And her.
His heart raced a bit faster, partly due to the exhilarating ride and partly because he was nervous. Whatever he discovered, he promised himself he wouldn’t show anger or disappointment or sadness. He had been practicing his very best impassive expression the entire day, finding it was not so very different from the one he wore most days aboard ship.
Slowing his mount as he reached the village’s only public house, William studied the shingle. The Five Bells was no doubt named for the bells that could be seen in the church’s bell tower, although he hadn’t heard any of them ring as he made his way to the town.
“Good afternoon,” Will heard as he glanced around. His attention fell on a short man who had just come out of the public house.
“Afternoon,” Will acknowledged with a nod, wincing as he dismounted. Although he had occasionally ridden a horse during his eight years in the Navy, he had never done so for two days straight. Thirsty and in need of information, he decided a few moments spent at The Five Bells could only help his disposition. “Is there a stable where I might find someone to tend to my horse?” he asked.
The man merely pointed farther down the road. A young boy was running toward him. “I can take him, mister!” the boy called out, managing a bow before he reached for the reins.
Will hesitated giving up his hold on Thunderbolt, thinking the horse would easily break free from such a young boy should he be spooked. But Will relaxed when he noticed how the boy had already fished a carrot from his pocket and allowed Thunderbolt to pluck the snack from his hand.
Reaching into his purse, Will tossed the boy a penny. “Where will you take him?” he asked, not seeing a stables along the dirt road.
“There,” the boy pointed in the direction of an open building, more a barn than a stables.
“I’ll be along shortly,” Will said with a nod, deciding to watch to be sure Thunderbolt didn’t try to escape the boy’s lead. But he realized the boy must have had more treats hidden in his pockets, for Thunderbolt continued walking alongside the boy until they disappeared into the barn.
“He’ll water him and brush him good,” the short man said as he regarded Will, his gaze taking in the quality cut of his clothes and his boots.
“Thank you,” Will said as he turned to enter the public house. “Are you the proprietor?” he wondered as he stepped up to the door.
“Just a customer,” the man offered. “Miss Susan will see to an ale for you,” he added as he set off toward a cluster of buildings.
The interior of The Five Bells reminded Will of many such taverns he had visited over his six-and-twenty years. Dark, until his eyes could adjust, it smelled of sour ale and baking bread and the sweat of working men. An older woman stood behind the bar in the taproom, her mobcap failing at keeping her curly fuzz of hair covered.
“You look as if you could use an ale,” she remarked as she pulled a glass mug from a shelf. “Something to eat?”
Will nodded. “Anything hot?” he asked as she set the mug of ale on the countertop.
“Meat pies. Just took some bread out of the oven, too,” she replied. “Just passing through?”
The question reminded Will he didn’t know exactly where he could find Barbara. “I’m in search of a woman—”
“Aren’t ya’ all?” Susan countered with an arched eyebrow, her grin nearly toothless.
Will allowed a grin of his own. “Name’s Barbara. Does she live somewhere near here?”
Susan angled her head to one side, as if she was trying to decide whether or not she would give him the information he sought. “Are you here to give her trouble? Poor girl doesn’t need any more, if ya’ are.”
A look of alarm crossed Will’s face. The woman must have recognized his concern, for she soon changed her manner. “She lives in a cottage just down the road past town. Right side. She just planted a garden, so don’t be tramplin’ through it. And she don’t do tumbles, so don’t be thinkin’ ya’ can bed her. She’s got a gun, and she knows how to use it.”
William blinked. And blinked again before he shook his head. “I assure you, my lady, I have no intention of doing anything that would result in my getting shot,” he said with a shake of his head, suddenly wondering if they were discussing his Barbara.
She has a gun? And knows how to use it?
“Thinkin’ of going there now?”
Will gave a shrug. “I hoped to,” he acknowledged.
“Then you would be wise to bring some supper with you. God knows she could use some meat on them bones. The boy, too.” She assembled several meat pies into a linen cloth and folded it.
Draining his ale, William regarded the wrapped meal and offered her a sovereign. “Anything else I should know?”
Susan gave the coin an appreciative look. “If you are lookin’ for a tumble, Grace will be workin’ later this evenin’,” she replied, one eye arching up suggestively.
William didn’t bother to suppress another grin. “Thanks.” Gathering the linen-wrapped meal into the crook of one arm, he took his leave of The Five Bells and set out to retrieve his horse.
Chapter 16
A Commoner Crashes a Ball
Back to the night before...
Victoria Comber’s gaze followed the retreating back of the man she had just kissed, his unhurried steps taking him toward the rear entrance of Lord Weatherstone’s garden. She was tempted to follow him, just to determine if he was actually leaving the ball for good or if he intended to circle around and re-enter the house through the front door.
Despite their earlier dance and conversation and their time in the gardens—or perhaps because of it—she found herself rather intrigued by the son of a marquess.
