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a business in one of the most notorious parts of London. Lady Fortescue was becoming more interesting with every snippet of information he picked up about her.
Glancing at the piece of paper with the address, Harry started to ascend a rickety set of wooden stairs, having to pause on the way up to let a large man pass him on his way back to ground level.
Harry knocked on the door and was surprised when it was flung open immediately, with some force.
‘Mr Maltravers, I must insist...’ Lady Fortescue trailed off, her eyes widening in surprise. ‘Lord Edgerton,’ she managed after a few seconds.
‘Lady Fortescue.’ Harry bowed, trying to conceal a smile. He found he rather liked surprising his so-called fiancée.
‘I invited you to lunch,’ she said softly, a hand covering her lips. ‘And then didn’t turn up.’
‘A more sensitive man might be offended,’ Harry said, following her into the office and looking around him with interest.
‘You’re not offended?’
‘Your uncle tells me it happens all the time. Not forgetting guests, but forgetting meals.’
‘I don’t often have guests,’ Lady Fortescue said quietly.
He’d been in such offices before, when organising shipments or booking passage to the Continent, but usually they were run by weathered old men, men who looked like the sea had chewed them up and spat them out. They were not run by gently bred young ladies, even notorious widows.
‘This is your business?’ he asked eventually, studying a detailed map of the English Channel.
‘My late husband...’ Lady Fortescue paused and corrected herself, ‘My second late husband, Captain Trevels, owned this business. It came to me on his death and it was one of the few things I was allowed to keep possession of throughout my last marriage.’
‘It is an unusual business for a woman,’ Harry said bluntly.
Lady Fortescue smiled, not the usual, polite upturning of the corner of her lips, but a proper, full on smile of amusement.
‘You’re very direct, Lord Edgerton.’
‘Perhaps you should call me Harry. We are engaged after all.’
‘We’re pretending to be engaged,’ Lady Fortescue corrected, just in case he forgot. ‘Harry,’ she said his name quietly as if trying it out on her tongue. He saw the faintest of blushes blossom on her cheeks, gone before he could even be sure it was truly there.
He waited for her to offer her given name. He waited so long he began to wonder if she might insist he call her Lady Fortescue for the rest of their acquaintance.
‘My name is Anna.’
‘It is a very unusual business for a woman, Anna,’ Harry repeated.
She shrugged, that small movement that Harry was beginning to associate with his fiancée, and smiled. ‘Most men would say any business is a strange one for a woman.’
‘That’s very true.’ He saw her stiffen a little and leaned in closer. ‘But most men are fools,’ he said quietly. ‘Now, your uncle promised to save us some lunch, if you can spare an hour or two.’
She glanced at the pile of papers on the huge wooden desk and hesitated.
‘You’ll work more efficiently on a full stomach.’
‘A quick lunch,’ Anna conceded.
‘And you can tell me about the world of shipping.’
As the music in the ballroom swelled above the chatter Anna found herself looking around in anticipation. Against her better judgement she had agreed to attend the Carmichael ball this evening, a ball that Lord Edgerton, Harry, would be making an appearance at, too.
She had been doing a lot of things against her better judgement these past few days: agreeing to this sham engagement just to avoid a little scandal, allowing Harry into her life and confiding in him about the malicious parcels she’d been receiving. After a long time spent being a meek and mild wife, Anna didn’t usually give in to anyone easily now she had her much wished-for freedom and independence, but Harry seemed to be able to get her to agree to anything with his confident persistence.
‘You’re thinking about him,’ Beatrice said breathlessly, sitting down beside her and taking a large gulp from the glass of lemonade Anna had been holding.
‘Who?’
‘Who?’ Beatrice laughed. ‘Your fiancé, who else?’
‘Fiancé in name only,’ Anna said, lowering her voice. She didn’t want her cousin to get carried away in a romantic fantasy.
‘For now. Admit you were thinking about him.’
‘Shouldn’t you find your partner for the next dance?’
‘Hah, I knew it. You were daydreaming about him.’
‘Beatrice Tenby, don’t be so ridiculous. I haven’t daydreamed about anything or anyone in the past five years.’
Handing the glass of lemonade back to her, Beatrice stood.
‘I don’t think you’re half as prim and proper as you make out.’ Beatrice flounced off, swishing her skirts and fluttering her eyelashes at any young man who glanced in her direction.
‘I do hope not,’ a low voice said in her ear.
Anna stood abruptly, using all her self-control not to exclaim out loud. Lord Edgerton—Harry, she reminded herself—was standing directly behind her. He took her hand, bowing over it before straightening and giving her a wink.
‘It would seem we’re the centre of attention,’ Harry said quietly.
Nonchalantly Anna glanced to the left and right. Everyone around them was deeply engrossed in conversation. Too deeply engrossed. Behind the uninterested façade they were watching every move Harry and Anna made.
‘I trust you are well, Lord Edgerton,’ she said loud enough for the gossips to hear.
‘Very well, Lady Fortescue. Perhaps you will do me the honour of granting me this dance.’
Anna stiffened. She didn’t dance, at least not any more. Her role here was purely that of chaperon to Beatrice. She was expected to sit on the periphery of the ballroom, watch the young women dance and laugh and be merry, and hold the lemonade whenever her cousin retreated to the edges for a rest.
‘I’d wager you are a fabulous dancer.’
Once. Once she’d been as carefree and happy as Beatrice. She’d whirled across ballroom after ballroom, content to let her partner of the moment guide her, happy to trust a man she barely knew completely for those few minutes of the dance.
‘I don’t dance.’
Harry stepped back and regarded her. ‘I don’t believe you,’ he said finally.
‘You don’t believe me?’
‘I don’t believe you. You have more grace than a dancer in the ballet.’
He held out his hand, waiting for her to take it. There was no way she could refuse and a part of her felt a spark of excitement at the thought of dancing again.
Slowly she placed her hand in his and stood, allowing Harry to lead her to the dance floor. The last dance was just finishing, the dancers breathless and flushed from the quick steps to a lively tempo. There was a brief pause before the musicians struck up again, this time with the unmistakable first notes of a waltz.
‘My lucky night,’ Harry murmured.
He