Never Vie for a Viscount

by Regina Scott

  “I begin to see why balloon flight remains a curiosity,” Lydia said, laying down a volume of Philosophical Transactions and rubbing her temples, which were beginning to throb.

  Worth lowered his volume from the German Academy of Sciences as well, grey eyes focused on the day outside, which had turned rainy. “There must be an answer. I refuse to believe long-distance flight impossible.”

  “Perhaps we should consult the other members of the Royal Society,” Lydia said. “John Curtis has done outstanding work in determining the various elements that might compose gasses.”

  Worth snapped the book shut. “No. Out of the question.”

  His shoulders had tensed, his head was high, and the view of the rain no longer seemed to provide any source of calm.

  “Do you have something against Mr. Curtis?” Lydia asked.

  Charlotte, who had been finishing one of her sketches, stilled her quill to look at her brother expectantly.

  “I have only the highest regard for those who excel at their work,” Worth assured them both. “But I prefer to keep my theories private until they have been proven to my satisfaction.”

  Charlotte sighed, tipping her quill into its brass stand. “You realize you are an aberration, Worth. Most natural philosophers consult with others when possible. Why, researchers from different countries have corresponded for years to share their work and learn.”

  “Science advances on itself,” Lydia agreed, “one person building on the foundation of another.” She waved at the books scattered across the table before them. “Why else are we searching for precedent?”

  Worth shelved the book. “Perhaps I prefer to set the precedent rather than follow it.” He turned to his sister. “Forgive me, Charlotte, for taking up so much of your time. I should be working on my own task, not intruding on yours. And I know you hoped to prepare for the ball this evening.”

  Charlotte consulted the silver-cased watch pinned to her day dress. “It’s only half past four. Perhaps another hour?”

  “I would not dream of being so selfish.” He bowed to his sister and Lydia. “I will have the carriage brought round at a quarter to eight. Until then.” He strode out of the door before either could comment.

  “Well,” Charlotte said. “I certainly don’t require so much time to prepare for a ball. Do you, Lydia?”

  Lydia smiled, glad to hear Charlotte call her by her first name again. “I’ve prepared for a ball in less than a quarter hour when Beau managed a late invitation.” She leaned forward. “Where else shall we look for our answers?”

  Charlotte regarded her notes with a frown. “I wish I knew. Natural philosophy appears to have failed us.”

  Lydia studied the books remaining on the upper parts of Charlotte’s shelves. She could not agree with Worth that past inquiries were meaningless. If nothing else, they could illustrate what not to try. Most of Charlotte’s books were scientific in nature—pontifications on nature, chemistry, physics. But she spotted a few historical tomes among the leather-bound volumes, as well as more than one recent novel.

  “If natural philosophy has failed us,” Lydia said, turning her gaze to Charlotte’s, “perhaps history will save us. How did the Romans keep fire burning?”

  Charlotte stuck out her lower lip. “Or the Greeks. I seem to recall something about an eternal flame. Polybius’s history, perhaps?”

  She located the thick books and took the first two volumes while Lydia began wading through the third. She wasn’t sure how long she’d read about various conquests and conquerors before she heard a loud harrumph. She looked up to find Bateman framed in the doorway, shoulders of his sturdy brown coat nearly touching each side.

  “A woman is here claiming she’s supposed to help you change,” he declared, voice and look heavy with suspicion.

  Lydia set aside the book. “That would be Enid, Miss Thorn’s maid. I thought we might need help.”

  Once more Charlotte consulted her watch. “Half past six? Where did the time go? Let her in, Beast, and send her to my bedchamber. Ask the other ladies to meet us there.”

  With a nod, he left.

  As Charlotte came around the table, Lydia tipped her head in the direction the manservant had gone. “Your brother calls him Bateman, but you call him Beast. Surely that’s not his first name.”

  A dusky rose bloomed in Charlotte’s cheeks as they headed for the door. “Certainly not. I understand Beast is the name he was given when he was a pugilist. The Beast of Birmingham.”

  Lydia’s brows rose. “Bateman was a boxer?”

