by Amy Corwin
“Windows? I can’t be opening windows right and left—it isn’t done!” Wickson exclaimed.
“One window, and it is unnecessary to open it. Simply ensure one is unlocked.”
“I won’t—I can’t—”
“You can, and you will.” John used the knob of his sword cane to nudge him in the middle of his back. “Ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes?” Wickson sputtered as he stumbled forward. “I can’t.”
“You can. Go.”
Wickson tottered away, casting black glances over his shoulder as he went. A minute later, he mingled with a group descending from a coach and climbed the steps with them to present his invitation to the butler presiding over the illuminated doorway. When his friend disappeared inside the house, John lingered, watching the arrival of several carriages of guests, before making his way around the block to a narrow alleyway that led to the rear of the building.
The library windows were not difficult to find. Several lamps lit the room, pooling over a massive desk in one corner and an oval occasional table placed between two thickly padded chairs by the large marble fireplace. The mellow glow revealed walls lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, filled with orderly rows of leather-bound books.
His view of the room was suddenly blocked by the plump figure of a man—good old Toby Wickson. The murmur of male voices carried through the thick panes of glass, and for a moment, John feared that his friend would not be able to unlock a window.
A low chuckle sounded.
He frowned. Wickson meandered around the room, his dark shadow elongating and then shrinking as he moved in and out of the circles of light.
Why the devil had he brought a companion with him?
Strains of music grew louder, as did the noise of convivial conversations and polite laughter. Clasping his hands behind his back, John paced between the windows. Lady Victoria was inside, enjoying herself and dancing with other men, while he stumbled around in the darkness outside.
He paused and studied the windows, framed by a climbing rose. Fat buds on the verge of blooming formed thick clusters on the tall, prickly canes. He eased one branch aside to examine the window.
A pane could easily be pried out, except that fool Wickson was still wandering around the library with a companion, from the sound of it. He could just imagine their surprise if John climbed in through the window while they were standing a few feet away.
What the devil is Wickson up to?
Sliding one finger along the edge of the window closest to the bookcases, John pressed against the brick wall to avoid being seen and contemplated how much noise he’d make removing the glass. Just as he was about to do whatever was necessary to gain entrance, Wickson’s blue-clad arm snaked around the edge of the heavy green drapes. His nimble fingers unlatched the brass lock, and his arm disappeared again into the shadows.
John waited a full two minutes before gently easing up the window. The library was empty. The double doors were open, though, and he could clearly hear myriad conversations and the musicians slogging their way through a country dance. Two men, deep in conversation, meandered past the library doorway. He climbed inside. Tossing his hat, cane, and cloak onto one of the padded chairs, John brushed off his jacket and calmly walked out of the library.
Music swelled through a wide doorway further along the hallway on his right, and he noted a buffet set up in the dining room directly across the way. He paused to glance at the array of food and the gentlemen searching out refreshments for some fortunate ladies awaiting them in the ballroom.
The lemonade, two bowls of punch, and a half-dozen plates of various cakes failed to impress him. Hardly a banquet, but sufficient, perhaps, to avoid anyone fainting from hunger or thirst. From what he’d heard about Almack’s, the fare was similarly parsimonious. Perhaps Taggert was taking his cue from them and avoiding any form of alcohol to prevent anyone from enjoying themselves too much.
Smoothing his dark green evening jacket, he turned to the door across the hall.
The ballroom, cleared of all furniture except for lines of gilt chairs arranged against the walls, was filled with clusters of guests. Silks, satins, and jewels glowed and glittered under the soft light of candles gracing the two huge crystal chandeliers hanging overhead. In the far corner, a quartet of musicians played a country dance while the men faced the women in parallel lines as they paced through the steps.
Glancing around, John searched for a tall, elegant figure with soft brown curls. He found Lady Victoria, clothed in an ice-blue silk gown with a soft headdress of curling white feathers, partnered with a man he recognized as their host, Lord Taggert.
Never could stand that man, John thought. The years since university hadn’t improved him. When Lady Victoria smiled at some remark Taggert made, John’s hands tightened into fists at his sides, though his expression remained calm. He studied the other dancers and noted Taggert’s sister, Miss Urick. Another flash of irritation made him fix his gaze on Taggert again as he realized the implications of her presence at the ball.
Clearly, his lordship cherished dual purposes. Now that it was time to provide himself with an heir, he was evaluating Lady Victoria’s suitability for the role, while simultaneously presenting his sister to Society. The fact that he’d delayed coming to London to find a wife until his sister was of an appropriate age to have her Season—likely her only Season—revealed Taggert’s miserly habits. Why rent a townhouse and take on all the expenses entailed in living in London twice, when he could combine his need for a wife and his sister’s requirement for a husband in one trip?
A tickle behind John’s ear made him scratch the back of his neck as he considered the scene in front of him. The scant refreshments only strengthened his assessment.
Why were so many men completely absorbed in the accrual of money?
While it was certainly useful stuff, it meant no more than any other useful item. Money came and went, and one could always make more when necessary.
For now, he was flush. His father had settled a small sum on him when John left the university, despite His Grace being under no obligation to do so. In his hands, John had turned that small sum into a tidy fortune, and unwittingly convinced his father to seek out investment advice from his base-born son after this evidence of financial acumen.
