by Allison Lane
"Gray!” A grin split Nicholas Barrington's face as he shook hands. They had been close friends since school. “When did you return to town?"
"An hour ago.” He shuddered. “Horrible journey. All this rain.” His eyes took in Nick's appearance, from the Byronesque curls, through the intricate cravat and wine-colored coat, to the highly polished dancing shoes. “New knot?"
Nick laughed. “New valet. I've not yet broken him in. He has delusions of dandyism, I fear."
"Not a bad idea. The affectation would mask your intellect to a nicety.” Gray was one of the few who knew that Nick supported himself entirely on wagers based on his understanding of human nature.
"I would rather be thought intellectual than court comparisons to peacocks."
Gray laughed. “So who's in town this year?"
"Atwater is back, though it's barely six months since his wife died. He seems smitten with Miss Warren—Forley's sister."
"Forley?"
"This is his first Season in London, but you might recall his father. Died about six years ago."
"Ah. Fast parties. Ran with Cavendish, as I recall. Dissipated his fortune trying to keep up."
"That's the one.” Nick scanned the room. “The latest Cunningham chit will do well—looks and a keen sense of humor. Rockhurst is back and supporting the reformists in Parliament. He's sponsoring his wife's two sisters. The elder Miss Seabrook is a diamond, though too aware of it. She uses the younger as a foil, which I deplore."
"Perhaps it would have been kinder to leave the younger at home another year."
"Perhaps, but Miss Mary is already twenty—the family was destitute until Rockhurst stepped in. Once she conquers her nervousness, she should do well.” A shrug dismissed the Seabrooks. “The other diamonds are Miss Norton and Miss Harfield. As for the lesser lights, Miss Huntsley is beyond hope. I expect she will return home within the month."
"Why?"
"Clumsy, gauche, not overly bright, and looks that would make a bulldog seem handsome. Her dowry is too small to compensate. That's her talking to Lady Stafford."
Gray glanced across the room. Horse-faced and dressed in a gown so bedecked with ribbons and bows that she could pass as a display in a draper's shop. He would have to avoid Miss Huntsley.
Socially inept females were his bane, though he could only blame himself. As a stripling, he had sympathized with society's misfits. So he'd tried to set them at ease, drawing out the shy, relaxing the nervous, introducing originals to gentlemen who shared their interests.
No more. He'd been badly burned for his efforts and now stayed far away from eligible misses. Another scandal would ruin him. Only his fortune and expectations had kept him in London ballrooms after the last one.
"What are the latest on-dits?” he asked, his eyes scanning the crowd for potential trouble. Lady Alston playfully rapped a fan on Wigby's arm—arranging an assignation? Lady Cunningham had pulled her daughter behind a pillar, probably to warn her away from Lord Grayson. Griffin burst from the refreshment room with a face like thunder.
Nick smiled. “Shelford made a cake of himself last week. Fell off his horse in Hyde Park."
"Fell?” Shelford was a noted Corinthian and outstanding horseman who could prose for hours about horses, riding, and carriage construction. Gray found his lectures as boring as Rothmoor's discourses on hunting and shooting.
"At least fifty people saw him. He was so smitten by a young lady's beauty that he wasn't ready when his horse shied."
Gray shook his head.
Nick continued. “Renford and Garwood are suddenly at odds, though no one knows why. I suspect the complaint is Garwood's."
"Not surprising. The man's a prime prig."
"True. And in another dispute, Atwater may regret returning while in mourning. Blackthorn is trying to provoke a challenge."
"Atwater had best look out, then. Blackthorn has already killed several men."
"He won't be the next. I've never seen him in a temper, no matter what the provocation. The man is a saint—and just as annoying as one.” Nick shrugged.
Gray chuckled. Nick always suspected those who were too perfect. “Anyone I should look out for besides Miss Huntsley?” Some girls were drawn to rakes. It made no sense, since such associations could ruin them. But every rake knew they existed.
"Miss Derrick. Her mother is dead, so her father hired Miss Pettigrew as chaperon."
"Damnation. The woman is too enamored of cards to watch anyone.” He ought to know. One of her previous charges had made his life hell. “Does Miss Derrick court danger, or is she already unchaste?"
