“A whole week you’ve been away, m’dear. Quite desolate, we’ve been.” Mr Amberly smiled benignly.
“Not that I can’t understand it,” Mr Satterly remarked. “The crushes are becoming far too real for my liking. Drive anyone away.” His gaze rose to Harry’s face, his expression utterly bland. “Don’t you think so, Lester?”
“Indeed,” Harry replied, casting a steely glance about them. With him on one side and Ruthven, equally large, on the other, Lucinda was at least assured of space enough to breathe. The rest of her court gathered before them, creating an enclosure of relative sanity for which, he was sure, they were all rendering silent thanks.
“And where did you go to recoup, my dear Mrs Babbacombe? The country or the seaside?”
It was, predictably, Lord Ruthven who voiced the inevitable question. He smiled encouragingly down at Lucinda; she sensed the subtle teasing behind his smile.
“The country,” she vouchsafed. Then, prompted by some inner devil, released, she knew, by the repressive presence on her left, she added, “My stepdaughter and I accompanied Lady Hallows on a visit to Lester Hall.”
Ruthven blinked his eyes wide. “Lester Hall?” Slowly, he lifted his gaze to Harry’s face. Entirely straightfaced, his lordship raised his brows. “Noticed you were absent from town this week, Harry. Took some time from the frantic whirl to recuperate?”
“Naturally,” Harry drawled, clinging to his usual imperturbability, “I escorted my aunt and her guests on their visit.”
“Oh, naturally,” Ruthven agreed. He turned to Lucinda. “Did Harry show you the grotto by the lake?”
Lucinda regarded his lordship with as bland an expression as she could manage. “Indeed—and the folly on the hill. The views were quite lovely.”
“The views?” Lord Ruthven looked stunned. “Ah, yes. The views.”
Harry ground his teeth but was too wise to react—at least not verbally. But his glance promised retribution—only Ruthven, one of his oldest friends, was prepared to ignore it.
To Lucinda’s relief, his lordship’s teasing, although in no way openly indelicate, was cut short by the musicians. It took a moment or two before it became clear that Lady Mickleham had decided to open her ball with a waltz.
The realisation brought the usual clamour of offers. Lucinda smiled graciously—and hesitated. The room was very crowded, the dance floor would be worse. In cotillion or quadrille, with sets and steps fixed, demanding a certain space, there was little chance of unexpected intimacy. But the waltz? In such cramped conditions?
The thought brought in its wake a certainty that her circumstances had indeed changed. She did not wish to waltz close with anyone but Harry. Her senses reached for him; he was standing, very stiff, intensely contained, beside her.
Harry saw her glance up, unconscious appeal in her eyes. His reaction was immediate and quite impossible to restrain. His hand closed over hers; he lifted it to place her fingers on his sleeve. “My waltz, I believe, my dear.”
Relief flooded Lucinda; she remembered to incline her head, and smile fleetingly at her court as Harry led her from their midst.
On the ballroom floor, she relaxed into Harry’s arms, allowing him to draw her close with no attempt at dissimulation. She glanced up at him as they started to slowly twirl; his eyes met hers, his expression still aloof but somehow softer. Their gazes held; they communicated without words as they slowly revolved down the room.
Then Lucinda lowered her lashes; Harry’s arm tightened about her.
As she had foreseen, the floor was crowded, the dancers cramped. Harry kept her safe within the circle of his arms; she was very aware that if anything threatened, she had only to step closer and he would protect her. His hard body was no threat—she had never seen it as such. He was her guardian in the oldest sense of the word—he to whom she had entrusted her life.
The waltz ended too soon; Lucinda blinked as Harry’s arms fell from her. Reluctantly, she stepped away and placed her hand on his arm, then let him steer her back through the throng.
Harry glanced at her face, his features impassive, concern in his eyes. As they neared her court, he leaned closer to murmur, “If you don’t care to waltz, simply plead fatigue.” Lucinda glanced up at him; he felt his lips twist. “It’s the latest fashionable ploy.”
She nodded—and straightened her shoulders as they rejoined her court.
Lucinda was inexpressibly grateful for that piece of advice—her supposed fatigue was accepted without a blink; as the evening wore on, she began to suspect that her earnest court were no more enamoured of dancing in such cramped surrounds than she.
