by Erica Ridley
Plainly speaking, there was no chance in hell Lady Amelia would get her way.
On the other hand, it was after eight o’clock at night and Benedict saw no point in longwinded explanations or upsetting the lady. The best course of action was to act receptive until after she quit his townhouse, and then send an elegant note of apology on the morrow, indicating (in writing!) that after thinking it over, he had no wish to pursue the holiday party, nor was there any need for her further involvement. There. It was settled. He had only to humor her until then.
“That is a very interesting proposal,” he said aloud, careful to keep his smile engaging but his tone noncommittal. “If we were to pursue such a route, where would you relocate the festivities?”
Her response was brisk. “The most obvious choice is Ravenwood House, my brother’s Hyde Park estate. While most aristocratic families winter in townhouses just like this one, I don’t believe I’m exaggerating if I say that the ducal grounds boast the same square footage as this entire crescent. While nothing can replace what you’ve lost, the Ravenwood ballroom can certainly accommodate the correct number of guests in a comparable level of luxury and style.”
He was no longer surprised to hear she had a ready, well-reasoned answer. If anything, he was pleasantly surprised to find himself capable of scotching it.
“As generous as your offer is, I cannot accept it. I’m certain it is the sin of pride at play, but I could not in good conscience allow a Sheffield ball to take place under the Ravenwood roof. The guests would quite properly consider it the first annual Ravenwood ball, which, as it happens, is not a poor idea. Why don’t you pursue that instead?”
“Because it is at odds with my goals. I have put together many successful events over the years, but frankly, no invitation carries the prestige and sense of tradition like one with ‘Seventy-fifth Annual’ embossed across the top. My soirées are well-attended. But yours? No one wishes to miss a fête their family has attended for three generations.”
He tried to look sympathetic. “In that case, I am very sorry that it didn’t work out.”
She frowned. “Of course it will work out. All we’ve done is agree that it cannot be at your estate, and it cannot be at mine.”
“You agree that it cannot be at Ravenwood House?”
“’Tis not my party. The location deserved to be mentioned, however, since it is the most convenient. Which brings us to independent venues. The expense of finding and staffing such a location is much greater at this late date, but the advantages are threefold. First, it is a neutral location, untainted by any other family’s title. Second, the very fact of not being a traditional ballroom increases the possibilities for alternate forms of entertainment, which will be an even bigger draw to your guests. Third, choosing a fashionable location will ensure the attendance of those who wish to see and be seen. The more attractive the entertainment and the easier it is to attend, the greater the chance of realizing the entire guest list.”
Another rational, well-thought-out answer. He crossed his arms. “Why are you doing this?”
She smiled benignly. “I manage things. You have a project that needs managing.”
His spine snapped up straight. “I’m quite capable of managing my own affairs. I’ve done so for the ten years I’ve been viscount—”
“Yes, yes, and you’ve done a marvelous job.” She patted his arm. “No one is doubting your ability to improve upon tradition and somehow make every year’s Christmas Eve ball even better than the last. What I do doubt is that you have the next fortnight free to do nothing more than apply yourself to relocating this year’s soirée without sacrificing any of the cachet.”
“Exactly! I love Christmas and deplore the idea of breaking tradition, but I already devote twelve hours a day to far more pressing matters, and cannot possibly drive myself mad undertaking something so easily skipped.” He crossed his arms. “The ball may be a highlight of the season, but it’s necessarily a low priority. It’s as simple as that.”
She tapped a finger to her cheek. “Are you...laboring under the misapprehension that you are debating me? To my ears, it sounds very much like we are arguing the same side. You want the holiday party. I want the holiday party. You don’t have time to devote to it. I have all the time in the world. What am I missing?”
“That I don’t want you to do it,” he blurted out. “I don’t need your money, nor do I wish my family tradition to be altered by someone who is not family.”
“Ah. Why didn’t you say so at once? That’s the easiest of all things to resolve.”
He blinked. “How?”
“You’ll pay for every penny of it, of course. You’ll have full approval of the venue. And I’ll submit a change request log to you every morning in writing, to which you can respond by dashing quick checks or Xs next to each line.”
A rushing sound filled his ears. “Change...request...log?”
“I have attended every one of your Christmas Eve balls since my come-out twelve years ago.” She held up a hand. “No—don’t apologize for not recognizing me. It is the one time a year we are under the same roof, and they are infamously glorious crushes. You’ll be pleased to know that I took extensive notes every single year, and am reasonably confident that if your venue had not burned down, I could have recreated the exact experience to a button.”
He stared at her. “You took extensive notes? On my holiday parties?”
“I would’ve been foolish not to. I was mistress of my brother’s ducal estate by then, and what better example to copy than the most celebrated fête of the year?” She waved a hand in the air. “My point is that I, of all people, am uniquely qualified to not only follow your family traditions as closely as possible without draining your time with direct supervision, but I can also recognize when elements must be unavoidably altered, and provide you with a detailed list in plenty of time for final decision-making.”
He couldn’t believe his ears. “Christmas Eve is two weeks away! How is that plenty of time?”