"Danger, certainly, but I doubt she is experienced. Her ultimate goal is marriage, and after a month in town, she's growing desperate. Her father can't afford a second Season. Doubtless she will ruin herself before long, but in the meantime, she is forward enough to be a serious problem."
"I won't be the one who ruins her. Maybe we should direct her to Devereaux or Lord Roger, and be done with her. Neither cares a whit for society or for convention."
"It wouldn't work. She's drawn to rakes, but demands wealth and position, too. Devereaux would never offer marriage, and Lord Roger lacks social standing. She cut my acquaintance when she discovered I have no fortune and am only remotely connected to a title. She's been after Wroxleigh for the past week. He set her down quite firmly yesterday, then cut her dead in the park this morning, so she will rejoice over your arrival. You also meet her standards."
"Heir to an earl who despises me. An exaggerated reputation that is often out-and-out false."
"But you are rich."
"From engaging in trade.” He shrugged.
"I doubt she would care, and Rothmoor can't cut you out of the title. So watch out."
"Is she here tonight?” Gray frowned. Girls who craved danger were as bad as the greedy ones who had destroyed his credit. He would gladly throttle the lot of them.
"She's talking to Lady Beatrice. The white gown with rosebuds on the bodice. She always dresses in white. It makes her look angelic if you ignore her eyes. They are alive with scheming."
Nick would know. He could see beneath the surface better than anyone.
Gray casually glanced toward the corner. Honey blonde hair, light eyes, heart-shaped face. With a decent portion, she would have no trouble making a good match, so why did she risk a reputation that must already be tarnished? Only two gentlemen were paying her heed, and neither had marriage on his mind.
He shuddered when she turned and met his gaze. She must already know who he was, for her eyes lit like lanterns, and she coquettishly waved her fan.
"Is Justin here tonight?” he asked, turning back to Nick. Lord Justin Landess was the other member of their trio.
"In the card room. Heatherford is trying to convince him to replace his team."
"I'd better rescue him, then. Once Heatherford starts talking horses, he never stops."
Nick nodded. “I'll see you at White's later. I've bespoken this next set."
Gray watched Nick move off, then headed for the card room. But he'd not gone three steps before spotting Miss Derrick headed his way. Damnation! She'd already crossed half the room.
He joined a group of gentlemen discussing the latest news from Spain, then ducked behind a screen of palms when they headed for the door. Since two of them wore jackets the same blue as his, Miss Derrick might believe he'd left with them. But his real destination lay in another direction.
He hugged the wall, careful not to brush the branches as he followed the palms toward the card room. He'd traversed half the distance before he realized he was not alone. A young lady was also hiding.
Curses exploded through his head. He was neatly trapped. Retracing his steps would draw Miss Derrick's attention, yet he must squeeze past this new threat to reach the card room.
But was she a threat?
She almost looked like a companion or governess, though she could not yet be twenty. Brown hair coiled untidily atop her head—or perha
ps it was falling out of an attempt at curls. A plain white gown encased her slim body, a single ribbon beneath the bodice its only embellishment. The high neckline covered a lack of jewelry. One hand clutched a pad of paper.
A journalist?
He shook off that notion as she added lines to a picture, the tip of her tongue protruding past her teeth. She couldn't be sketching the ballroom, for she never looked at it. She might have been alone in a field for all the attention she paid her surroundings. Odd. Very odd.
Curiosity is dangerous, warned his conscience.
Ignoring it, he peeked over her shoulder, then inhaled in surprise. She was a talented artist and a student of natural history. Who else could draw so well from memory? A chaffinch perched in a gnarled apple tree, head cocked perkily to one side. A few lines evoked rough bark, soft feathers, and lustrous fruit. But he could see why she was frowning. The bird's beak was too thick, pushing it slightly off balance.
"Try this,” he murmured, grabbing the pad.
"Oh!” She whirled, one hand to her breast. “I d-didn't know anyone was here."
"Not so loud.” He rubbed out the beak. Brisk strokes reshaped the appendage, bringing the bird to life. “That's better. Are you from the west country?"
