Still, Emma had been wary when she sent the letter to her great-aunt, requesting her chaperonage.
As a young widow, Angelique had gained the reputation of being a bit of a hoyden.
At nearly eighty years old, her eccentricities had grown to a point where she was believed by many to be rather out of touch with reality.
Emma was not in complete disagreement with the assessment, based on her own experience with the lady in the last few weeks. But despite her oddities, Angelique carried significant weight in social circles and certainly qualified, at least, as a figurehead chaperone, as long as Emma took on the more vital responsibilities of the position.
“Darling, what happened to your dance partner?” Angelique asked, the French accent she hadn’t lost despite the many decades she had been in England still prevalent in her speech. She lifted one blue-veined hand and moved her fingers in an extravagant and graceful gesture. “Should you not be twirling about on the floor?”
Emma smiled, as she had the many other times her great-aunt confused her with one of her sisters. One wouldn’t think it would be so difficult to keep them separate. Though the sisters resembled each other to a significant degree, Emma was the only Chadwick with the fair hair of their mother.
“I am not here for dancing, remember?” Emma replied. “This is Lily and Portia’s debut.”
Angelique’s frown caused her thinly drawn eyebrows to curl dramatically. “That is ridiculous, darling. It is a ball. All young ladies dance at a ball, no?”
“No,” Emma replied, “not all young ladies.” At her great-aunt’s look of confusion, she would have explained further, but Angelique’s often flighty attention was claimed by the lady on her other side.
Lady Winterdale, a bullish matron with loose jowls and a sharp, disapproving stare, scoffed. “I cannot believe the daring of that man to present himself at this respectable gathering.” Her expression was antagonistic as she gazed out across the room.
“Of whom are you speaking?” queried Mrs. Landon. The pleasant middle-aged mother of four leaned forward in her chair, trying to catch a glimpse of the gentleman under reference. It was Mrs. Landon’s first year as chaperone to her eldest daughter, and she was desperately soaking up every tidbit of gossip and scandal that came her way.
“Do not be so dramatic,” admonished Lady Greenly, another grande dame from Angelique’s generation. “I am certain he was invited. The man has many friends in many circles, as you well know. Is not your dear Thomas counted as one of his acquaintances?”
“Thomas may have benefitted once or twice from the man’s instinct for investment,” Lady Winterdale clarified, “but they are not social acquaintances and Thomas has certainly never frequented the man’s establishment.”
“You sound rather confident of that,” Lady Greenly intoned slyly.
“Of course,” Lady Winterdale replied with a gruff harrumph as she crossed her arms over her ample bosom. “I keep a watchful eye on all my children, and I can assure you, none of them would ever invite such a scoundrel into their homes.”
“A scoundrel? Ooh, that sounds interesting,” Angelique cooed. She lifted the opera glasses she carried with her everywhere and scanned the ballroom as if she would identify the man by the wicked descriptor alone.
“What scoundrel?” Mrs. Landon asked, practically bouncing in her desire to be brought into the know.
“Mr. Bentley, dear,” Lady Greenly finally replied with a smile. She tipped her silver-haired head toward a group of gentlemen who stood about fifteen paces away. “The young man with dark hair and the rather annoyed expression, talking to Lord Tindall.”
Emma glanced in the direction Lady Greenly indicated. It was her duty to be able to identify any possible threat to her sisters and steer them clear, and she easily located the gentleman under discussion. In truth, his appearance drew her attention the moment she lifted her gaze. He was tall, though not inordinately so, and the stark lines of his black evening wear and charcoal-gray waistcoat suggested a trim, athletic build. His hair was dark brown and fell over his forehead and ears in a style far less refined than what was favored amongst society gentlemen. He had a strong, defined jawline, a straight nose, and harshly curved lips. Dark eyebrows drew low over his gaze.
He looked rakish and dangerous. The collection of his features was only enhanced by an air of careless disregard revealed in his casual posture and the sardonic curl of his mouth.
In the next moment, he happened to turn just a bit more toward Emma’s position along the wall, and that was when she saw it.