“Twelve days, to be precise. I doubt I will require half of that if money is no object, and you respond to my daily missives within...three hours. Does that sound like an efficient plan?”
He narrowed his eyes at the casually dropped three hours. He’d bet his left arm that, if asked, she could recite compelling reasons why three—not two and not four—hours was ideal turnabout. He was equally certain that she’d purposefully framed her final yes-or-no question as asking whether he believed the concept to be efficient, instead of whether he wished to go forward with it.
Clever, clever girl.
“How about I let you know what I think after I’ve had a chance to consider these independent venues, as you put it. I suppose you have that chosen as well?”
“Not at all. I have narrowed it down to three. I won’t be able to provide you with a recommendation until I have visited them all, with an eye specifically turned to replicating your family tradition as faithfully as possible whilst taking advantage of the new location’s unique assets.”
“I see. And I suppose you intend to start on this first thing in the morning?”
“I intend to make significant progress in the next few minutes. My coachman is awaiting me outside because my next engagement begins promptly at nine. You can expect my report on the Theatre Royal to arrive sometime before dawn.”
The theatre. His lips quirked. How ironic. “And if I wished to be present on this investigative expedition?”
She arched a brow. “Do you?”
He was startled to find that he did. “I do.”
“Then grab your coat. They’re expecting us backstage within the hour.”
Chapter 3
Benedict eased down from his carriage onto the slick winter street and strode just in front to the Ravenwood coach, where its tiger was opening the door for the intriguing lady inside. Benedict stepped between the groom and the open door, and offered his own arm to help Lady Amelia out of the coach. The fact that she lik
ely didn’t need his or anyone’s assistance only made him less willing to let go. Her potent mix of brains and beauty was difficult to resist. He half-marveled that she had not had the foresight to contract all the street sweeps of London to clear the ice from the curb leading to the theatre door.
Then again, given her polite but firm set-down to his butler, the lady was likely to view such an extravagance as an inefficient use of the street sweepers’ time.
Lady Amelia rested one gloved hand in the crook of Benedict’s arm and used the other to raise her skirts a safe distance from the inch of slush coating the muddy streets. He was treated to a brief flash of shapely ankles and leather half-boots—the same ones she’d undoubtedly worn whilst reading her novel on his front stoop. On the other hand, was this woman truly the sort to “waste” time on a novel?
He tucked her closer to his side as they hurried toward the theatre entrance. He hunched against the icy breeze out of habit. He’d ceased feeling cold the second Lady Amelia’s fingers curved about his arm. “My butler informs me you had a book on your person when you came to call.”
She did not look up. “His vision is excellent, my lord.”
“Was it your journal?” he pressed. He wondered if she kept a diary as well...and what she might write about him. He hoped something scandalous. He’d love to make it come true. “With your notes on my holiday parties?”
“Journals, plural.” Her clear green eyes met his. “And, no, it was not.”
“Journals, plural?” This new intelligence was so startling that he completely abandoned all interest in whatever tome she’d brought earlier. “How many can you possibly have?”
“Five, plus a slimmer volume for indexing each cross-reference. All six are in the carriage, should you wish to verify their comprehensiveness for yourself.”
“There is no need.” He did not doubt their presence. What he could not comprehend was what the devil she’d managed to say about his parties for five indexed journals. “Did you carry parchment and ink with you about the ballroom?”
The corners of her plump rosy lips quirked. “That would be highly impractical.”
“To be sure! Then how did you remember whatever on earth it is that you have annotated in five journals?”
Her eyes widened. “I stored the details in my memory pantry. As I fully intend to do tonight.”
An usher swung open the doors to the theatre and bustled them out of the cold and into the gilded reception hall.
Benedict scarcely noted the sudden warmth, so intent was he on the tranquil woman at his side. “In your what?”
“My memory pantry.” She eased into one of the plush lobby chairs to accept a fresh change of shoes from her groom.
Benedict tried not to be distracted by the much longer glimpses of her silk-stockinged ankles.
She handed her sodden half-boots to her groom then turned her piercing gaze back to Benedict. “There are twenty-six fruits, for example. A is for Apple, B is for Blackberry, and so on. I memorize facts by picturing each new detail with a pantry item. The sillier the juxtaposition, the better. It’s no challenge at all to recall vivid imagery later.”
“No challenge at—Yes. Thank you.” He relinquished his greatcoat to the usher and accepted his own change of footwear from his tiger. The lady was ingenious! “That is quite a trick. Even so, I cannot credit that five journals can spawn from twenty-six images, no matter how vivid.”
“Memory pantry, my lord. Not memory shelf.” She brushed out her skirts. “Those were the fruits. My pantry also contains vegetables, meats, drinks, pies... More than enough to fill a simple journal. I daresay I’ll run out of facts to record before I run out of ingredients to assign them to.”
Incredible. He offered her his arm. He would not be letting her go any time soon. “But—”
Before he could complete his question, the theatre manager himself appeared in the lobby and lowered himself in a deep bow. “Lady Amelia! Lord Sheffield! I am honored to provide a small tour of the theatre. I would love to show you about for as long as you wish, but the next show begins in an hour, and I cannot postpone the performance. Patrons have already begun to arrive.”