John had been happy to do so, but he remained more interested in the game of outwitting other investors than in the more tangible results of his labors.
He studied Taggert again. The man would rather have robbed a beggar than part with a penny of his reportedly large fortune—at least while he was at university. Given the paucity of the banquet, he apparently hadn’t changed.
It boded ill for whatever poor woman Taggert took to wife. He’d graciously accept her dowry as his due and promptly refuse her even a sixpence of it to repair a torn gown.
John sought out Lady Victoria again. Her cheeks were flushed from dancing, and her face glowed with a soft radiance. Her pleasure made her all the more lovely. Was she aware that her host probably didn’t even notice her patrician beauty and only possessed an interest in the size of her dowry?
No. She was too kind, too unspoiled to hold such crass opinions. She was obviously flattered and pleased by Taggert’s attentions, as any woman might be.
Deliberately relaxing his hands, John waited in the shadows until the set concluded. Taggert bowed to Lady Victoria and escorted her to her parents, who were seated in chairs near the windows. Her father appeared pleased with Taggert as he greeted him with a broad smile, clasping his hand and slapping him on the shoulder.
As John moved toward the group, another gentleman headed for him. Good old Wickson. Smiling, John increased his pace. The two men arrived at the group simultaneously.
Bowing, John removed his glove and said, “Lord Taggert, I must congratulate you—magnificent event.”
Taggert executed the barest hint of a bow as he removed his right glove. He frowned as he shook John’s hand. “Mr. Archer.” His
mouth tightened. “I don’t recall—”
“Lord Taggert!” Wickson interrupted, removing a glove and grabbing Taggert’s hand. He pumped vigorously. “Pleasure to see you! You’re looking well—fine affair—wonderful.” He babbled on, keeping his grip on Taggert and slowly turning him away from John, leaving him to face Lord and Lady Longmoor and their daughter, Lady Victoria.
Brow wrinkled with concern, Lord Longmoor studied him while his wife let out a soft sigh. Her gaze flickered over him with an air of wariness, but her daughter’s gray eyes glowed with pleasure.
Behind them, the musicians were picking up their instruments again after a short break, and the master of ceremonies was arranging for the next dance. Taggert was already leading another lady out to take their place on the floor, and Wickson was standing at John’s elbow, ill-at-ease and shifting from one foot to the other.
Lady Victoria smiled. “Mr. Archer, what a pleasure to see you here.”
After greeting her parents, he returned her smile. “Have you a partner? Would you care to dance?” He held out his arm to her.
Hesitating, she glanced at her mother and father, neither of whom looked particularly happy. Her brows tightened with doubt, but when she caught John’s gaze, her beautiful gray eyes lit with warmth, and her lips curved with shy pleasure, her parents forgotten as she nodded her assent.
They took their place at the bottom of the set and awaited their turn. He watched Lady Victoria for signs of aggravation as she had previously led the set with Taggert. Now, she had to wait as the other couples began to dance when the couple at the top progressed down the line and passed them.
Whatever she thought about their position, her twinkling gaze and flushed cheeks gave no indication that she was anything except delighted.
Her pleasure gave way to a roguish expression as she looked at John. “You did not receive an invitation after all, did you, Mr. Archer?”
He tried to appear suitably aghast, but finally just grinned and shrugged. “How would I be here otherwise?”
“I’m sure I don’t know.” Her brows rose before a new couple joined the set next to them, and her face assumed a polite but distant expression.
To his left, Lord Longmoor bowed to a nondescript young lady in an overly ruffled white dress. Miss Urick. She squinted at Lady Victoria, smiled vaguely, and initiated a hesitant conversation with Lord Longmoor about the rainy weather and its dreadful effect on her hair.
Although Lord Longmoor seemed content to ignore John and his daughter, Lady Victoria appeared uncomfortable with him standing next to John and within hearing distance of their remarks. Her gaze flickered to him several times as she chewed on her lower lip, and the lovely rose color faded from her cheeks. Even John felt a certain restraint, which was a new and not particularly wanted sensation for him.
Clearly unwilling to emulate Miss Urick by talking about either the weather or her hair, Lady Victoria straightened and gazed at John. “Have you managed to obtain a copy of Miss Burney’s latest novel, Camilla? I have not had the opportunity to obtain it, though I understand it is available.”
“I have not had the privilege,” John replied, not wanting to admit that he preferred reading travel and historical works to novels. “However, I’ve seen my dear friend, Mr. Wickson, with his nose in the book, and he seems to hold the work in high regard.”
“Has he spoken much about it?” She leaned forward, obviously interested in the subject.
“A bit.” John flicked his hand. In truth, once started, one couldn’t get Wickson to stop talking about it and what he described as a sensitive portrayal of the path of true love. “He is quite taken with the hardships of Camilla and Edgar.”
“Oh! Do they manage to overcome their difficulties or are they doomed to be star-crossed lovers—” She broke off and held up a hand. “Please, don’t tell me and spoil the ending. It’s simply that I cannot tolerate novels that end badly. I loathe crying.”
