by Amy Corwin
John could claim no family or social position. While his mother had been a lady, her impulsive affair with the Duke of Peckham had ultimately barred her from such august institutions as Almack’s, though she didn’t seem to care overmuch. She had jewels, silks, and a whirl of social events, despite the stuffy attitudes of some of the ladies who refused to acknowledge her. There were plenty of others who invited her to events in an effort to curry favor with the duke, and she was pleased to attend.
Then, in another rash fit, she’d abandoned John. He’d been five when she’d run off with the Italian drawing master who’d been tutoring the duke’s sister. If she ever gave John another thought, he had no indication of it.
But he’d done well enough, though he had to admit he was relieved when the duke had plucked him off the street a few months later.
The Duke of Peckham had had a reputation for generosity, and he obviously intended to prove himself worthy of the accolades. He’d granted him the use of his surname and even provided him with an education.
However, the duke’s gracious gesture failed to encompass adoption. His sons had amused themselves by reminding him that he was only there as proof of their father’s magnanimity. In truth, John had no legal or social status. No claim to any family ties. The English courts considered him to have no father or family at all.
It wasn’t surprising, then, that when the duke’s sons had picked fights with him, he’d been happy to defend himself, even if it meant bearing the blame and brunt of any punishments that befell them. He’d been battered and bloodied more than a few times, but in the end, no one could claim that John Archer was a coward.
He deliberately relaxed his jaw muscles. “Would you like some refreshment, Lady Victoria?” John asked, cutting off Fitton with a bland smile. “Or perhaps you would like a breath of air? It is growing warm in here, is it not?”
“You must not forget Mr. Fitton, dearest,” Lady Longmoor stepped closer, angling her shoulder to adeptly ease her daughter away from John. Her gaze focused on Lady Victoria’s face. “I believe you promised him the next dance.”
Lady Victoria glanced from her mother to John and then to Fitton. A sigh escaped her as she demurely lowered her gaze to the floor when Fitton smiled at her with a proprietary air. Although she appeared obedient, John hadn’t missed the downward curve of her mouth, even if Fitton discounted her expression as mere maidenly modesty. He held out his arm to escort her once more to join the set now forming. Her mouth tightened, but she placed her gloved hand on his arm and went with him.
John’s gaze followed the pair as they took their place near the top of the set. All was not lost. Not yet.
“Mr. Archer, thank you for your consideration in dancing with my daughter—she adores dancing.”
Nodding, John waited, knowing what she was going to say.
“She is fortunate to have a partner for every set for the rest of the evening,” she said, watching her daughter.
And therefore doesn’t need any further consideration from the likes of me. John could almost hear the words underlying Lady Longmoor’s careful comment.
“Are you enjoying the ball?” Lady Longmoor asked politely, though her attention continued to be fixed on her daughter.
John bowed. “Yes. The company of ladies such as yourself and Lady Victoria would make even the most tedious ball enjoyable,” he replied blandly.
“You flatter me.”
“Not at all.” Glancing around, John noticed Taggert staring at him.
Frowning, Taggert made some remark to his companion and then turned and started walking in John’s direction.
Time to ease his way out as informally as he’d eased his way into the ball. A confrontation with Taggert would only make him appear even more unfavorable to Lady Longmoor and her husband. He looked around, bowed and excused himself to Lady Longmoor, and slipped along the wall. The maneuver placed the two long lines of dancers between John and Taggert, and Taggert could hardly tear a path through them.
As John rounded the far corner, Taggert realized what he was doing and doubled back to intercept him before he could reach the doorway. He seemed determined to force a scene, no doubt confident that such an action would impress Lady Victoria favorably and cast John in an unflattering light. The role of rogue was familiar to John—he’d been cast in it enough times as a youth—but this time, he had no wish to break Taggert’s nose over it, much as he might deserve it.
To John’s relief, Wickson also saw what was about to happen, and he managed to step in front of Taggert in the middle of the room. The irritation scraping Taggert’s brows together and tightening his mouth was evident, even from yards away. Grinning, John made it to the door and eased through.