  As they started down the corridor, Charlotte glanced at her as if surprised she would question the matter. “Yes, a rather good one, recommended to us by Gentleman Jackson himself.”

  Lydia knew the name. Few among the ton didn’t. Most of the gentlemen subscribed to his school on Bond Street, taking lessons from him twice or three times a week. A fellow did not count himself among the sporting class until he had sparred with the Gentleman.

  “How did he come to work for your brother?” Lydia asked as they made for the stairs.

  “Worth was looking for a bodyguard,” Charlotte said.

  Lydia frowned. “A bodyguard? Was his life in danger?”

  “Perhaps.” Charlotte stopped at the foot of the stairs and put a hand on Lydia’s arm. “Please, say nothing to him or the others about the matter, Lydia. Last year, shortly after you and my brother stopped keeping company, we received several notes with vague threats. The sender seemed to think Worth could be induced to stop his inquiries. The notes only served to spur him on. But, to make sure he and I were safe, he hired a bodyguard. I understand Beast became bored with the fighting square. Worth may be tiresome at times, but he is rarely boring.”

  Now, that she had no need of research to confirm. Just when she thought she understood him, Worth did something inexplicable. Setting precedence indeed. Why spend hours poring over the annals of the Royal Society, then?

  “I won’t say a word about the matter,” she promised Charlotte. But she didn’t promise not to talk further with Worth about this issue of precedence.

  Unfortunately, she had no time to question him for a while. They climbed to the chamber story and followed the wood-paneled corridor to Charlotte’s room. Now, this was a bedchamber Lydia could appreciate. A shame Beau had never been able to manage one in the many houses he had rented over the years. Folds of blue satin fell from a gold half-crown near the ceiling to drape around the polished wood headboard of the bed. Similar draperies, held back by gold-tasseled ribbons, embraced the multipaned window overlooking the park. Even the Pier glass mirror was framed in ornamented gold. It was as if she’d wandered into a palace in the sky.

  “How lovely,” Lydia said with a sigh she hoped wasn’t too envious.

  Charlotte smiled as she went to the walnut wardrobe along one soft-blue wall. “I like it. Excuse me while I ring for my maid Tess. Between her and Enid, we should be in good hands.”

  Miss Pankhurst and Miss Janssen did not appear nearly so certain when they joined Lydia and Charlotte a short time later. They milled about just inside the doorway, like pigeons expected to be startled into flight. Tess, a sturdy blonde old enough to be Charlotte’s mother, glanced from one woman to the other as if trying to decide whether to shoo them from the room or put them to work.

  Enid, however, was a godsend. Short and curvaceous, with bright blue eyes and capable hands, the dark-haired maid bustled into the room, Lydia’s gown draped over one arm and a satchel on the other. Like her mistress, she was efficient and practical, and soon had one lady changing while Tess brushed out the hair of another at the dressing table and a third tried on jewelry before the long mirror.

  Charlotte was ready within a half hour, dressed in the grey she favored, this time of a matte satin with a silver embroidered net overskirt that shimmered in the light. Miss Janssen was ready a short while later, turning in front of the long mirror as if surprised how well she looked in celestial blue with a white satin
ribbon tied under her ample chest.

  Miss Pankhurst, however, could not seem to settle. She asked Lydia’s opinion on everything from how to curl her brown hair to whether to take up the hem on her rose-colored gown. And then, she disagreed with everything Lydia suggested!

  It was considerably after eight when the four of them made their way downstairs. Worth was pacing about the entry hall, lean form swathed splendidly in black from his velvet-lapeled tailcoat to his satin breeches and leather evening pumps. He stopped and stared at them, and Lydia readied herself for a scold. If dinner must not delay his work, taking time to dress for a ball must be sheer rebellion.

  “Forgive us for being tardy, my lord,” Miss Pankhurst sang out before he could speak. “It takes a great amount of time for some of us to make up our minds.” She looked pointedly at Lydia and giggled. Miss Janssen gave a half laugh as if she felt she must but wasn’t sure of the joke.

  Lydia understood, feeling cold all over. It was one thing to constantly berate her work. She had to earn her place on the team and was prepared to do so. This was something more, something she had thought she’d left behind when she’d eschewed the crowded Mayfair ballrooms for the excitement of natural philosophy.