Amelia nodded thoughtfully. “How much money would it take for you to agree to do so?”
“Cancel the show?” the manager gasped. “Now? Tonight? But it is Grimaldi himself, in Robinson Crusoe!”
“Not tonight,” she said soothingly. “Christmas Eve. Could you reschedule that to another time?”
“Could I reschedule—Christmas Eve—” the manager choked, his face purpling.
She spoke more slowly. “Is there a performance scheduled for that evening?”
“Yes, of course! Since the theatre is closed on Christmas, Grimaldi’s last performance as Friday is to be that evening, and Miss O’Neill will be reprising her role as Juliet earlier that afternoon. I couldn’t possibly—”
“Splendid. By simply moving Mr. Grimaldi’s performance one day forward, we have solved all logistics without any hassle. Mind you, we still haven’t decided if we will select this establishment. We’re simply ensuring there are no impediments.”
“But Lady Amelia, Grimaldi! The gentry can have no argument with postponing at your ladyship’s convenience, but—the dukes! The earls! ’Tis impossible, my lady.”
“They won’t have to alter their plans one whit,” she replied calmly. “’Twould be a different event, but held at the same time and place. I can’t think of anything more convenient to our needs.”
The manager sent an imploring look in Benedict’s direction.
Benedict could do little more than lift a shoulder in empathy. It was plainly apparent that if Lady Amelia set her mind to bringing about a given circumstance, no force on earth could slow her down.
“Come now,” she said briskly. “The next performance begins in less than an hour. I believe you wished to give us a brief tour of the less public areas?”
“Yes, I...Of course, of course.” He bowed. “My lady had enquired about evacuation routes in the event of a fire, and what steps must be taken to ensure hot foods are served hot, and cold dishes cold.”
Benedict stared at her. “Are you this exacting every time you go to the theatre?”
“Don’t be absurd. I am fastidious when the responsibility for my guests’ safety and enjoyment falls upon my shoulders. Your shoulders, that is.” She fixed him with wide green eyes and a slow blink of thick chestnut lashes. “We can skip safety and enjoyment if you like?”
He tucked her hand closer to his side. “By all means, madam. Let’s have our inspection.”
In short order, he found himself intimately acquainted with the proscenium arch (opulent), the stage floor (enormous), the dining possibilities (atrocious), the actresses (lovely), and the famous harlequin Joseph Grimaldi himself (an unparalleled genius).
“Do say we’re staying for his performance,” he murmured into Lady Amelia’s ear. Her skin smelled of rosewater. He leaned closer, then jolted upright when he realized he’d all but asked for permission, as if he were leg-shackled to the chit instead of gammoning her until he could cancel upon the morrow.
To her credit, Lady Amelia raised no brow over the gaffe, and responded with an indifference that rankled worse than toad-eating. “You may do as you wish, of course. Since I’ve only previously viewed the stage from the private Ravenwood box, I haven’t the least notion of the sightline or acoustics from the side balconies, front galleries, parterre, or lower stalls. I shall stay just long enough to note the differences in sight, sound, and general comfort from each strategic location.”
“Just long enough to—” He didn’t bother to hide his amusement. “In other words, you don’t intend to relax and enjoy the performance?”
She stared at him as if she’d never heard the terms relax and enjoy before in her life. It was more than a little concerning.
“Of course not.” She turned toward the stairs leading to the highest boxes. “Once the performance begins, it should o
nly require a few moments in each locality to ascertain its suitableness as a vantage point. I should be home in bed with my report already dashed off to you in a matter of hours.”
“Your report to me?” he repeated, trying not to picture her reclining in a bed. “Aren’t I standing right here with you?”
Her brow knitted. “Clearly. But my notes will be an invaluable resource once we’ve multiple venues to compare.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “No.”
She bristled. “Of course they—”
“Obviously your report will be the finest and most comprehensive treatise ever written about the Theatre Royal on the subject of ballroom appropriateness and guest safety. But as the manager said—it’s Grimaldi! He makes an astonishing Friday.” Benedict laid his hands upon her arms in sudden realization. “Have you never attended Robinson Crusoe for fun?”
“Fun?” she repeated blankly. She tilted a baffled gaze up at him. “Why would I do that?”
Why, indeed. He stared at her with something akin to horror. Had he been feeling sorry for himself for ten long years of twelve-hour workdays? He far preferred his stolen hours of mindless entertainments to the idea of never being entertained at all. It was pitiable, really, that a woman this clever should not know what it was to disconnect her wits for a moment to simply enjoy the world about her. Something ought to be done! And he was just the man to do it.
Deuce take it, the fetching Lady Amelia needed him even more desperately than the Christmas ball needed her.
Which, he recognized wryly, meant he was going through with her party scheme. He smiled. It also meant he had twelve nights to teach Lady Amelia to enjoy life.
“How can you say with certainty whether any activity delivers the proper level of guest delight, if you do not allow yourself to experience pleasure for pleasure’s sake?”