She nodded. “How did you know?"
"That is the only place you find apples that shape. Those in the east are rounder. You are an accomplished sketch artist."
"I—” She blushed. “I was hoping to see some different birds in town, but we have so little time to look about."
"If you walk in the park in the mornings, you will see hoopoes and bee eaters. And a magnificent purple heron visits the Serpentine at dawn most days."
"I heard a pair of hobbies was spotted near Kensington Palace recently."
"Interesting. I've not seen them here before.” He smiled, leaning negligently against the wall. “Richmond is better suited for bird watching. Forest. Heath. River. Plenty of space and food."
"Perhaps Laura will consider an excursion to Richmond, then,” she murmured, half to herself.
"You would enjoy it.” Gray knew he should leave before someone spotted him—clothes notwithstanding, this girl was clearly quality, and unmarried quality at that. But he couldn't do it. Aside from the certainty that Miss Derrick still lurked, he was enjoying her company. Obviously she didn't recognize him. She was not flirting or swooning or regarding him as Satan. It had been too long since he had talked with a young lady—or relaxed while talking to anyone. His reputation overshadowed every contact.
He idly turned pages. A sparrow hawk, a hedgehog, a caricature—
"Egad, that is Wigby to the life. We were schoolmates.” He chuckled. She had sketched him as a stork. Very appropriate, as the dandy was tall and very lean, with thin legs and a long pointed nose. No amount of padding could cover his defects. The next page depicted Lord Edward Broadburn as a charming pouter pigeon, so overburdened by a thrust-out chest that he teetered on his feet.
"Sir—My l-lord—” She stammered to a halt.
He knew his manners were outrageous—she was an innocent, for God's sake—but something about her drew him. Her presence behind the palms told him she was shy, though her sketches displayed a wicked sense of humor. Four years ago he would have set her at ease. And maybe he still could.
"My apologies,” he said softly. “But I must wonder why so talented a lady is hiding in the shadows. London is not filled with ogres."
"Of course not. But it takes only one."
"An ogre? Are you sure? Did someone spurn your smiles? Surely you need not fear rejection.” He turned the page and chuckled again. Griffin hung from a tree, his forked tongue hissing. “You've a delightful eye for character, my dear. He is pure poison, though too few see it. But except for ungentlemanly insults, you should be safe enough. He prefers country innocents of fourteen or so."
"I had heard rumors, though no one will confirm them to young ladies. Yet he clearly seeks me out. Though I try to avoid him, he is forever popping up."
"Like a weed?"
She laughed. “Exactly. Bindweed, most likely. One moment the room is quite congenial, the next it contains Mr. Griffin. One cannot root him out."
"So circumvent him. You might befriend Mr. Hempbury. Not only is he fascinated by birds and other natural wonders, but Griffin cannot tolerate the fellow."
"Th-thank you,” she stammered.
When she was nervous she seemed quite young, and very unspoiled. Perhaps she had reason to fear the snake after all.
It might be instructive to check on Griffin's current activities. The man inhabited society's fringes. As long as he behaved, he was welcome at large ton gatherings, but even a mild scandal would banish him. Rumors suggested that he frequented a certain house of punishment, though not as a penitent. He was said to have a strong arm with a whip.
Gray returned her pad. "Au revoir, my dear artist. It has been a most delightful meeting. I needed a chuckle after a frustrating day. But be careful whom you parody. There are those who lose all humor when they are the subject."
Stepping past her, he grinned at the damaged wall her skirts had hidden. That explained this convenient excess of palms.
The set was over, with the usual confusion as gentlemen returned partners to their chaperons, then sought new ones. Thus it was easy to slip unnoticed into the card room.
But he felt an unexpected tug of regret. She had talent, intelligence, and eyes that saw beneath the surface. Quite different from the usual society miss. Were she a man, they might have become friends.
CHAPTER TWO
Mary shrank against the wall as the gentleman squeezed past. The light brush of his body made her heart pound and dampened her palms—a ridiculous reaction. She didn't even know his name.
