“My word,” Mrs. Bathurst murmured. “Who is he?” Eden knew the answer, though she could not have spoken it aloud even if her voice was capable of speech. The Forest Lord had come to London.
The pain was constant, and had grown more intense with every mile Hartley put between himself and Hartsmere. It was not fatal… not yet, in any case.
And he almost forgot it when he saw Eden.
He had prepared himself for the moment he would face her again, look upon her with accusation and contempt, and prove to her by his very presence that he was not so easily defeated. She would tremble with the realization of what he was. Her eyes would betray her guilt, and she would humble herself and admit that she was wrong.
So it had gone in his imagination all during the journey to London. He had not been fully recovered when he left; he had considered the risk worth taking. But he had exhausted his rapidly waning powers in his travel, forced to resort to human methods of transportation.
It was a wonder that he had found Eden so quickly. Such fortune came not from magic but from something he did not dare name. He sensed that Donal was not with her; that was doubtless part of her and Lady Claudia’s scheme to throw him off the scent, should he survive to follow. But Eden would most assuredly know where the boy was.
He looked about at the glittering company. The last time he had ventured so far from his realm had been many centuries ago, and everything had changed.
The one constant was Eden.
She recognized him. The face he wore was his Fane visage, bearing only a distant resemblance to the man he had become at Hartsmere. But she had seen this face in the glade, for all that he had been wearing vastly different garments.
She controlled her shock very well. No one would realize she knew him.
Her gown was finer than any he had seen her wear at Hartsmere. But it enhanced her beauty no more than a candle flame increases the heat of a raging fire. Her golden hair gleamed like Fane treasure. What emotion she revealed only added color to her cheeks and a sparkle to her eyes. Amid this glittering company, mortals who represented the highest ranks of men, she might have been one of the Fair Folk who had deigned to grace London with her presence for a few magical hours.
He could not take his eyes from her.
Whispers resolved into snatches of conversation, all covering the same subject: Who was this mysterious stranger? No one recognized him, though clearly he was good ton. Yes, there could be no doubt of that. Only look at his clothing, his bearing, his face. But who was he?
Hartley met Eden’s frozen stare across the room and waited for her to act.
She gained a few moments’ respite as a pretty, plump woman approached Hartley. She smiled with an air of bemused uncertainty, smoothing her gown as if she feared that her appearance was not quite up to snuff.
“Good evening,” she said a little breathlessly. “I am Lady Saville.” She cleared her throat. “I am terribly sorry, but I… do not believe we have met.”
Hartley bowed. “It is I who must apologize, Lady Saville,” he said. “I have been most forward in appearing at your doorstep without an invitation. I pray that you will forgive me when you hear my reasons.”
Lady Saville puffed up her feathers. “Oh, you are most welcome to join us, Mr… ?”
“Cornelius Fleming.” He smiled and looked beyond her to Eden. “I am but recently returned from India, and I heard that my cousin was staying with you. I was most eager to see my family after so long an absence.”
Lady Saville turned and followed his gaze. “Oh,” she said. “Oh, my. Lady Eden is your cousin? But of course—Fleming! How wonderful! You are most welcome to join us, and if you will permit me—” She took his arm and led him directly to Eden. “My dear Lady Eden, here is your long-lost cousin from India! Is this not a delightful surprise?”