The next moment, a footman materialized at the entrance of the salon to announce that dinner was served. Lady Compton fluttered about, making certain the order of precedence was maintained as the guests made their way to the Compton’s expansive, wood-paneled dining room.

A low-hanging chandelier illuminated a long, damask-covered table laid with a lavish display of china, crystal, and plate. Flower arrangements ran down the table’s center—pink roses and ferns spilling over the gold epergnes that held them. Footmen stood on either side in the shimmering candlelight, silently waiting to do their mistress’s bidding.

Gabriel presumed that, given his pedigree, he would be seated miles away from Compton and the other high-ranking lords and ladies. He wasn’t wrong.

“I’ve put you here, Mr. Royce,” Lady Compton said, ushering him to a seat at the bottom of the table. A raven-haired lady in a violet dinner dress was standing near it, her shapely back to them. “Ah! And here is your charming seat partner, Miss Flite.”

Euphemia turned.

Gabriel’s heart thudded hard.

“You have already been introduced, as I recall,” Lady Compton said before floating away to see to her other guests.

Euphemia stood by her chair for a moment, looking at him in silence.

“I told you we’d meet again,” he said.

“Did you know then that you would be here tonight?” she asked.

“I did.” He pulled out her chair for her before the footman could do it.

She sat down. “You might have said.”

“Do you suppose I’m here for you?” he asked, pushing in her chair.

“I wouldn’t be so presumptuous,” she said.

Gabriel sat down beside her. Catching the soft fragrance of her perfume—some maddening decoction of honey and black currants—his heart gave another heavy double thump. Stupid. They were dining together, yes, but not alone somewhere, just the two of them. There were countless other people stretching down the length of the table. Lady Belwood, Lord Haverford, and Compton himself. And yet…

There was a kind of privacy at a party of this size. Amid the overlapping voices and the clink of crystal and cutlery, one could address one’s seat partner as candidly as one chose. Providing they didn’t betray that frankness by their expression, no one would be the wiser.

“Though you did say we’d meet again when you had information for me,” she reminded him. Her voice sank, adding, “About Grace.”

“So I did.” He’d also kissed her hand—an equally inane action. His blood had been up after the incident at Mother Comfort’s, and he’d been battling the influence of a mighty attraction.

Her face lit with guarded expectation. “And do you?”

“No,” he said bluntly. Once out of her company, common sense had prevailed. He’d come to regret both his promise and his reckless tribute to her. Who knew where either might lead?

“But you did make inquiries?” she asked.