But he was a handsome devil, with a long, rugged face, dark hair, and quicksilver eyes—beautiful eyes fringed with long black lashes. The rest was equally intriguing. His lean body topped her by a head, muscular enough to fill his clothes without padding. And his taste was impeccable—elegant cravat that did not impede his movement, blue jacket, white waistcoat embroidered in silver, and dove gray pantaloons clinging to well-formed thighs. Simple elegance that made the dandies crowding the ballroom seem overdressed. He must turn heads wherever he went.
So why had she never noticed him before?
Not that it mattered. He would forget a plain miss like her the moment he was out of sight—especially if he spotted Laura.
But he did notice you, insisted the dreamer who lived in her head.
"Only because I was drawing,” she murmured. And hiding.
She blushed. Catherine would be appalled that she had been caught. And if she discovered the caricatures, she would likely confiscate the lot. Even the gentleman thought them dangerous, though he'd enjoyed them. But his warning echoed Catherine's. And seeking solitude left her vulnerable. What if it had been Mr. Griffin who'd found her?
Shivering, she cast about for a distraction and found it in her own behavior. Amazingly, she had spoken naturally, with hardly a stammer. No embarrassing truths or brainless observations, either. Somehow, she had felt as comfortable with him as with her family.
The novelty reawakened dreams she had buried years earlier, dreams of marriage and children. Helping raise her niece had made those longings stronger, and observing the connection between Blake and Catherine reinforced the hope that she, too, could find love.
She pulled her mind back to the ballroom, cursing. Nurturing that fantasy served no purpose. Even marriage was unlikely. No man wanted her. If anyone actually did offer, it would be for the dowry she would bring or because a widower sought help with his children.
She shifted a palm branch so she could peer out. Griffin strode toward the stairs, the crowd drawing back to ease his way, as if they, too, were anxious to see the last of him. But he disappointed them, stopping to chat with Lord Hervey. Was he still seeking her?
Laura was dancing. Catherine and Lady Potherby headed for the refr
eshment room. Her stranger was nowhere in sight.
Her stranger? She castigated her dreamer for weaving absurd tales of love and white knights and happily ever after around a man she didn't know. Instead of teasing herself, she should concentrate on surviving this Season without shaming her family.
Voices rose as the music swelled, the loudest unmistakable. Lady Washburn had a voice like a buzzard, and her perfume could overpower a cesspit. She was avidly recounting her terror at being caught in last night's opera riot. Nearby, Lord Hartford lisped a humorous account of Blackthorn's latest insult to Atwater.
Ignoring them, Mary opened her pad to a blank page, then cringed when the palms shook.
"Stay away from Wroxleigh,” hissed Lady Smythe-Gower to her daughter Hermione. Mary held her breath, but neither noticed her.
"We were only talking,” protested Hermione.
"That doesn't matter. He is a rake—a charming one, to be sure, but he has no interest in marriage. Do you want Sir Leonard to think you fast? He will not offer for anyone he considers improper."
"If rakes are so awful, why are they allowed in respectable ballrooms?” Hermione's chin was set in a stubborn line.
"Many aren't. You would never find Blackthorn or Devereaux here. But most hostesses welcome amusing gentlemen, even if they are rakes. And Wroxleigh isn't the only one you must avoid. Grayson has already ruined several innocents. Sanders is growing bolder. And stay well away from Millhouse."
"But Mother—"
"Do you wish to find a husband?"
Hermione sighed.
"Once you are wed, you can befriend anyone you choose, but for now, avoid all rakes."
Mary gave silent thanks when Hermione capitulated and rejoined the other guests. They had not seen her.
Griffin still lurked.
She contemplated the sketchbook. How could she depict the stranger? Even on this brief acquaintance, he seemed more complex than the average gentleman. Almost as bad as Laura. Mary had done a series of sketches showing Laura as a haughty cat, a preening peacock, a stubborn mule, and a silly goose. Laura would undoubtedly accuse her of jealousy—or worse—if she ever saw them, for she would never admit that each depicted a facet of her character. Yet they were not comprehensive, even taken together. They didn't show Laura's generosity and need to help those in trouble, not did they depict how she could change from loving sister to furious judge in an instant.