Lord Bellingham—she was quite sure he was the son of the Marquess of Devonville and held the courtesy title ‘Earl of Bellingham’—had been a rather pleasant dance partner and an interesting person with whom to converse. Entertaining, certainly not too serious, his introduction had been rather odd. She wondered why he referred to himself as ‘Stephen Slater’ as opposed to ‘William Slater’ or ‘Will Slater’ or simply ‘Bellingham’—she would have expected him to say ‘Bellingham’ once she realized who he was—and decided ‘Stephen’ was probably a middle name he preferred. At some point, she would have to consult her aunt’s copy of Debrett’s Peerage and Barontage to confirm her suspicion.
Now, if Stephen Slater had given any thought to her unexpected presence at the ball, he certainly didn’t show it in his expression nor in his conversation. For the entire length of the English Country Dance, she was sure someone would recognize her, or at least realize that they didn’t recognize her and call her out.
After all, she was there without an invitation.
And without a title.
She was the niece of an earl. That’s as close a relation as she was to any member of the ton.
Having arrived after the receiving line dispersed, she was able to divest herself of her mantle and make her way to the ballroom without speaking a word to anyone. She simply merged into the thinning crowd of latecomers so her lack of a chaperone went unnoticed. Her satin and tulle gown, a soft pink that accentuated her pale blonde hair and porcelain skin, was daring in that it was a color other than white. She was unmarried, after all, and wearing a colored gown suggested she was a young matron.
She felt like it at times. I’m almost three-and-twenty, she thought with a sigh. Some come-out.
First ball since her arrival in London. No invitation. No chaperone.
What’s the worst that could happen?
I could stumble down the stairs after being announced.
Well, she ensured that didn’t happen by not going down the stairs. Which meant she didn’t get announced.
Entering the ballroom without needing to be announced was her first true challenge.
If the Weatherstone mansion was like any other, there would be more than one way to get into the cavernous space. If she hadn’t been wearing a mantle, she could
have just entered through one of the French doors from the garden, but surely someone would have noticed her sneaking down the alley whilst dressed for a ball. And she wasn’t sure if she would be able to keep her slippers from becoming soiled should she accidentally step into a puddle. Or some excrement from a horse. Leaving footprints on a gleaming ballroom floor wasn’t her idea of making a grand entrance. There was also a servants’ entrance, but getting to it would have proved as difficult to navigate as the alley.
Instead, she had simply arrived late and acted as if she belonged there, holding her head high and allowing a footman to assist her in removing her mantle. She had given him a nod and hurried along as if she knew exactly what she was doing.
Which she did not.
She had never crashed a ton ball before.
But, oh, how exhilarating this was to simply pretend she belonged there! If anyone asked her who she was, she decided she would simply tell them the truth. “Miss Comber,” she would say. If they paused and looked the least bit confused, as if they were trying to determine to what family she might belong, she would add, “Aimsley is my uncle.”
Which was true.
Her mother had married the youngest brother of Mark Comber, Earl of Aimsley. The youngest brother, who was also the black sheep of the family. The one who eschewed the aristocratic life he had been born to and removed himself entirely from it by relocating to Hertfordshire.
To take up farming.
But those at the ball didn’t need to know that.
She shivered, wondering why anyone would give up a life that included such elegance, such decadence, such obvious wealth and privilege. But her father claimed he couldn’t abide the lifestyle and simply had to give it up.
At least her mother was the daughter of gentry, although Victoria never understood why Alexandra Regan would give up her life in a comfortable manor house in Middlesex to marry a farmer.
“Surrounding yourself with beautiful things just makes you want more beautiful things,” her mother tried to explain one afternoon. “But to what end? A house full of things isn’t a home.”
Victoria was pretty sure she could make a house full of things a home if she was given half a chance. Even a house half-full of things when she gave it some more thought.
At least her parents employed several servants to see to their household and some of the farming duties. And Alexandra had an excellent modiste in Madame Herbert, a flamboyant woman whose salon was filled with artfully arranged fabrics and notions. An entire afternoon could be spent just looking through her pattern books, another afternoon spent choosing the fabric and trims, and yet another spent being fitted for ensembles.
The pink gown Victoria now wore was one of Madame Herbert’s creations, a rather pretty frock decorated with a ruffled tulle bodice and cap sleeves that angled off her bare shoulders. The deep ruffle at the bottom barely skimmed the floor. Paired with elbow-length white satin gloves and some earrings her Aunt Mildred had loaned her, the dinner gown was transformed into an acceptable ball gown. Victoria silently thanked Madam Herbert when she realized she didn’t look as if she had just arrived from the country.
Which she had.
On the mail coach. Three days before.
Her brother had been her escort, seeing to it she was safely delivered to the residence of their aunt and uncle, Mildred and Anthony Regan, before Rufus headed to a men’s club for an evening of gambling. He went on to Brighton the day after, claiming a need for surf and sand.
Although Victoria had never before met her much older Aunt Mildred, she was surprised to find the woman would have been a dead ringer for her mother, except that her hair was nearly completely gray. “Goodness, I do hope you have some entertainments in mind that don’t require a chaperone,” Mildred had said when she led Victoria to her bedchamber, a small but beautifully decorated corner room on the second story of their townhouse. “I gave up on the social niceties years ago. Still go to the theatre now and again with your uncle, although I go to actually watch the play.”
