After an exchange of curtsies, and a short dialogue with the older blond lady, Lady Compton turned to the crowd in search of her husband. She easily found him.

“It seems I’m not the only latecomer,” Gabriel said as the three ladies made their way toward them.

Compton followed his gaze. “That is my lady wife,” he said tightly, having no idea Gabriel already knew exactly who she was. “And that is Lady Belwood, wife of Sir Walter Belwood. As for the younger lady…” This time Compton stared. “I’ve not yet had the pleasure.” He stepped forward. “Doubtless her ladyship wishes to provide an introduction.”

Gabriel’s expression hardened. He had as little interest in being introduced to society ladies as he had in meeting aged Northumberland squires. But it was too late to avoid the tiresome obligation. Lady Compton was already bearing down upon them, her two guests in tow.

“My lord!” she said to her husband. “Thank goodness you’ve returned. I trust this means your business in the library is completed for the evening? You’ve already missed the arrival of Lord and Lady Martindale, and the Marquess of Whitby. And here is Lady Belwood, just come. She has brought her protégé, Miss Flite, to grace our party.”

“My apologies, madam.” Lord Compton bowed to the two late arrivals. “Lady Belwood. Miss Flite.” His eyes lingered on the younger lady’s face for a moment before he grudgingly acknowledged the necessity of introducing Gabriel. “Allow me to present Mr. Royce, an acquaintance of mine. We’ve been discussing a charitable endeavor, but all is settled now. I’ve invited him to join us. Mr. Royce? My wife, Lady Compton. And this is our near neighbor, Lady Belwood, and her companion, Miss Flite.”

Masking his growing impatience, Gabriel bowed to the three ladies as civilly as if he were a gentleman himself. “Lady Compton. Lady Belwood. Miss Flite.”

As he straightened, he held Miss Flite’s gaze a fraction longer than was proper. Her eyes were the deepest blue he’d ever seen. More akin to a deep midnight purple in the gaslight.

“Miss Flite has just returned from finishing school in Paris,” Lady Belwood said, with a flutter of her ostrich feather fan. “She’s staying with me in Brook Street for the season.”

“A relation of yours?” Compton asked. “I seem to remember one of your second cousins married an Italian. Or was it a Spaniard?”

Lady Belwood wafted her fan with increased vigor. “Miss Flite is not a blood relation. I was, ah, acquainted with her guardian when I was a girl. I promised, when the time came, I would introduce Miss Flite into society. It is the least I can do for her.”

“I’m amazed I’ve not encountered you before, Miss Flite,” Lady Compton said. “Is this your first visit to London?”