“That is a relief.” John chuckled. “As I cannot stand weeping women.”
She studied him with a suspiciously innocent expression before she replied, “It shows a great deal of confidence to admit to such weaknesses—I applaud you.”
“Thank you, Lady Victoria. And to what weaknesses will you admit?”
“Why, I’ve already proclaimed mine.” Her eyes widened with mock surprise. “Stories which end well are my weakness.”
“Then I will do my utmost to see you are not disappointed by the end of this story.”
Lady Victoria laughed politely and flicked an uncomfortable glance at her father. However, his attention remained fixed upon his partner, who had moved the conversation from a discourse on weather and hair to her fear that they may not be safe from invasion by the French upstart, Napoleon, even in London. Lord Longmoor tried to assuage her fears by assuring her that General Bonaparte was too busy with his new wife, Joséphine de Beauharnais, and his forays against the Austrian army to worry about England. Nonetheless, his comments failed to bring the color back to his partner’s pale face.
“The French do seem determined to cause a great deal of worry, don’t they?” Lady Victoria asked, catching the thread of their neighbor’s conversation.
“There is no cause for concern. The only French who will ever set foot on English soil are those seeking refuge—not war.” John paused as the couple leading the set reached them, and he and Lady Victoria at last began to dance. “Have you heard tell of the stone which fell near Wold Cottage on the thirteenth of December?”
“Yes—I have heard of it. Isn’t it to be brought to London and exhibited? Do you believe it truly fell from Heaven?”
“It may be one of those meteors astronomers report. Although those, I believe, travel a path parallel to Earth, so it is difficult to see how one could strike the ground. If it interests you, perhaps you would allow me to escort you to the exhibition at the Gloucester Coffee House?”
Cheeks flushed and eyes bright with excitement, Lady Victoria opened her mouth, only to shut it again. He pressed her fingers as she circled him with graceful steps. By the time she faced him again, her eyes were downcast and her expression revealed nothing more than shy politeness.
“If my parents agree, I would be pleased to accompany you,” she said at last.
“Then by all means, obtain their permission. Perhaps your mother may wish to join us. I would be delighted to escort both of you,” he replied, anything but delighted with the prospect of Lady Longmoor’s disapproving presence on his proposed expedition. Unfortunately, it was a necessary evil. Lady Victoria would never be permitted to accompany him without a guardian.
As they executed another turn, he felt Lady Victoria’s gloved fingers brush his collar. When they finally faced one another again, she was grinning. She held up a small grayish-green leaf. Laughter bubbled through her voice when she said, “Did you climb in through a window after all, Mr. Archer?”
“Wind.” He brushed off the matter as well as the leaf before he twirled her around again.
“Really? How odd. It was not the least bit windy when we arrived earlier, and this looks remarkably like a leaf from a rose bush.” She widened her eyes and then blinked prettily with feigned innocence. “I understand there is a very fine musk rose gracing the library window. Have you seen it?”
Laughing, he shrugged and executed his own turn.
“So, you truly were not invited. Whatever possessed you to attend?” She gave a delicate shiver. “It certainly wasn’t the wealth of refreshments.”
“A rumor concerning another who might attend reached me. I could not give up an opportunity to see her again.”
“Her?” Lady Victoria asked, her cheeks flushing a rich rose. She flicked a quick glance at him. Her blush deepened, and she dropped her gaze to the floor.
“Indeed. Her.”
“Perhaps I know the lady?”
“That is very likely,” he answered cryptically. He pressed her gloved hand. Tension crackled around them.
She remained silent for a minute while they glided through a few steps. When she spoke again, she changed the subject to the comedic play, The Man of Ten Thousand, playing at the Theatre Royal on Drury Lane.
They discussed it for a few minutes as they danced, but a sense of time running out assailed John. The music changed in preparation for the set’s ending. A quick glance showed a man handing Lady Longmoor a glass of lemonade before turning to watch Lady Victoria and John. He was clearly awaiting the end of this set.
And the return of Lady Victoria.
John asked as he circled her in dance, “Have you seen the play? I could escort you and, of course, your mother.”
“You have already invited us to view the stone from Wold Cottage.” Her gray eyes were alight with mirth, the corners crinkling.
John’s hand tightened again on hers.
“I would hesitate to inflict more of our company upon you before we see how that adventure goes,” she said, smiling at him as her fingers clasped his more tightly for one brief second.
“Of course.” He nodded just as the last chords of the music spun around them. He returned her to her mother and straightened when the man standing next to Lady Longmoor stepped forward with a proprietary air. Instantly, John regretted leaving his sword stick in the library.
Mr. Cedric Fitton—a purportedly rich man with an ancient, noble lineage despite his lack of a title—smiled at them. He was a man from a good family, and a good prospect for any lady wishing a bridegroom.
Many counted him as handsome, as well, with his black hair, regular, chiseled features, and blue eyes. However, his smug smile indicated he was a little too aware of his attractive appearance and excellent position and that this knowledge gave him a great deal of pleasure.
Appearances—family—what do they matter? John’s jaw tightened involuntarily, the back molars grinding together as he eyed the superior expression on Fitton’s face.
