Then another thought impinged. He was pretending to be her escort—supposedly there to protect her, to defend her virtue. Yet when Cecilia had approached him, he’d seized her arm…as if, in reality, she was protecting him.
Her eyes still closed, Antonia grinned.
* * *
In the room four doors down, Sebastian shrugged out of his coat and handed it to Wilkins. A dapper individual, plain of face and self-effacing in manner, Wilkins was a godsend in many ways. Other servants found him far more approachable than they expected a marquess’s man to be—and so they talked, usually more freely than they otherwise would.
“I’ve laid out a clean shirt, my lord. I gather the second gong will be rung at seven, with dinner at eight.”
Sebastian started to undo the links closing his cuffs. “So I heard. See what you can learn about the Anglo-Irish contingent.” He glanced at Wilkins. “Have they all brought manservants?”
“Most.” Wilkins lovingly brushed the dust from Sebastian’s coat. “Mr. Filbury and Mr. Wilson are making do with one of the footmen, and Mr. Connell Boyne is sharing the services of his brother’s man, which is causing something of a strain as, apparently, Lord Ennis is very particular about his dress.”
Sebastian grimaced. “In that case, concentrate on Parrish and McGibbin, and you may as well see what you can learn about Mr. Worthington, as well.”
“Indeed, my lord. I will endeavor.”
As he stripped off his shirt and reached for the fresh one Wilkins had laid on the bed, Sebastian found his mind wandering, not to the Anglo-Irish, not to what he might, if he put his mind to it, learn from Cecilia Boyne, but to the tantalizing conundrum of the lady in the room four doors up the wing.
* * *
Sebastian walked into the drawing room at ten minutes past four o’clock. He was pleased to note that all the other guests were already there, most standing or sitting in groups, holding cups of tea and sipping while they chatted.
His gaze came to rest on Antonia’s dark head. She was standing before the windows with Miss Wainwright and Miss Boyne. He accepted a cup and saucer from a little maid who popped up beside him and, before anyone could accost him, strolled across the room to Antonia’s side.
A cool glance as he halted beside her was all the reaction she evinced.
He sipped and pretended to listen to Miss Boyne’s assertion that there was little by way of society around about while he planned his next move.
When Miss Bilhurst joined them, distracting Miss Wainwright and Miss Boyne, he leaned closer to Antonia, dipped his head, and whispered, “I need to talk with Ennis’s friends—the Parrishes and McGibbins. Can you…?” With one hand, he gestured.
She turned her head and met his eyes. “Can I ease your way?”
He nearly got trapped in the silvery gray of her eyes, but managed to nod.
She considered him for a second, then reached out and placed her hand on his sleeve.
This time, he’d anticipated the move and managed to—largely—suppress his instinctive reaction.
She gripped lightly and nudged, steering him back. Over her shoulder, she told the other three ladies, “We’ll catch up with you later.”
Facing forward, she settled her hand on his arm. With an imperious look, she summoned a hovering footman to relieve her of her empty cup.
Sebastian handed over his as well. Before they moved on—they were in the center of the room and out of earshot of the others—he asked, “Has Ennis put in an appearance yet?”
“No. Apparently, he’s still closeted in his study.”
He frowned. “I wonder if he’s hiding?”
“Cecilia assured us he would join us for dinner.” After a moment, Antonia asked, “Why do you want to talk to the Parrishes and McGibbins?”
“Drake realized there would be Anglo-Irish gentlemen here, but I don’t think he realized that fully half the guests—the majority of the men—would hail from Ireland.”
Antonia met his gaze. “Ennis is Anglo-Irish, and the Anglo-Irish always stick together.”
“You know that, I know that, and I’m sure Drake knows that, too, but I don’t think it occurred to him that so many Anglo-Irish would be here.”
“You mean that some of those here—attending the house party—might be connected with whatever urgent message Ennis wants to convey to Drake?”
“Exactly. And as Ennis appears to be avoiding his guests…”
After a second, she asked, “Does Drake have any idea what Ennis’s message is about?”
“No. He had no clue at all.”
“So the message might not, in fact, have anything to do with Ireland or the Irish.”