  Jealousy.

  Miss Pankhurst was intent on vying with her for Worth’s attentions. She was clever about it, Lydia would give her that. The comment was true. The lady had been unable to make up her mind. But she’d made it seem as if it were Lydia who had delayed them. She meant to diminish Lydia in Worth’s eyes.

  How very sad. Lydia could have told the woman she was wasting her time. Worth no longer admired Lydia in that manner. He saw her only as a way to spur his efforts, and she was fairly certain he felt the same way about Miss Pankhurst and Miss Janssen. On such occasions, she had learned, there was only one recourse: smile and get on with more important things.

  She aimed a carefree smile in his direction and caught her breath.

  He was gazing at her as if she was the fuel to his fire, the perfect stitch on his silk envelope, as if she held every answer to every research question he might want to pose.

  Could he still admire her after all?

  ~~~

  Worth was vaguely aware of the others descending the stair, but his gaze had latched onto Lydia and refused to let go. Dressed in white silk with lush peaches and dusky green leaves embroidered along the dip of her neckline and the hem of her graceful skirts, she was summer personified. He wanted to rush to her side, whisper praise in her shell-shaped ear, hear her promise she would be his forevermore. Why did these feelings persist? They were as demanding as a new hypothesis, yet he didn’t dare test them. Why did she still have the power to captivate him, even when he knew what lay beneath the fair façade?

  A quick mind.

  A warm heart.

  A woman capable of breaking his.

  He shoved those thoughts aside as Bateman came out from behind the stairs, arms loaded with cloaks.

  “Take what’s yours,” he ordered straightening out both arms.

  Miss Pankhurst and Miss Janssen glanced at each other, clearly perplexed.

  Charlotte stepped forward. “Allow me. Worth, this long one must be yours.”

  He took the crimson-lined black velvet cloak from her and slung it about his shoulders as she doled out smaller, simpler versions that must belong to Miss Janssen and Miss Pankhurst.

  “Two left,” she declared. “Worth, if you’ll help Miss Villers, I’m sure Beast can assist me.”

  Worth accepted the spring green wool lined with lavender satin and held it up. Lydia turned dutifully, and he draped it about her shoulders. His knuckles brushed her neck. Even though he wore his evening gloves, he was certain her skin was warm. How soft it had once felt to his touch.

  As if she remembered the days when he’d held her close, she pulled the cloak more tightly about her and stepped out of reach. But both she and Charlotte were blushing as they left the house for the coach.

  In the cramped space, his awareness of Lydia only grew. Built to seat four comfortably, the padded leather seats of the carriage made five a pinch. Charlotte maneuvered it so that Worth sat between her and Lydia, his thigh pressed against Lydia’s, while Miss Janssen and Miss Pankhurst sat across from them. In the light from the carriage lamps outside, both the ladies seemed to be watching his every move.

  What did they think? That he would turn, take Lydia in his arms, and profess his undying devotion?

  Ridiculous idea. He couldn’t even shift without bumping into her or Charlotte.

  “You will remember me to Lord Stanhope, Miss Villers,” Miss Janssen said as the coach rolled through Mayfair for the Baminger ball. “Miss Worthington read his recent paper on the development of lenses to us. Inspiring.”

  “Of course,” Lydia promised. “And I’d be happy to introduce you as well, Miss Pankhurst.”

  Miss Pankhurst sniffed. “No need. I came tonight only as a favor to dear Miss Worthington. You don’t find me posturing to catch a gentleman’s eye.”

  Miss Janssen dropped her gaze and rubbed her fingers against each other in her lap as if she would have preferred to be back at her weaving. He could not easily turn his head to see how Lydia reacted to the statement. Once her entire world had been about posturing to catch a gentleman’s eye. Her brother had introduced her to Worth and most of his friends, including Carrolton and Sir Harry.

  “Pity,” Lydia said cheerfully to Miss Pankhurst. “I imagine more than one will be looking your way.”

