by Anna Bradley
Finally, her aunt slowed. As if awakening from a dream, Portia gazed around her, at last aware of the shops and pedestrians once again. “Aunt Phoebe, did that really just happen?”
“Did what happen, my dear?”
“Did I knock over the apples and meet two extremely handsome gentlemen, who asked me to dance with them this evening?” Speaking the words aloud almost convinced her that it had all been a dream. “And did you actually agree to let me go to the dance at the Assembly Rooms?”
“You did, and I did.” Her aunt sighed and shook her head.
“But Father’s decree?”
Aunt Phoebe stopped in front of a shop that sold lady’s accessories. “As I watched the two gentlemen talk to you, I became convinced that to deny you the furtherance of such a connection would be very foolish indeed, no matter what instructions your father gave me. Lord Marksby, who was a friend of my late husband, told me that Lord Daventry is well known to him and a very steady gentleman.” She leaned her head toward Portia. “It seems we are fortunate to have met him, for Lord Marksby tells me Lord Daventry has only just returned to Bath. In any case, I decided that if breaking your father’s edict ends with your marriage to one of these lords, we will both be forgiven.”
“Oh, Aunt!” Despite the busy street, Portia threw her arms around her aunt. “Thank you, thank you.”
“Gracious, Portia.” Aunt Phoebe put her aside and straightened her skirts. “With this change of plans, we need to make certain you are outfitted well for the evening. So let us stop here to see to new gloves, stockings, and handkerchiefs.” Her aunt pushed the door open. “Just please try not to upset any of these displays or we shall never return home in time to dress for the ball.”
CHAPTER 6
The afternoon shadows were beginning to lengthen by the time Portia and Aunt Phoebe returned to the house, laden with parcels and pleasantly tired, yet brimming with excitement about the ball she was to attend in a matter of hours.
“I cannot thank you enough, Aunt, for allowing me to go to the Assembly Rooms this evening.” Portia untied her fashionable blue bonnet and handed it to Sally, the maid.
“You need not thank me again, Portia.” Aunt Phoebe unbuttoned her pelisse and handed it over to the maid as well. “I believe that is the twenty-fifth time you’ve done so.”
“Do not be surprised if I thank you a hundred and twenty-five times.” Whirling around in the entrance hall, the parcels in her hands in danger of flying away, Portia couldn’t help laughing at her good fortune. She would be allowed to dance tonight with two of the most handsome men in Bath—and who knew how many others. How delicious it felt to anticipate her prospects for the evening. And dizzying.
“Portia, a little less enthusiasm, if you please.” Her aunt put out a hand to steady her before she toppled to the floor. “Give your things to Sally and come help me with the greenery. We can get that much done, at least, before dinner.”
“Yes, Aunt Phoebe.” Staggering a little, Portia managed to deposit the packages with the maid then removed her pelisse and gave it over as well. “What shall we do first?”
“There’s a letter come for you in the afternoon post, Miss Willingham.” Sally nodded toward the entry table on which sat a silver salver with a single letter on it.
“Oh.” Portia’s heart beat strangely in her chest at the sight of the folded sheet, the handwriting of the author unmistakable. Drat the man. What did he want with her now? She cut her gaze over to her aunt, who’d moved into the drawing room. Without a doubt, Portia should ignore the missive and go assist her aunt. The trouble was, some imp inside urged her to open it. She stalked deliberately toward the drawing room, determined to ignore the letter that seemed to call to her in a sweet, seductive tone. She stopped on the threshold.
“Is it from your Uncle Denys?” Aunt Phoebe looked up from the fragrant branches she’d been untangling. “Is he coming to visit after all?”
With an internal groan, Portia smiled and gritted her teeth. This was the opening she needed if she wanted to read that letter. “I believe so, Aunt. But I haven’t read it yet. You said you wanted my help.”
“Oh, nonsense.” Her aunt turned her attention back to the greenery. “Go read your letter, my dear. You might wish to reply to him by the evening post. I can carry on by myself for the time being.”