A trip to the library for his hat, cloak, and sword stick took no time at all. Flinging his cloak around his shoulders, he contemplated his best avenue of escape. Not the front door. The butler would be surprised and irritated if John showed up there with his cloak and hat, and the servant might be inclined to hold him until Taggert could be summoned.
No. He’d arrived through the window. He’d leave the same way.
He lifted his head for a moment to listen to the music streaming out of the ballroom, a rueful smile playing over his lips. He could still feel the light touch of Lady Victoria’s gloved fingers in his and the brush of her silken skirts against his legs.
The fleeting image shattered when he heard the determined stride of someone walking down the hall toward the library.
He slipped out the window just as a black shadow stretched through the doorway behind him.
Chapter Four
“Lord Taggert was quite attentive, was he not?” Lady Longmoor asked her daughter on the way home.
Leaning back against the squabs, Lady Victoria stifled a sharp response about Lord Taggert and the trait that her mother would no doubt describe as frugal. “Yes.”
“And I was very impressed by Mr. Fitton. He is extremely handsome, almost as handsome as your father.” Lady Longmoor smiled as she squeezed her husband’s forearm.
“If you appreciate the type.” Victoria couldn’t help repeating her mother’s phrase from their walk in Hyde Park the previous week.
Her mother laughed as the carriage came to an abrupt halt. “Yes, but I believe most women do admire him. You seemed to enjoy his company.”
“They were both very proper gentlemen,” Victoria said, avoiding any statement that could be construed as a preference for one over the other.
Climbing out of the carriage after her parents, she took a deep breath. “Mr. Archer has invited me—and you, Mama—to view the Wold Cottage stone. Was that not kind of him?”
“A stone?” Lord Longmoor asked, cutting off his wife as he ushered them into the house. “I have viewed the thing already and cannot understand how it could possibly be interesting to a young lady.”
“I would like to see it, though,” Victoria replied, studying her mother hopefully.
Their butler silently collected their hats and outer garments and disappeared with them into his small room off the wide front hallway.
Sympathy and pity filled Lady Longmoor’s gray eyes as she reached out to touch her daughter’s arm. “Do you really think it is a good idea? While Mr. Archer was kind to ask you, it really wouldn’t do to encourage him, would it?”
“Archer?” Lord Longmoor’s brows wrinkled. “The rascal you danced with before remembering your promise to dance with Mr. Fitton?”
“Yes. Mr. Archer,” Lady Longmoor said. She studied Victoria’s face. “You know he will never do, dearest.” She glanced at her husband. “We don’t want to see you hurt again, and he is notorious for his love of wagers. Really, I wish you would forget him.”
“Archer…” Lord Longmoor rocked back on his heels and then forward, his hands clasped behind his back, and his nose tilted upward in thought. “Ah, yes. Archer. The duke’s by-blow. Sorry, my dear, but your mother is right. He will never do for you. Best not to encourage him. If you wish to see this sill
y stone, I will escort you myself.” He stopped rocking and grinned. “Or one of your other gentlemen may go with you. I’d be happy to arrange it, if one of them takes your fancy. Colonel Lord Parmar, perhaps? You can rely on a military man, you know. Good, solid man. Impeccable reputation.”
“Well, if it is only a stone, it doesn’t sound as interesting as I first thought,” Victoria said. Her shoulders slumped.
She should never have brought up the subject. It would have been wiser to wait until Mr. Archer arrived. Her parents might have found it more difficult to say no if he were there.
Thankfully, she managed to escape to the stairs without giving them any reason to believe she was ready to accept an offer from any of the men on the marriage list, or that she was unduly fond of John Archer.
The Season was just starting—it was only the end of April, after all—and she had time before a decision had to be made. She had time to do the right thing. And surely, Mr. Archer wouldn’t be that difficult to forget in the end. Both Lord Taggert and Mr. Fitton had been polite and attentive, and she might grow to like one or the other. She had no cause for complaint about either one.
