"Miles, old boy. Henry."
He stiffened his back and molded his face before turning around to face the voice. Ah, yes, Finney. Eton, cricket, won honors in Latin, father old Finney MP, works for Transportation now, wife is Agnes. He nodded a greeting. "Ah, Finney. Good to see you again. How is Agnes?"
"Oh, stunning, stunning, as always, there she is over there with that ponce, Waite." He gestured with his sherry across the room and indicated a willowy blonde and a bespeckled gentleman in spats. "I hear you snagged that Ministry position. Trade, I believe. Well done, well done." Finney rose slightly on the balls of his feet.
Henry noted a twitch in the other man's cheek. Lying. Finney wanted the position. Martin mentioned it at tea.
"Thank you, Finney." Think of something conciliatory. "Agnes is looking lovely tonight. What a fantastic gown." Henry sipped his sherry as though he had offered Finney a toast. Finney flushed lightly, cleared his throat. Got him.
"Yes, yes." Finney glanced at his wife. "She was excited to come here and meet my colleagues. Has a brother in the corps, cousin is MP. Jolly good. Very good." He coughed, lowered his eyes.
Henry took another sip of sherry, decided not to drive the knife home. Too easy. Too cruel. Didn't know it was that bad. "Excellent." Time to move on. "Give her my regards, Finney." He nodded and turned away. Not going anywhere. Career bolstered by attractive wife, relations. The data was stored away for future reference. It would be there forever, ready when Henry needed it again at the next reception. He glanced at Agnes one more time before striding out of Finney's range. He planned to memorize her features and store that away as well. It may be years before he saw her again and he would make no mistakes. Never make a mistake. Now she was smiling at a tall redhead in a green gown.
Henry, now safely out of Finney's wake, stood near the tall window, his form hidden behind a showy philodendron. He glanced at his sherry. Half empty already. No more sips or the servants will be pestering me to take another glass. He scanned the crowded ballroom for interfering servants. Safe. Another glance at Agnes. She had moved on to speak with a sly smile to Lord Burlington. The redhead was now watching…him.
Henry took a step backwards against the wall, putting the foliage solidly between them. He frowned slightly as he tried to place her face. Why is she looking at me? No, they had never been introduced. She looked only slightly familiar. I have seen her before, perhaps at another gala event. Whose wife is she? He hazarded another glance. Yes, she is still looking this way. Why? He looked to her left and her right. Small groups of gossipers flanked her, but she was not engaged. He frowned again, searching his memory. Yes. Lord Emory's daughter. I saw her at the lawn party three years ago. She was in school then. Giggling with some girls over croquet. Green dress then, too. He smiled his victory. Got her. Now. Who did Emory choose as his son-in-law?
He stepped away from the wall and took an imaginary sip as a servant glided by with a tray of glasses. The redhead was talking to old Benson, now. Still, there was no man in the room who was glancing her way every few seconds. No man working his way toward her. Henry sniffed and bowed as Sir Maplewood and his wife passed by. She is talking to Taylor now. Her glass is still full. Champagne. He filed that away too. Self indulgent, but not greedy. He looked about for Lord Emory. Yes, there. And Lady Emory as well. They are the ones checking up on her. Well, then. Unmarried. He straightened his tie, set down his sherry on a convenient table. With another quick look at Lord Emory, he made his way across the room, nodding and smiling.