Aunt Phoebe wasn’t making it any easier for her to resist this temptation. Portia bit her lip. Perhaps she should read the letter then set the man down once and for all. “Thank you, Aunt. I shall do my best to be brief.”
“Take your time.” Her aunt returned to sorting the branches and Portia gave up her quest for restraint. She nipped back into the entry hall, snatched the letter from the tray, and hurried up to her bed chamber. With difficulty, she managed to refrain from tearing off the wax seal until she’d shut the door. Dropping down onto the chair before her toilet table, she ripped the seal from the cream-colored paper, unfolded the single sheet, and began to read.
My dear Pence,
How bold to call her so familiarly.
I hope this letter finds you in better spirits than before. I will put the tenor of your previous admonishments down to a temporary disordering of the humors and pray by the time you read this that you’ve been restored to good health.
What an impudent thing to say! Although Portia had to smile at the teasing tone the writer managed to convey.
My primary reason for contacting you yet again is to inform you that I have recently removed to Bath.
Portia gasped and sat up straight, looking wildly around the room as if expecting to see this Devil in the doorway or peeking through the window. Giving herself a shake to dispel such fancies, she settled back down and continued.
Now being in closer proximity and believing that I’ve not put myself forward in the best light on paper, I would make the suggestion that we meet formally at some public place in order to begin our acquaintance anew and under better circumstances. You may, of course, bring any chaperone you deem appropriate.
Please write me soonest at the address supplied, giving me the particulars that will serve to facilitate this auspicious encounter.
Your obedient servant,
D
Stunned by this completely unexpected request, Portia sat back, her head whirling. This annoying gentleman, with whom she had no acquaintance and had been carrying out a forbidden correspondence, wished to further compromise her by proposing an illicit assignation. How wanton he must think her, if he believed for one moment she would do such a thing.
Then why was her pulse racing at the thought of actually meeting this stranger? Of course, not all strangers were disreputable. The two she’d met today had turned out to be delightful. Might it come to pass that this Devil was a third such gentleman? What if she’d already met the man? What if he was one of the gentlemen she might meet at the Assembly Rooms tonight? She would certainly never know it.
The thought of the Assembly Rooms and this evening’s entertainment immediately brought to mind the faces of Lord Benberry and Lord Daventry, and Aunt Phoebe’s words popped into her head. Lord Daventry had been away and just returned to Bath. Wouldn’t it be extraordinary if he turned out to be the anonymous letter writer?
Eyes widening, she stared at the letter’s brief signature, the single letter D. Obviously, the man wished it to stand for his previous moniker Devil. But could the D also stand for Daventry? How absolutely wonderful if that were true. Almost like Fate lending a hand just when her life had gone so wrong. She must set about finding out if Lord Daventry was her Devil.
But how to do so? She could hint about it somehow when they danced this evening, although she couldn’t make her inquiries very particular, for if he happened not to be the anonymous gentleman, she certainly didn’t want him, nor Lord Benberry, to find out about this unusual correspondence. Meanwhile, she would try to discover as much as she could about this Devil.
Portia drew out a cut sheet of foolscap, mended her pen, and
set out to stall this wayward gentleman until she could ascertain if he was indeed Lord Daventry.
To the gentleman calling himself Devil (or D),
You are nothing, sir, if not a persistent gentleman (a term that can still only be applied to you in a questionable manner). I hope you will not be surprised when I declare to you that a meeting between us without the benefit of a mutually known third party is a castle in the air, built by you alone. If you can recommend someone who may be acquainted with us both, I might consider a meeting for the purpose of introduction, but as I am newly come to Bath, I do not believe there is one such person who could perform that office.
If you, however, think to make a May game of me, and thereby make me compromise myself even more than this correspondence might do, should it ever be known, you will have to think yet again. I tell you, sir, I will have none of it.
I beg of you to refrain from answering this letter (unless you are certain you may suggest a mutual acquaintance) and allow me to live in uninterrupted tranquility during this Season of Peace on Earth.
