obvious she did not agree with whatever point he had made, and while her disagreement was annoying it was also rather amusing and it was all he could do to ignore the desire to continue the debate with her alone after his companions had gone. But who knew where that might lead? He suspected a talk of an intellectual nature would never suffice.
Aside from the fact that his plans did not include a female, there was the very practical matter of their respective stations in life. Regardless of his family’s impressive wealth, his was a family of merchants and she was the offspring of a viscount. His father and two older brothers ran the small empire his grandfather had built. A union between a daughter of society and a man of ambition would be awkward at best. Michael was a man of principle but he was not blind. He was well aware that position and favor in the Explorers Club was based as much on social standing as abilities. He did not want any attention he might direct toward Dulcie to be construed as trying to curry favor with her father.
The door to the library opened and Preston Drummond strode into the room. Michael’s jaw clenched.
“Shepard.” Drummond nodded as he passed Michael on his way to Dulcie’s table.
Beyond everything else, Dulcie was apparently about to be married. To an idiot no less. Perhaps she was not as intelligent as he thought. Preston Drummond was universally considered an ass and a pretender. It was widely suspected that Drummond’s desire lay more toward the ultimate directorship of the organization rather than any exploration of his own. There was serious money currently in a pool as to whether or not he would ever actually venture beyond the safety of London for the deserts of Asia Minor or anywhere else for that matter. Drummond was one of those men who liked the idea of adventure, if only it wasn’t quite so inconvenient and dangerous. Unfortunately, his father too was a patron of the Explorers Club.
According to rumor, put out by Drummond no doubt, he was looked favorably upon by Viscount Middleworth and was about to ask for Dulcie’s hand in marriage. Drummond had no particular qualms about currying favor with her father. Michael was not one to put credence in unsubstantiated gossip, but on several occasions Drummond had appeared in the library to chat with her or escort her home, apparently at the request of her parents. Which did seem to indicate some sort of understanding between them. Although how any parents could allow a young woman to accompany a man without an appropriate chaperone was beyond him.
“Good day, Dulcie,” Drummond said with his usual smirk. “Might I say how lovely you’re looking today.”
“How very kind of you to say.” Even from across the room Dulcie’s smile seemed no more than polite. “I’m not quite finished yet, so if you don’t mind I would like to get back to it. Was there something you needed?”
Their conversation was low but, in the cavernous room where sound carried surprisingly well, impossible to ignore completely.
“I’ve been invited to join your family for dinner.” Drummond’s smirk widened with satisfaction. “Your mother suggested I stop here and offer you a ride to your house.”
Dulcie sat back in her chair, her smile a shade less polite than before. “Again?”
“She likes me,” Drummond said in an immodest manner.
And why not? A mother eager for a good match for a daughter somewhat past her prime marriageable years would no doubt see Drummond as a prize. The man was of good family and sound fortune. Even if he was a prig.
“Your offer is most gracious, and I do thank you, but as I said my work is not quite done. I would very much like to complete this before I leave for the day. Besides, my carriage is expected in an hour or so. Please be so good as to tell my mother I shall return home then.” She nodded and returned her attention to the paper in front of her.
“Don’t be absurd, Dulcie,” Drummond said firmly. “Surely that nonsense can wait until tomorrow.”
“Nonsense?” Her brow rose.
Michael almost felt sorry for the man. Certainly Dulcie’s employment was unusual, but female artists and illustrators were not unheard of, although it was his understanding that their work was typically more in the fields of botany and horticulture rather than ancient artifacts.
“Perhaps nonsense was the wrong word and this a conversation for another time,” Drummond said smoothly.
Michael stifled a disdainful snort.
“I should hate to arrive without you.” Drummond chuckled. “And your mother would be most annoyed.”
“Yes, I suppose she would.” Dulcie sighed.
“Besides, there is a matter I wish to discuss with you.”
“Oh?” She considered him for a moment then nodded. “Very well.” She stood and gathered her things, putting them on a shelf on the wall behind her. She turned and her gaze caught Michael’s. He immediately shifted his attention back to his notebook.
“Good Day, Mr. Shepard,” she murmured as she passed him on her way to the door. What might well have been a note of resignation sounded in her voice.
“Miss Middleworth.” Michael glanced at her and, without thinking, cast her an encouraging smile.
Her eyes widened in surprise. Admittedly, he rarely offered her anything more than a polite, disinterested sort of smile—part of his ongoing effort to avoid entanglement as well as the odd way his heart thudded when her smile lit her blue eyes. She returned a grateful smile and continued on, Drummond a scant step behind. She certainly didn’t look like a woman about to tie herself to a man for the rest of her life. Perhaps she was already aware of what an utter fool Drummond was. If not, someone should say something to her before she committed herself to the pretentious ass for the rest of her days.
Not that it mattered. Who she married or whether she married at all was none of Michael’s concern. Their fates were not even remotely connected. His was to seek knowledge and adventure in the unknown and follow in the footsteps of his uncle Henry. Hers was to marry well and be a credit to her family.
“Do you ride, Mr. Shepard?”
Michael jerked his attention to the unexpected female voice. “Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore.” He stood at once. “I beg your pardon. I didn’t realize you were here today.”
“I’ve been here for hours, Mr. Shepard. You were entirely too absorbed in your work to notice and I do try not to disturb anyone.” She smiled pleasantly. “I was just about to leave myself.”
“It is growing late,” he said cautiously. “Why did you want to know if I rode?”
“Oh, I was just curious.” She studied him for a moment. “You look like the kind of man who rides.”
“Do I?”
“Indeed.” She nodded. “I was just saying to Miss Middleworth what excellent physical exercise it is. Keeps a person fit and in top form, don’t you agree?”
“Yes, I suppose it does.”
“Did you know Miss Middleworth rides in the park every morning? I am thinking of joining her some morning but—” she sighed “—I find when one is past one’s prime, with every passing year simply mounting a horse becomes a more awkward endeavor.”
“Nonsense, Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore,” he said with a smile. “You don’t look anywhere near past your prime.”
“How terribly gallant of you to say, Mr. Shepard. You shall quite turn my head with such compliments.” The older lady dimpled. “Well, I shall leave you to your work. Good day.” She nodded, turned and swept from the room.
Michael retook his seat, the smile still on his face. Mrs. Fitzhew-Wellmore nearly always made a point of stopping for a word or two with him. She reminded him very much of his beloved aunt Grace. The older lady was quite kind, even if she struck him as a bit flighty, and she frequently mentioned Dulcie in passing. She also on occasion chatted about her husband, usually the latest news from his dispatches. Malcolm Fitzhew-Wellmore had