Unfortunately, both of them gave her a depressing feeling of hopelessness. She felt no sense of liking or friendship. In fact, she felt nothing at all when she looked into their eyes. What was she going to do?
She lifted her head and straightened her shoulders as she climbed the second flight of stairs. Further acquaintance might make her feel differently. First impressions were so often wrong, and she hadn’t even met Sir Arnold Newby, yet.
He might be the one for her. All hope was not lost, yet.
When she got to her room, her maid, Rose, had already lit two lamps, and a cheerful fire burned in the fireplace, casting off the chill of the spring night. Rose had drawn the curtains to shut out the darkness, and the maid found it difficult to suppress her yawns as she assisted Victoria to undress and don her nightclothes.
Yawning in sympathy, Victoria covered her mouth and sat on the edge of her bed as Rose brushed, folded, and put away her gown. She quickly dismissed the maid and climbed under the covers, relaxing against her pillows that smelled faintly of lavender.
Ping. Rattle.
It must have started sleeting. She rolled over in bed, half-asleep, her limbs heavy and uncoordinated.
Ping, ping, ping. Rattle.
The noises grew more insistent and difficult to ignore. Victoria sat up and rubbed her eyes. Then she stopped with a sudden realization. Sleet? In April?
Wide awake, she threw off the covers and went to the window. Pulling the curtains aside, she stared outside.
Clear moonlight painted the small, enclosed yard a pale gray. Long shadows stretched out from the brick walls, smudging the small kitchen garden their cook was so insistent upon having.
Ping! Rattle!
She jumped back as the window shook, the thick panes almost shattering. Not sleet, after all. She pushed the window up and brushed several white pebbles off the sill before leaning out to study the darkness below.
A lithe form shifted. “Lady Victoria!”
“Who is there? What do you want?”
The black shape shifted until the moonlight revealed an upturned face. Mr. Archer stood below. He waved to her.
“Lady Victoria!” he called, cupping his hand around the side of his mouth. He glanced around and moved back a step. “Come down!”
“Come down? Are you mad?”
The grin on his face was clear, despite the uneven light. “Perhaps, but come down anyway.”
“I will not! It is the middle of the night!” Despite her refusal, she felt an answering smile tugging at her mouth. Giggling, she rested her elbows on the sill and studied him, excitement bubbling within her. A long plait of braided hair fell over her shoulder. She tossed it to rest against her back, gazing at John Archer.
“Come down!” he called again. “Be bold. For a moment, only.”
She shook her head.
Glancing around, he stepped into the shadows.
Fearing that he was leaving, Victoria leaned out further, only to see him step into the silvery moonlight again. “What are you doing?”
“If you will not come down, I will come up.”
“You will do nothing of the sort!” Heart pounding, she hit her head against the frame of the window as she peered into the darkness of her room.
Nothing stirred. No one had heard her or Mr. Archer. She poked her head out again.
The garden looked empty.
She froze. Had he already broken into the house? Her hands gripped the sill, part of her afraid that he was even now tip-toeing up the stairs and the other part half-afraid that he wasn’t. The deep bass of her heartbeat filled the silence.
The moment of panic ended when he stepped out of the black shadow of the garden wall.
“Come down to the kitchen door,” he coaxed. “No one will blame you for wishing for a nibble of bread crust or a cup of milk.”
She shook her head. “They will, for they know well enough that I have an intense dislike for milk. And crusts.”
“Will you come, then, to Gloucester Coffee House tomorrow to see the stone?”
“No. I’m sorry. I cannot.”
His slim form seemed to stiffen. “If I call on you, you will not be at home.” The harsh comment required no answer.
The urge she’d experienced to giggle with excitement deserted her. Tiredness returned, making her body heavy and awkward. She drooped a little over the sill, her fingers rubbing at the thick white paint of the window frame.
What could she say? His assessment had undoubtedly been correct.
“I’ll wager you a sixpence that you could meet me at the kitchen door and no one be the wiser.”