P
This might very well quell any further correspondence from the gentleman, although there was an opening here, if the writer turned out to be Lord Daventry, for him to suggest someone from their meeting today. Of course, he likely had no inkling that she, Miss Willingham, was also Pence, so perhaps her expectations would bear no fruit at all.
With a sigh, she swiftly sealed and addressed the letter.
The address. This letter, unlike the last, had written on it an address here in the city of Bath. All she need do was to discover who lived there. But how? She rang the bell and summoned Rose. When her maid arrived, Portia had to bite her lips to calm herself.
“I need your help, Rose.”
“Of course, miss. What can I do for you?” Rose stared at her evenly.
“I must find out who lives at number 12 Royal Crescent.” Bracing against the rebuke sure to follow, Portia closed her eyes.
Silence. Portia opened her eyes to find her maid staring her down.
“Why would you want to find that out?”
Lord, what reason could she give that wouldn’t land her in a peck of trouble? Perhaps the truth, if handled just right. “I think Lord Daventry may be writing to me.”
Rose’s brows shot up. “But you just met him today.”
Portia shrugged. “I know. It is a peculiar kind of correspondence.”
“Peculiar?” The suspicious tone without outright denial encouraged Portia. “How so?”
“Someone has written me a letter from that address but has only signed the letter ‘D’ instead of their name. I can assume it is Lord Daventry, but I cannot know for certain unless you go and find out for me.” If only Rose would take that information and ask for no more.
“Well, what does the letter say?” Rose’s eyes hardened. “Why can’t you figure out who he is from that?”
Stung, Portia jerked back. “It’s of a personal nature, Rose. I can’t tell you what it says.”
“Proper young ladies don’t receive letters from gentlemen.” The suspicion, and Rose’s frown, had deepened. “Does your aunt know about this?”
“She believes the correspondence comes from my uncle. It’s a long story, Rose, but I simply must know and quickly.” Done bargaining, Portia straightened her back. “If you do not go for me, I shall go myself.”
“You can’t do that, Miss Willingham.” Alarm spread over her maid’s face. “Young ladies can’t go around asking about such things.”
“But I will do it if you do not go for me. Or ask Evans if he knows or can find out.” Sensing capitulation, Portia pressed her advantage. “Make up any excuse you care to, but I must have the name of that resident.”
“Yes, Miss Willingham.” Heaving a sigh Portia had heard often before, Rose nodded. “What if the gentleman who lives there is not Lord Daventry?”
So certain that Devil was Daventry, Portia hadn’t made another plan. “I shall turn the whole of the correspondence over to my aunt as well as the name of the gentleman.”
After looking her up and down, with a nod and a sniff, Rose left.
Portia waited a good ten minutes to make certain she was gone then ran down the steps to put her letter in the outgoing mail. About to drop it in the small basket in the entry hall set out for just that purpose, Portia stared at the sheet in her hand, suddenly reluctant to let it go. It could be the last such letter she penned to “Devil,” unless the unlikely event of a mutual acquaintance occurred. Or even more remotely, “D” did indeed turn out to be Lord Daventry. Even though the evidence to support that likelihood was mounting, it still might very well not be true.
So this could be her last bit of correspondence with “D.” That somehow made her sad. This mysterious gentleman had engaged her fancy during a rather troubling time, had given her something and someone to think about when she had few friends here in Bath. Of course, after this evening, she would likely have many more connections, both male and female, who would occupy her time, including Lords Daventry and Benberry.
With a nod to signal her decision, Portia dropped the letter into the basket and hurried into the drawing room.
Aunt Phoebe had tied the boughs of evergreen with red ribbon and draped them around the room, on the windowsills and across the mantle, bringing a freshness to the air that quite soothed Portia’s soul. Her aunt now stood in the center of the room, attaching smaller bits of the green branches to a wire circle. A large mass of green leaves sporting small white balls lay on a nearby table. Apparently, Aunt Phoebe would fashion the kissing bough without the Lady Apples this year. She looked up at Portia’s entrance. “So is your uncle coming for a visit?”