Immovable, repressively silent, Harry remained by her side throughout the long evening. Lucinda greeted the supper waltz with a certain measure of relief. “I understand Mr Amberly, Mr Satterly and Lord Ruthven are particular friends of yours?”
Harry glanced fleetingly down at her. “Of a sorts,” he reluctantly conceded.
“I would never have guessed.” Lucinda met his sharp glance with wide eyes. Harry studied her innocent expression, then humphed and drew her closer.
At the end of the waltz, he led her directly to the supper room. Before she could gather her wits, Lucinda found herself installed at a secluded table for two, shaded from much of the room by two potted palms. A glass of champagne and a plate piled high with delicacies appeared before her; Harry lounged gracefully in the seat opposite.
His eyes on hers, he took a bite of a lobster patty. “Did you notice Lady Waldron’s wig?”
Lucinda giggled. “It nearly fell off.” She took a sip of champagne, her eyes sparkling. “Mr Anstey had to catch it and jiggle it back into place.”
To Lucinda’s delight, Harry spent the entire half-hour regaling her with anecdotes, on dits and the occasional dry observation. It was the first time she had had him to herself in such a mood; she gave herself up to enjoying the interlude.
Only when it ended and he led her back to the ballroom did it occur to her to wonder what had brought it on.
Or, more specifically, why he had put himself out to so captivate her.
“Still here, Ruthven?” Harry’s drawl hauled her back to the present. He was eyeing his friend with a certain, challenging gleam in his eye. “Nothing else here to interest you?”
“Nothing, I fear.” Lord Ruthven put his hand over his heart and quizzed Lucinda. “Nothing as compares with the joys of conversing with Mrs Babbacombe.”
Lucinda had to laugh. Harry, of course, did not. His drawl very much in evidence, he took charge of the conversation. As the languid, distinctly bored accents fell on her ear, Lucinda realised that he never, normally, drawled at her. Nor Em. When he spoke to them, his accents were clipped. Apparently, he reserved the fashionable affectation for those he kept at a distance.
With Harry holding the reins, the conversation predictably remained in stultifyingly correct vein. Lucinda, smothering a yawn, considered an option that might, conceivably, assist her cause while at the same time rescuing her poor court.
“It’s getting rather warm, don’t you find it so?” she murmured, her hand heavy on Harry’s arm.
He glanced down at her, then lifted his brows. “Indeed. I suspect it’s time we left.”
As he lifted his head to locate Em and Heather, Lucinda allowed herself one, very small, very frustrated snort. She had intended him to take her onto the terrace. Peering through the crowd, she saw Em deep in discussion with a dowager; Heather was engaged with a party of her friends. “Ah…perhaps I could manage for another half-hour if I had a glass of water?”
Mr Satterly immediately offered to procure one and ploughed into the crowd.
Harry looked down at her, a faint question in his eyes. “Are you sure?”
Lucinda’s smile was weak. “Positive.”
He continued to behave with dogged correctness—which, Lucinda belatedly realised, as the crowds gradually thinned and she became aware of the curious, speculative glances cast their way, was not
, in his case, the same as behaving circumspectly.
The observation brought a frown to her eyes.
It had deepened by the time they were safely in Em’s carriage, rolling home through the now quiet streets. From her position opposite, Lucinda studied Harry’s face, lit by the moonlight and the intermittent flares of the streetlamps.
His eyes were closed, sealed away behind their heavy lids. His features were not so much relaxed as wiped clean of expression, his lips compressed into a firm, straight line. Seen thus, it was a face that kept its secrets, the face of a man who was essentially private, who revealed his emotions rarely if ever.
Lucinda felt her heart catch; a dull ache blossomed within.
The ton was his milieu—he knew every nuance of behaviour, how every little gesture would be interpreted. He was at home here, in the crowded ballrooms, as she was not. As at Lester Hall, here, he was in control.
Lucinda shifted in her seat. Propping her chin in her palm, she stared at the sleeping houses, a frown drawing down her fine brows.
Free of her scrutiny, Harry opened his eyes. He studied her profile, clear in the moonlight. His lips curved in the slightest of smiles. Pressing his head back against the squabs, he closed his eyes.
AT THAT MOMENT, in Mortimer Babbacombe’s lodgings in Great Portland Street, a meeting was getting underway.
