearly hear their conversation. But how would she know when they planned for it to take place? And she could hardly drag Grandmama all the way to the fountain a second time. She would become suspicious, and it would be foolish to underestimate her powers of observation. When Grandmama wished to apply them, she was formidable.
As Diana’s thoughtful gaze wandered, Ballantine caught her eye and frowned.
She raised her shoulders in a slight shrug. If he cared so much about what she thought, or what she might do, surely there must be more to this than he was prepared to tell her?
The butler came to the door. “My lords, ladies, and gentlemen, dinner is served.”
As her father escorted her grandmother into the dining room, Lord Ballantine took a firm hold of Diana’s arm. “Allow me, Lady Diana,” he said, his smile failing to reach his eyes.
“Why glower at me?” Diana asked in an undertone as guests followed, chatting behind them. “You might let me help. I can move about unnoticed by the men.”
“You think so?” Ballantine huffed out a humorless laugh. “I’d rather you didn’t.”
“I am aware of your sentiments on the matter,” she said, annoyed that he found her amusing.
Underneath a magnificent crystal chandelier, the long dining table, covered by white linen, had been prepared for more than forty people. Silver and crystal sparkled in the candlelight.
With a nod to dismiss the footman who waited beside her chair, Lord Ballantine assisted her to be seated. He bent over her as he pushed it in. “I trust you to remain aware of it. I should not like to keep reminding you,” he said in a whisper, his wine-scented breath warming her ear.