*Good God.*
Ryan had faced situations that required rather more of him than this one—had been behind enemy lines, had sat across from men who intended to kill him, had endured war councils that lasted until dawn with the specific intention of dismantling everything he'd built. And yet he could not recall a recent occasion on which he had felt quite so comprehensively like prey.
"I'm Cynthia Pembleton. It's a great honor to meet Blissbury's new manager."
The young woman offered him a shy, practiced smile and a slight bow.
Lady Greenwood smoothly continued.
"The Pembleton family is among the oldest lineages in Cambon. West of the town, they hold vast forests and estates that have passed through the family for generations..."
Ryan smiled. There was nothing else to do.
He stole a glance at the remaining women seated around the room.
Six more, waiting their turn.
*At this rate, the introductions alone will take three hours.*
By his estimate, each presentation ran to approximately thirty minutes—which was, if anything, conservative. Formal introductions of this kind had a natural tendency to expand, filling whatever time was available and then requesting a little more.
The Pembleton family history continued at a stately pace: the size of their holdings, the distinguished ancestors, the military service, the parliamentary seats. Ryan nodded at intervals and kept his expression pleasant and his thoughts entirely elsewhere.
His gaze drifted to the glass jar still sitting on the table.
He thought of Eloise's face when Mr. Wilson had placed it in front of her—that particular expression he hadn't seen before, wide-eyed and genuinely startled, as though she'd been caught in the middle of wanting something and wasn't sure how to account for it.
He'd been deliberate about attributing the gift to Mrs. Severton.
If he'd given it to her directly, the sequence of events would have been entirely predictable: the narrowed eyes, the assessing look, the careful inquiry into what exactly he thought he was doing. The suspicion, reliable as weather.
*That would have been fun too, actually.*
She always looked at him like that whenever he gave her anything at Blissbury—that expression that said quite clearly she hadn't decided yet whether to be grateful or wary, and wasn't going to commit to either until she'd had more information.
And she always accepted the gifts anyway.
Ryan reached out and quietly drew the jar closer to him.
*I hope this performance ends soon.*
---
It ended after three hours. He had expected three. He was not surprised, only tired in a specific and novel way.
"We look forward to seeing you at Blissbury," Lady Greenwood said, with a warmth she distributed equally and expertly.
The young women followed her out with expressions of collective, dignified regret—their posture as they filed through the doorway conveying, with admirable subtlety, that they considered the afternoon unfinished.
The room settled into silence.
Ryan took a long, slow breath.
He had been more on edge in that sitting room than he had been in certain operational situations behind enemy lines—which said something he wasn't sure he wanted to examine too closely. Enemy soldiers were simply trying to kill him. These women had been studying him with the thorough, systematic attention of people who were making a serious assessment.
He didn't take offense at it. Marriage was, for most people in Albion, the most significant decision a family would make in a generation. Their interest was entirely reasonable.
The problem was simply that he had no corresponding interest, and experience had taught him that saying so directly was the least efficient approach available. In the capital, he'd tried it once—stated plainly that he was not considering marriage—and had immediately received a response roughly four times longer than the introduction itself, consisting primarily of concern, counsel, and the strong implication that he needed to reconsider. He had never made that mistake again. The performance, however tedious, was considerably faster.
Mr. Wilson appeared in the doorway, assessing the newly vacated room with a merchant's satisfied eye.
"You're very well-regarded, Sergeant. The girls of Cambon may seem forward to you, but please understand—a sergeant with connections to the capital's aristocracy is something quite extraordinary to them. A prince from another world, more or less."
"I'm deeply honored by the comparison." Ryan stood and picked up the paper bag. "Could I trouble you for a basket? Something to carry this in."
"Of course." Mr. Wilson took the jar, stepped out, and returned shortly with it wrapped in a neat paper parcel. He set it down with evident pride. "I was recently in the capital—the department stores there have started packaging goods this way. I thought it was time Cambon followed suit."
Ryan looked at the paper bag. Then at Mr. Wilson's expression.
*Within a year or two, possibly by the end of next year, this shop will have entirely displaced Mr. Keynes's.*
He thanked him, picked up the parcel, and went outside.
---
The air hit him like something he hadn't known he'd been missing.
After hours in a crowded sitting room, even the noise of the street—carts rattling past, merchants calling out the last prices of the day, children weaving between adults with armfuls of cut flowers—felt almost peaceful by comparison.
He looked around briefly, then headed toward where they'd left the cart. Eloise would have finished her errands by now.
He'd taken only a few steps when he stopped.
The sensation was immediate and specific: eyes on him, from behind and to the left.
He turned.
Carts. A produce seller packing up for the evening. A group of children negotiating over flower money. Nothing that warranted a second look.
He turned back and walked on.
---
Behind a cart parked in the shadow of a building some distance away, Philip and Richard held very still and did not breathe.
"He has the instincts of a hunting dog," Richard muttered, when Ryan had been gone long enough that it seemed safe to move again. He wiped his palm on his jacket. They had been standing well back, keeping carefully still, and Ryan had looked *directly at them.* Or at where they were. Which amounted to the same thing.
If Richard hadn't known to move the instant Ryan's shoulders went tense—hadn't dropped behind the cart before Ryan completed the turn—it would have been over.
They waited considerably longer before stepping out from behind the cart. Even then, they avoided the main street. Knowing Ryan, they could not rule out that he was standing around the nearest corner, waiting with some patience to see who emerged.
---
Back at the hotel, Richard dropped onto the bed as though his bones had dissolved. Philip sat in the chair by the window and looked like a man who had recently reconsidered several decisions.
"Shouldn't we simply go to Blissbury tomorrow?" Philip said.
Richard sat upright. "You're the one who wanted to know who Ryan was looking at with that expression."
"I did. But we never found out."
A crowd had poured into the sitting room just as they'd positioned themselves for a better view, and then everyone had left together—and only Ryan had come out of the shop. Whoever he'd been talking to had slipped away earlier, through the busy shop floor, and they'd missed them entirely.
Philip sighed.
"If we just arrive at Blissbury, he'll know immediately. He'll look at us and say: *so you were the ones following me.*"
"He might." Richard stared at the ceiling. "But if we simply show up, he'll serve us tea and point us back toward the road. Which means we need a reason to stay. Something he can't easily argue with."
He turned it over for a while. Then he sat up.
The women's voices as they'd filed past came back to him. *The banquet... the summer ball... Blissbury...*
Richard snapped his fingers.
"There it is."
Philip regarded him with immediate, well-founded suspicion.
"What are you planning?"
"I'm solving the problem you raised. We need a reason to be at Blissbury that Ryan can't refuse without causing a scene—and we need to arrive on a day when he has no choice but to receive us properly." Richard smiled with the calm confidence of someone whose plans had, historically, worked out about half the time. "We need to come on a day when he can no longer afford to be heartless."