“Well—did you learn anything to the point?” Joliffe, no longer the nattily attired gentleman who had first befriended Mortimer, snarled the question the instant Brawn ambled through the door. Heavy-eyed from lack of sleep, his colour high from the liquor he had consumed to calm his nerves, Joliffe fixed his most junior accomplice with a dangerous stare.
Brawn was too young to heed it. Dropping into a chair at the parlour table about which Joliffe, Mortimer and Scrugthorpe were already seated, he grinned. “Aye—I learned a bit. Chatted up the young maid—no mor’n a bit of a thing. She told me a few things before that groom—yeller-haired lot—came and fetched her orf. Heard him giving her what for “bout talking to strangers, so I don’t think I’ll get any more by that road.” Brawn grinned. “Pity—wouldn’t ha’ minded—”
“Damn you—get on!” Joliffe roared, his fist connecting with the table with enough force to set the tankards jumping. “What the devil happened?”
Brawn shot him a look more puzzled than frightened. “Well—the lady did go orf to the country that day—just like you’d planned. But seemingly she went to some other house—a place called Lester Hall. The whole household went up the next day—the maid said as she thought it’d been planned.”
“Damn!” Joliffe swilled back a mouthful of porter. “No wonder I couldn’t get any of the crew who’d gone up to Asterley to say they’d seen her. I thought they must’ve been practising discretion—but the damned woman hadn’t gone!”
“Seems not.” Brawn shrugged. “So what now?”
“Now we stop playing and kidnap her.” Scrugthorpe lifted his face from his tankard. “Like I said from the first. It’s the only way of being sure—all this trying to get the rakes to do our job for us has got us precisely nowhere.” He spat the last word, his contempt bordering on the open.
Joliffe held his eye; eventually, Scrugthorpe looked back at his mug.
“That’s what I say, anyway,” Scrugthorpe mumbled as he took another swallow.
“Hmm.” Joliffe grimaced. “I’m beginning to agree with you. It looks like we’ll have to take an active hand ourselves.”
“But…I thought…” Mortimer’s first contribution to the conversation died away as both Joliffe and Scrugthorpe turned to look at him.
“Ye-es?” Joliffe prompted.
Mortimer’s colour rose. He put a finger to his cravat, tugging at the floppy folds. “It’s just that…well—if we do do anything direct—well—won’t she know?”
Joliffe’s lip curled. “Of course she will—but that’s not to say she’ll be in any hurry to denounce us—not after Scrugthorpe here has his revenge.”
“Aye.” Scrugthorpe’s black eyes gleamed. “Jus’ leave her to me. I’ll make sure she ain’t in no hurry to talk about it.” He nodded and went back to his beer.
Mortimer regarded him with mounting horror. He opened his mouth, then caught Joliffe’s eye. He visibly shrank, but muttered, “There must be another way.”
“Very likely.” Joliffe drained his tankard and reached for the jug. “But we don’t have time for any more convoluted schemes.”
“Time?” Mortimer looked confused.
“Yes, time!’ Snarling, Joliffe turned on Mortimer. Mortimer paled, his eyes starting like a frightened rabbit’s. With an effort, Joliffe reined in his temper. He smiled, all teeth. “But don’t you worry your head over it. Just leave everything to Scrugthorpe and me. You do your bit when asked—and everything will work out just fine.”
“Aye.” Brawn unexpectedly chipped in. “I was thinking as you’d better get a different plan. From what the maid told me, seems like the lady’s in expectation of ‘receivin’ an offer,’ as they says. I don’t know as I understand these things rightly, but seems pretty useless making her out to be a whore if she’s going to marry a swell.”
“What?” Joliffe’s exclamation had all of them starting. They stared at their leader as he stared—in total stupefication—at Brawn. “She’s about to marry?”
Warily, Brawn nodded. “So the maid said.”
“Whom?”
“Some swell name of Lester.”
“Harry Lester?” Joliffe calmed. Frowning heavily, he eyed Brawn. “You sure this maid got it right? Harry Lester’s not the marrying kind.”
Brawn shrugged. “Wouldn’t know about that.” After a moment, he added, “The girl said as this Lester chap had called this afternoon to take the lady for a drive in the Park.”