Shaking her head, Portia moved to the pile of greenery and handed another piece to her aunt. “No, I’m afraid he will not. He wanted for us to meet, but circumstances prevent it.”
“Ah, that is a pity. I would’ve liked to meet him.”
Portia sighed and glanced through the doorway to the basket on the entry table. “So would I.”
CHAPTER 7
Unable to stand still, Portia danced on her toes as Aunt Phoebe emerged from the chair conveyance onto the sidewalk in front of the Upper Assembly Rooms. The dress ball had begun about half an hour before and although Portia had begged for them to leave earlier, her aunt had been adamant about not arriving at the stroke of seven. “You do not wish to look too eager, my dear.”
“But I am eager, Aunt,” Portia had said earlier, while sitting as still as possible for Rose to put the finishing touches on Portia’s coiffure. “I did not go to London for my come out last spring, so this is the very first ball I’ve been allowed to go to. Even if I’m not exactly allowed.” Waiting until the maid stepped back after sticking a last pin straight into her head, it seemed, Portia bounded up, smoothing her pale blue skirts. “I do wish I’d had time to have a gown made up of that blue and white silk we saw in the shops today.”
Recalling that conversation, Portia vowed to bespeak a new one as soon as she could buy the fabric.
“You look enchanting, niece. Smile and you will do well tonight.” Her aunt nodded and led her through the doorway into the entry hall where they left their wraps and continued into the long ballroom.
The huge, glittering hall stopped Portia short. Five magnificent cut-glass chandeliers hung over the assembly, dazzling her eyes with their bright light. Just as glittering were all the people packed tightly into the room, the ladies shimmering in their finery and jewels, the gentlemen elegant in their dark evening clothes. Never had she been to such a large assembly as this. There must be five hundred people present. Portia gulped and hurried to catch up with Aunt Phoebe, who’d stopped just ahead of her to speak to an older lady dressed in a somber gray gown.
“Good evening, Phoebe. So good to see you out once more. You’ve kept yourself too much to yourself since dear Francis died.” The lady patted Aunt Phoebe’s arm then looked inquisitively at Portia. “Is this dear Letitia’
s daughter?”
“Yes, Sophia, this is my niece, Miss Portia Willingham.” Her aunt nodded and turned to her. “Portia, this is my good friend, Lady Ventris.” Aunt Phoebe beamed, and Portia dipped a deep curtsey. “My niece is spending Christmas with me here in Bath to help prepare for her come out in London next year.”
Portia couldn’t help but widen her eyes at this bit of news. Aunt Phoebe could weave a tale with the best of them.
“Splendid, my dear.” Lady Ventris rapped her lightly on her arm. “You will find our company here very easy to get on with. I daresay you will make a conquest or two before the evening is out.”
Heat shot into her face. Her cheeks must’ve grown as red as the Lady Apples’ blush this afternoon. She glanced away, hoping Lady Ventris would change the subject if she could no longer catch her eyes. Even with the crowds of people pooled into both large and small knots here and there, her gaze darted immediately to two gentlemen about halfway down the hall. Lords Benberry and Daventry, immaculately turned out in black evening dress.
It was all she could do to keep from hiding her face in her hands. She whipped around so that her back was to the young gentlemen. A desperate prayer ascended to heaven, beseeching the Almighty to keep the gentlemen away from her until she could compose herself—and until Aunt Phoebe’s friend had departed. If Lady Ventris said anything of conquests in front of those two gentlemen, Portia would die on the spot.
Thankfully, the lady spied another victim to torment and made her way across the dance floor toward a comely maiden and her elderly chaperone. Portia breathed heavily for a moment as she collected herself. She loved to dance and had come here to do just that. So why was she suddenly shy about the proposition? Lord Daventry had requested the first set, which would be making up soon, so surely he would come to her any minute. Lord, and what if he was “Devil?” How was she to find out? She needed to steady her nerves and—
