He’d insisted on doing so, and at the time, she’d thought it easier not to argue with him. He’d been in such a foul mood. On the verge of making a scene. Besides, she hadn’t relished the thought of remaining at the ball. Of seeing St. Clare dining with Miss Steele. Dancing with Miss Steele. Not after Maggie had danced with him herself.

But Fred’s anger hadn’t been assuaged by her compliance. Indeed, since she’d climbed into the carriage with him, his sullen mood had grown worse.

“It was the waltz, that’s all,” she said.

He snorted. “Not any waltz I’ve ever seen.”

“How could you have? You’ve never traveled outside of England. Whereas Lord St. Clare—”

“Beresford says he was born on the continent. In Italy, apparently.” Fred’s brow furrowed. “I wonder…”

Maggie didn’t like the look on his face. Not one little bit. Fred wasn’t a great thinker, and his memory was nothing to boast about, but unless she was very much mistaken, some part of him had recognized St. Clare, just as Maggie had recognized him that night in the library at Grosvenor Square.

It was the dancing. The way she and St. Clare had been looking at each other and laughing. Fred was a man who needed things spelled out for him, and tonight on the terrace, Maggie and St. Clare had unwittingly written the truth out in capital letters.

How long before Fred made the connection? He was struggling for it now. Straining his feeble wits to put the pieces together. At the moment, those pieces remained just out of his reach, but soon…

Soon he would realize that St. Clare bore a startling resemblance to Nicholas Seaton.

And then what?

Maggie regarded Fred from across the carriage. There was little she could do to protect St. Clare from Fred’s vindictiveness, save try and nip his laborious process of deduction in the bud. “You’re obsessed with him. That’s what it is.”

Fred’s nostril’s flared. “I am not.”

“You are. It’s excessively tedious. I’d sooner we changed the subject.”

“If I speak of him at all it’s only because you insist upon being in the man’s company. As your guardian—”

“You are not my guardian. Not in the way you presume. And if you won’t oblige me by changing the subject, then pray be quiet. You’re incessant harping is giving me a megrim.”

A muscle twitched in Fred’s cheek. “This isn’t a game. You’re my responsibility, like it or not. What do you suppose a man like that wants from you? I’ll tell you what—”

“Please, spare me the gruesome details of your wild imaginings.”

“He wants to bed you,” Fred blurted out. “To take his pleasure of you and leave you ruined.”