Joliffe stared at Brawn, all his certainties fading. “The Park,” he repeated dully.
Brawn merely nodded and cautiously sipped his beer.
When Joliffe next spoke, his voice was hoarse. “We’ve got to move soon.”
“Soon?” Scrugthorpe looked up. “How soon?”
“Before she’s married—preferably before she even accepts an offer. We don’t need any legal complications.”
Mortimer was frowning. “Complications?”
“Yes, damn you!” Joliffe struggled to mute his snarl. “If the damned woman marries, the guardianship of her stepdaughter passes into her husband’s hands. If Harry Lester takes the reins, we can forget getting a farthing out of your lovely cousin’s estate.”
Mortimer’s eyes widened. “Oh.”
“Yes—oh! And while we’re on the subject, I’ve a little news for you—just to strengthen your backbone.” Joliffe fixed his eyes on Mortimer’s wan countenance. “You owe me five thousand on a note of hand. I passed that vowel on, with one of my own, to a man who charges interest by the day. Together, we now owe him a cool twenty thousand, Mortimer—and if we don’t pay up soon, he’s going to take every pound out of our hides.” He paused, then leaned forward to ask, “Is that clear enough for you, Mortimer?”
His face a deathly white, his eyes round and starting, Mortimer was so petrified he could not even nod.
“Well, then!” Scrugthorpe pushed his empty tankard away. “Seems like we’d best make some plans.”
Joliffe had sobered dramatically. He tapped the tabletop with one fingernail. “We’ll need information on her movements.” He looked at Brawn but the boy shook his head.
“No good. The maid won’t talk to me again, not after the roasting that groom gave her. And there’s no one else.”
Joliffe’s eyes narrowed. “What about the other women?”
Brawn’s snort was eloquent. “There’s a few o’them all right—but they’re all as sour as green grapes. Take even you till next year to chat ’em up—and they’d likely refuse to talk even then.”
“Damn!” Joliffe absentmindedly took a sip of his porter. “All right.” He set the tankard down with a snap. “If tha
t’s the only way then that’s the way we’ll do it.”
“How’s that?” Scrugthorpe asked.
“We watch her—all the time, day and night. We make our arrangements and keep all in readiness to grab her the instant fate gives us a chance.”
Scrugthorpe nodded. “Right. But how’re we going to go about it?”
Joliffe sent an intimidating glance at Mortimer.
Mortimer swallowed and shrank in his chair.
With a contemptuous snort, Joliffe turned back to Scrugthorpe. “Just listen.”
Chapter Fourteen
FIVE NIGHTS LATER, Mortimer Babbacombe stood in the shadows of a doorway in King Street and watched his aunt-by-marriage climb the shallow steps to Almack’s unprepossessing entrance.
“Well.” Heaving a sigh—of relief or disappointment he was not quite sure—he turned to his companion. “She’s gone in—no point in watching further.”
“Oh, yes, there is.” The words came in a cold hiss. In the past five days, Joliffe’s polite veneer had peeled from him. “You’re going to go in there, Mortimer, and keep a careful eye on your aunt. I want to know everything—who she dances with, who brings her lemonade—everything!” Joliffe’s piercing gaze swung to fix on Mortimer’s face. “Is that clear?”
Mortimer hugged the doorframe, his relief rapidly fading. Glowering glumly, he nodded. “Can’t think what good it’ll do,” he grumbled.
“Don’t think, Mortimer—just do as I bid you.” In the shadows, Joliffe studied Mortimer’s face, plain and round, the face of a man easily led—and, as was often the case with such, prone to unhelpful stubbornness. Joliffe’s lip curled. “Do try to recapture a little of your earlier enthusiasm, Mortimer. Remember—your uncle overlooking your claim to be your cousin’s guardian and appointing a young woman like your aunt instead is an insult to your manhood.”
Mortimer shifted, pulling at his fleshy lower lip. “Yes, it is.”
“Indeed. Who is Lucinda Babbacombe, anyway, other than a pretty face smart enough to take your uncle in?”
“Quite true.” Mortimer nodded. “And, mind, it’s not as if I’ve any bone to pick with her—but anyone would have to admit it was dashed unfair of Uncle Charles to leave all the ready to her—and just the useless land to me.”
Stephanie Laurens Rogues' Reform Bundle Page 78
