It had been a small sacrifice to appease his grandfather, but a sacrifice nonetheless. Every minute spent with Miss Steele was one St. Clare might have spent with Maggie. And now, to know that Maggie had misunderstood him. That he might have hurt her in some way.

It wasn’t what he’d intended. Not by any stretch of the imagination.

More and more he was beginning to feel like one of those hapless street performers he’d seen in Venice as a lad. A juggler with too many balls in the air. It took all of one’s focus to keep the balls from dropping. A single fumble could mean catastrophe.

“I congratulate you, Cousin,” Lionel went on. “Miss Steele is a great beauty. The prize of the season, I understand, and that set on marrying a title. It would be too bad if she were disappointed in that regard.”

Too bad, indeed.

St. Clare’s mouth curled into a humorless smile as he crossed to the terrace doors. His shoulder narrowly clipped Lionel’s as he passed. “Do your worst.”

Inside the ballroom, the servants who had been eavesdropping scattered in his wake. St. Clare paid them no mind. He’d said nothing that couldn’t be repeated.

No. It was Lionel who had provided the gossip. An outright accusation that St. Clare wasn’t who he said he was. It was only a matter of time before that accusation made the scandal sheets. An unambiguous charge made from one member of the Beresford family against another.

His grandfather would want to know.

St. Clare didn’t look forward to the conversation. Not tonight. He had other things on his mind. Maggie and Frederick Burton-Smythe for one. He nevertheless descended the stairs leading down to the dining room. At the foot of them, he found George and Jane Trumble, their heads bent together, deep in whispered conversation.

Miss Trumble straightened at the sight of him. “Lord St. Clare. Good evening.”

Her brother inclined his head in a stiff greeting. “St. Clare.”

St. Clare looked between the two of them. A frisson of uneasiness went through him. “Is something amiss?”

“Not at all,” George replied.

“It’s Miss Honeywell,” Miss Trumble said at the same time.

St. Clare’s pulse leapt with something like alarm. He took a step forward. “What about Miss Honeywell?”

“Jane,” George whispered a warning.

“It’s all right,” Miss Trumble whispered back to him. “He’s Margaret’s friend.” She looked up at St. Clare. “Mr. Burton-Smythe insisted on taking her back to Green Street in his carriage.”

St. Clare’s alarm grew exponentially. “Alone?”

“No, no,” Miss Trumble answered quickly. “Nothing like that. My Aunt Harriet has gone with them as chaperone.”

The same elderly, enfeebled aunt who had been asleep on every occasion that St. Clare had chanced to meet her? What kind of chaperone was she? No chaperone at all, as far as he was concerned.