Wager? She stiffened. How could he? How could he prove her parents correct with a single word? He was a gambler and not to be trusted. Just like Laverick. Fears whirled around her like bats. How could she have been such a fool a second time?
Her hands and feet grew icy. She rubbed her left foot on the arch of her right, knocking her limbs against the wall beneath the window.
Slam the window shut! Forget about him!
“No,” she called down to him, the word harsh in her throat. “I will not wager. I hate wagers.”
For a full minute, silence reigned. The soft sound of a long breath finally broke the quiet. Below her, Mr. Archer shifted from one foot to the other. His slender body vibrated with the energy of a humming tuning fork. She longed for him, ached to feel his hand holding hers. He seemed so alive, so attractive, that the breath caught in her throat.
“Surely, you are not as poor-spirited as that.” His words were so low they barely reached her ears. “Have courage, Lady Victoria. I was not mistaken about you, was I?”
“I don’t know.” Coolness turned her words into shards of the sleet she’d thought she’d heard earlier, spattering against her window. “I suppose it depends upon what assumptions you made.”
“You cannot let the opinions of others weigh with you—you have a fine mind and spirit—come down, Lady Vee. Or let me come up. Open the kitchen door.”
The nickname raised a traitorous flutter inside her. “No. You may think what you wish. I will do neither.” She eased back a fraction and rested her hands on the window frame. “Good night, Mr. Archer.”
“Lady Vee!”
“Good night—and please desist from throwing any more pebbles at my window. You have obviously made a grave mistake in your estimation of me. I do not approve of silly wagers or callers who arrive in the middle of the night.”
“It is nearly morning,” he called back quickly, before she could shut the window.
Her lips quirked into a lopsided smile. “It is dark, and that is sufficient for me. Go home, Mr. Archer.” She cut herself off before the words and never bother me again slipped out of her mouth.
She should have said it, should have made it clear that he wasn’t on her marriage list and was therefore inap
propriate. Her hands gripped the window sill as her stomach twisted. Don’t bother me again. She should have had the courage. Nonetheless, she couldn’t bring herself to utter such final words. Cutting him off entirely felt too much like Juliet stabbing herself with Romeo’s dagger.
A foolish and foolishly final ending. An end to everything.
Straightening, she shoved the window down. She pulled the draperies over the silvery panes and cut off the bright moonlight, leaving her rubbing her cold arms in the deep gloom of her bedchamber.
Chapter Five
What had happened? He wasn’t that wrong about her, he was sure of it, and yet he hadn’t missed her jerk and the subsequent stiffness in her body when he mentioned the word wager. Surely, she wasn’t one of those stiff-necked, angry souls who seemed determined to prohibit any enjoyment in life; gambling, alcohol, even a well-roasted side of beef—in short, anything that could provide a little pleasure.
No. Never. She simply wasn’t the sort, not with that delicious sense of humor.
Staring up at her dark window, he pulled on the lapels of his coat to straighten it, and eyed the windows of the ground floor. Their locks were simple ones and certainly nothing that could resist the blandishments of his pocketknife. However, he was loathe to upset her further by knocking on her bedchamber door at… He pulled out a pocket watch. A little after three in the morning.
Well, that wouldn’t do at all. Though being found in her bedchamber in the middle of the night by her horrified father wasn’t the worst fate he could think of. He grinned and turned away, tapping his hat more firmly on his head as he wended his way through the narrow alley running along the side of the townhouse.
The lateness of the hour meant the streets were quieter than usual and more picturesque with the moonlight painting everything in soft colors of silver and gray, like Lady Vee’s beautiful gray eyes, and the long sweep of her graceful neck and shoulders.
Picking up his pace, he returned to the bachelor apartment he shared with Wickson. He had to step over Wickson’s shoes and walking stick when he entered, but he refused to move them. Although naturally tidy, John had given up trying to bring order to his friend’s belongings. Besides, he’d be up and gone to the coffee house before the charwoman arrived in the morning, so he wouldn’t have to stand around, head hanging down like a chastened schoolboy, while she berated him and cleaned up Wickson’s mess.