Having never been to the theatre, Victoria wasn’t sure what her aunt meant by the comment, but she figured she would find out. She intended to go the following evening with her aunt in tow. Since her uncle had left for Sussex the day before and would be gone for a fortnight, he wasn’t available as an escort. But not having a chaperone for other events meant Victoria would have to be creative about how she arrived at events. About how she got there.
Given the traffic in Park Lane due to the Weatherstone’s ball, the hackney that delivered her tonight had to stop nearly a block away. Undaunted, Victoria had stepped down from the equipage and simply hurried along until she caught up to a group of other similarly garbed ball goers and acted if she belonged with them.
Once she had divested herself of her mantle, she merely followed the others, most of whom turned into the ballroom where a butler announced their arrival. When she realized the man was actually calling out names and titles, she continued down the hall, passing several couples who appeared to be loitering near the door to the library.
When she noticed a footman carrying a tray of champagne glasses, she followed him as he passed through a door farther down the hall, and voila! Victoria was in the ballroom holding a glass of champagne and trying ever so hard to keep her mouth closed.
She didn’t think she had ever been in a room with more lit candles. Or perhaps the house had been piped for natural gas—she had heard some in London were entirely gas-lit.
The chandeliers, and there were at least three of them, looked as if each could hold more than fifty candles. The sconces along the walls were all lit, as were the candle lamps decorating the refreshment table.
Once she had taken in all the lighting, her attention went back up to the moldings that decorated the circumference of the elaborately painted ceiling. Her gaze was drawn to the opposite corners of the room, where columns flanked the line of windows and French doors. The walls, papered in a pale mint, were probably meant to make the room seem larger, but at the moment, it was so crowded, Victoria thought it rather claustrophobic.
“A rather impressive ballroom, is it not?”
Victoria had to suppress the urge to gasp when she realized the question was directed to her. “It is,” she agreed with a nod, her attention suddenly on the rather handsome young man who stood before her. “It’s my first time,” she blurted out, almost immediately regretting the comment.
“Mine, too.”
Blinking, Victoria regarded the teasing visage and allowed a grin. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that?” she asked as she took in the young man’s topcoat and elaborately embroidered waistcoat. His hair was cut short and framed a tanned face featuring a pair of hazel eyes that positively twinkled with mischief. The grin that displayed his perfectly pillowed lips only added to his amused expression.
Perfectly pillowed lips?
Victoria inhaled sharply at the thought, wondering how she could have thought such a thing. She didn’t even know the identity of the bounder, and she was already sizing up his lips for...
Kissing!
Blinking, she regarded the man and then swallowed. Is it my turn to speak? Or was she waiting for him to respond to some nicety she had said?
Then she remembered her query.
Do you honestly expect me to believe that?
Well, it wasn’t her best come-back, but then she hadn’t but a moment to consider anything else. The man looked as if he attended ton events on a nightly basis—his casual manner and expensive clothing were a testament to it.
And now he was laughing. Chuckling, rather, obviously amused by her question.
Well, at least he wasn’t an uptight bounder.
“I do, actually. I’ve been away from London for many years,” he replied with a nod before he gave her a bow and reached for her hand.
Not used to having the back of her hand kissed, Victoria watched in wonder as his perfectly pillowed lips brushed over the satin of her glove. For that brie
f instant, she rather wished she wasn’t wearing gloves, or that her lips were where the back of her hand was located, for she could only think the kiss was wasted on the fabric.
I’ll never wash that glove again!
“Stephen Slater,” he said as he straightened. He suddenly glanced around. “I apologize. I probably should have waited for someone to introduce us, but—”
“No apology necessary... Mr. Slater,” Victoria replied, her hesitancy due to his name. He didn’t mention a title, although he looked as if he should have been at least a baron. Slater. William Slater. Marquess of Devonville. Too young to be the marquess, which means he’s the heir or the spare. “Miss Victoria Comber,” she added as she curtsied, wincing when she realized she hadn’t practiced the move wearing the rather tight dance slippers she had borrowed for the night. “It’s very good to meet you.”
“And you,” Stephen replied. “Comber, did you say? As in... the Earl of Aimsley?” he wondered, racking his brain to remember the names of the sons and daughters of Mark Comber. Andrew, Alistair... For the life of him, he couldn’t remember having seen the name ‘Victoria’ among the earl’s progeny.
Victoria’s eyes widened at hearing how quickly the young man associated her with her uncle. “Niece,” she replied quickly, hoping he wouldn’t determine she was a nobody when it came to the others in attendance.
“Ah,” he replied, suddenly looking rather relieved. He glanced down at the hand he had just released the moment before. “Aren’t you dancing this evening?” he asked, one hand indicating her lack of a card tied about her wrist.
Victoria lifted her hand, as if it had been slapped, and then noticed how a card dangled from the wrist of a young woman who stood near them. “I... I didn’t receive a card,” she replied with a shrug. “But I’ll certainly grant you a dance should you want one.” She held her breath when she realized he hadn’t actually asked if she wanted to dance. “That is, if you wish to dance. With me,” she added, suddenly more nervous than she had been when she entered the vestibule of the house.
The Caress of a Commander [retail] Page 11
