An Honest Heart by Kaye Dacus

public.” Edith spread her skirts—yellow flowers and green vines on an orange ground—to take up most of the settee, including covering half of his leg. If she weren’t cautious, the rumor they were intended would be spreading before the house party ended.
    “Dressmaker? My mother is always on the lookout for someone who might do as well for her as the one she sees in London. Who is she?” Oliver crossed his legs, effectively freeing himself from the covering of taffeta.
    “Her name is Bainbridge. She keeps a shop in North Parade. I know—it is difficult to believe I would patronize anyone from that part of town, but she is comparable in her talent to my mantua-maker in London.” Edith swept an open-palmed hand down her torso. “You can see for yourself how well she does.”
    The gown, though of eye-paining fabric, did seem to be well made and stylish in design. But more important, he’d confirmed that Cadence Bainbridge was here at Wakesdown. How long would she be engaged with Edith’s cousin?
    Family quarters were upstairs, in the east wing of the house, if he recalled correctly. And Miss Bainbridge would not exit via the main staircase. He was well acquainted with the servants’ passages and staircases—they made excellent shortcuts from one part of the house to another. And one never knew whom he might run into. There was one maid, a pretty blonde named Artemis or Andromeda or Athena or something equally ridiculous. . . . She’d rebuffed his advances thus far, but no woman had long been able to resist him once he turned his attention toward her.
    If he could slip away, he should have no trouble running into Miss Bainbridge. However, he could not think of a reason to excuse himself from the afternoon-tea gathering, as all guests were expected to stay and socialize until the gong rang to send everyone scurrying to their rooms to change for dinner. He could not even use the excuse several others did of retiring to their rooms early to write letters—Edith knew he’d just visited home two days ago.
    As she prattled on about some nonsense, Oliver scanned the room, taking in the groupings. After more than three weeks surrounded by the same people, the pairs did not surprise him.
    Ah, he finally saw his escape. “I beg your pardon, Miss Buchanan, but I must speak with Doncroft and Radclyffe.” Oliver set his teacup on the low table in front of the settee, bowed, and walked away before Edith could deny him permission to leave.
    “Matters progress apace with the Queen of Ice?” Doncroft asked by way of greeting.
    “Where were you this morning? Miss Buchanan was quite put out that there was not an equal number of men and women in the walking party. Your absence was greatly remarked upon. I told her you were indisposed this morning due to the richness of the food last night.” Oliver glanced longingly at the decanters of spirits on the sideboard, but it would not do to partake without invitation—and in this house, the invitation came only from Sir Anthony and only after dinner.
    Doncroft’s ruddy complexion darkened.
    Radclyffe guffawed, then inclined his head in apology to the young lady who glared over her shoulder at him from the grouping of chairs several feet away. “Donny discovered that the chambermaid who sees to his room is quite . . . friendly with visitors.”
    Doncroft cuffed the taller man’s shoulder. “You make it sound so lurid, Rad. A few kisses stolen in the stairwell, nothing more.”
    “Because you or she wanted nothing more?” Oliver thought about meeting someone in the servants’ stairwell and stealing a few kisses. Someone like Miss Bainbridge would consider herself fortunate to receive the attentions of someone of his status.
    “Because that gargoyle of a housekeeper came upon us.”
    Radclyffe frowned. “I hope you did not cause the young woman to lose her position.”
    “No—I told the housekeeper it was all my doing, that the girl was not to blame. Though . . .” He