  Miss Pankhurst blinked. Very likely she was unaccustomed to hearing herself praised after spending years, Charlotte had told him, as her family’s poor relation, shuttled from one relative’s home to another. Then her brows drew down as if she suspected she’d just been insulted. He could have told her Lydia ever used flattery, never irony, to win her conquests.

  Charlotte evidently did not take Lydia’s statement amiss.

  “You will have to be on your guard tonight, Worth,” she said. “Or you just might lose an assistant.”

  Despite the warmth of the tight-packed coach, Lydia shivered beside him. It was all he could do to keep from putting his arm about her and anchoring her to his side. He knew it wasn’t just for warmth. Of the members of his team, her loss once more would cut the deepest, despite all his attempts to reason otherwise. But he could not bring himself to vie for her again.

  Which meant any gentleman was free to approach Lydia and offer himself instead. It was her right to marry, to be happy. Surely he could be happy for her.

  He had a feeling Lady Baminger’s ball was going to be the longest of his life.

  Chapter Eight

  It was a tremendous crush. Lady Baminger’s ball always was, even if her guest list was far more varied than that of most hostesses. The cavernous space of the rented hall boasted high ceilings painted with scenes from Olympus, marble pillars crowned with gold, and velvet couches along the plastered walls. London’s finest rubbed elbows with those of the creative class. The lady was involved in any number of charitable pursuits and had been known to sponsor scientific, artistic, musical, and literary endeavors. Those she had funded came from gratitude. Those of her own class came from curiosity. Others came hoping to benefit from her largess.

  Lydia’s brother Beau usually belonged to the last group.

  He must have been watching for Lydia, for he showed up at her side the moment she and the other ladies finished the receiving line at one end of the ballroom, leaving Worth to greet their hostess and her husband. Even with Beau’s sleek black hair and aquiline nose, her brother did not pull off the black eveningwear nearly as well as Worth did, a flickering candle to Worth’s bright flame.

  “I see Lady Baminger continues to favor the young and beautiful,” he said, gaze sweeping over her companions as he sketched a bow.

  Charlotte eyed him, brows raised. Miss Janssen blushed.

  Miss Pankhurst tsked. “You will not turn our heads with such flattery, sir,” she declared. “We r
ecognize a wolf in sheep’s clothing when we see one.”

  Either she knew of Lydia’s brother or had correctly determined his scheme. Beau put a hand over his paisley waistcoat, about where his heart would be. “Madam, you wound me.”

  “Come now, Mr. Villers,” Charlotte said. “You must admit you have a certain reputation.”

  Beau’s mouth dipped down, as if the fact saddened him. “Surely you’ve heard I’ve reformed.”

  “Have you?” Miss Janssen looked positively disappointed.

  “My brother is engaged to be married,” Lydia explained. “To Lady Lilith.”

  “Sister to the Earl of Carrolton,” he confirmed, chin up as he preened.

  “And when is the happy day?” Charlotte asked. “I don’t recall seeing an invitation.”

  “Some difficulty with the printer, I understand,” he said with a wave of his gloved hand. “I expect them shortly. Lady Lilith is at Carrolton Park at the moment. Miss Worthington, might I persuade you to take the floor with me in my beloved’s absence?”

  Though Charlotte and Lady Lilith were friends, Worth’s sister snapped open her ivory fan. “Perhaps another time, Mr. Villers.” She looked to Miss Janssen, who stepped forward eagerly.

  “I will have to make do with my sister, then,” Beau said, ignoring the other woman and offering Lydia his arm.

  Lydia rapped it with her finger. “I’m not wasting a dance on my own brother. Besides, the musicians haven’t even stationed themselves in the alcove above the supper room yet. I can take my time determining my first partner. Come along, Miss Janssen. Let’s find better sport.”

  Miss Pankhurst giggled, at Beau’s expense or Lydia’s, Lydia wasn’t sure. But Miss Janssen scurried to accompany her, and they set off around the edge of the floor, leaving Charlotte, Miss Pankhurst, and Beau behind.

  “I heard your brother is a great scoundrel,” her companion said.

  “My brother is a mediocre scoundrel at best,” Lydia told her. “But I do believe associating with Lady Lilith has made him a better person.”