by Julia Quinn
“Bits and pieces,” he said, keeping his gaze straight ahead.
But she saw the corner of his mouth curve up.
“Am I a bit or a piece?” she asked daringly.
He actually stopped. “Do you have any idea what you just said?”
Too late, she remembered overhearing her brothers talk about bits of muslin and pieces of…
Her face flamed.
And then, God help them, they both laughed.
“Don’t tell anyone,” she whispered, catching her breath. “My parents will lock me away for a month.”
“That would certainly—”
“Lady Mathilda! Lady Mathilda!”
Whatever Peter had meant to say was lost as Mrs. Featherington, a friend of Tillie’s mother and one of society’s biggest gossips, bustled up next to them, dragging along her daughter Penelope, who was dressed in a rather unfortunate shade of yellow.
“Lady Mathilda,” Mrs. Featherington said. Then she added, in a decidedly frosty voice, “Mr. Thompson.”
Tillie had been about to make introductions, but then she remembered that Mrs. Featherington and Penelope had been present at Lady Neeley’s dinner party. In fact, Mrs. Featherington was one of the unfortunate five to have been profiled by Lady Whistledown in that morning’s column.
“Do your parents know where you are?” Mrs. Featherington asked Tillie.
“I beg your pardon?” Tillie asked, blinking with surprise. She turned to Penelope, whom she had always thought was a rather nice, if quiet, sort.
But if Penelope knew what her mother was about, she gave no indication, other than a pained expression that led Tillie to believe that if a hole had suddenly opened up in the middle of the ballroom floor, Penelope would have gladly jumped into it.
“Do your parents know where you are?” Mrs. Featherington repeated, this time more pointedly.
“We drove over together,” Tillie answered slowly, “so yes, I would assume they are aware—”
“I shall return you to their sides,” Mrs. Featherington interrupted.
And then Tillie understood. “I assure you,” she said icily, “that Mr. Thompson is more than capable of returning me to my parents.”
“Mother,” Penelope said, actually grasping her mother’s sleeve.
But Mrs. Featherington ignored her. “A girl such as you,” she told Tillie, “must take care with her reputation.”
“If you refer to Lady Whistledown’s column,” Tillie said, her voice uncharacteristically icy, “then I must remind you that you were mentioned as well, Mrs. Featherington.”
Penelope gasped.
“Her words do not concern me,” Mrs. Featherington said. “I know that I did not take that bracelet.”
“And I know that Mr. Thompson did not, either,” Tillie returned.
“I never said he did,” Mrs. Featherington said, and then she surprised Tillie by turning to Peter and saying, “I apologize if I gave that indication. I would never call someone a thief without proof.”
Peter, who had been standing tensely still at Tillie’s side, did nothing but nod at her apology. Tillie rather suspected it was all he could do without losing his temper.
“Mother,” Penelope said, her tone almost desperate now, “Prudence is over by the door, and she’s waving rather madly.”
Tillie could see Penelope’s sister Prudence, and she seemed quite happily engaged in conversation with one of her friends. Tillie made a mental note to befriend Penelope Featherington, who was well-known as a wallflower, on the next possible occasion.
“Lady Mathilda,” Mrs. Featherington said, ignoring Penelope entirely, “I must—”
“Mother!” Penelope yanked hard on her mother’s sleeve.
“Penelope!” Mrs. Featherington turned to her daughter with obvious irritation. “I’m trying to—”
“We must be going,” Tillie said, taking advantage of Mrs. Featherington’s momentary distraction. “I shall be sure to pass along your greetings to my mother.”
And then, before Mrs. Featherington could disentangle herself from Penelope, who had a viselike grip on her arm, Tillie made her escape, practically dragging Peter along behind her.
He hadn’t said a word during the interchange. Tillie wasn’t quite certain what that meant.
“I’m terribly sorry,” she said once they were out of Mrs. Featherington’s earshot.
“You did nothing,” he said, but his voice was tight.
“No, but, well…” She stopped, unsure of how to proceed. She didn’t particularly want to take the blame for Mrs. Featherington, but nonetheless, it seemed that someone ought to be apologizing to Peter. “No one should be calling you a thief,” she finally said. “It’s unacceptable.”
He smiled at her humorlessly. “She wasn’t calling me a thief,” he said. “She was calling me a fortune hunter.”
“She never—”
“Trust me,” he said, cutting her off with a tone that made her feel like a foolish girl. How could she have missed such an undercurrent? Was she really that unaware?
“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard,” she muttered, as much to defend herself as anything else.
“Is it?”
“Of course. You’re the last person who would marry a woman for her money.”
Peter stopped, leveling a hard stare at her face. “And you have reached this conclusion in the three days of our acquaintance?”
Her lips tightened. “No more time was required.”
He felt her words like a blow, nearly reeling from the force of her belief in him. She was staring up at him, her chin so determined, her arms like sticks at her sides, and he was seized by a strange need to scare her, to push her away, to remind her that men were, above all else, bounders and fools, and she ought not to trust with such an open heart.
“I came to London,” he told her, his words deliberate and sharp, “for the sole purpose of finding a bride.”
“There is nothing uncommon in that,” she said dismissively. “I am here to find a husband.”
“I have barely a cent to my name,” he stated.
Her eyes widened.
“I am a fortune hunter,” he said baldly.
She shook her head. “You are not.”
“You can’t add two to two and expect it to sum only three.”
“And you can’t speak in such ridiculous crypticisms and expect me to understand a word you say,” she replied.
“Tillie,” he said with a sigh, hating that she’d almost made him laugh. It made it prodigiously more difficult to scare her away.
“You might need money,” she continued, “but that doesn’t mean you’d seduce someone to get it.”
“Tillie—”
“You are not a fortune hunter,” she said rather forcefully, “and I will say so to anyone who dares to intimate that you are.”
And so he had to say it. He had to lay it on the table, make her understand the truth of the situation. “If you seek to repair my reputation,” he said slowly, and just a bit wearily as well, “then you will have to depart my company.”
Her lips parted in shock.
He shrugged, trying to make light of it. “If you must know, I’ve spent the last three weeks trying rather desperately to avoid being called a fortune hunter,” he said, not quite able to believe that he was telling her all this. “And I succeeded rather well until this morning’s Whistledown.”
“It will all blow over,” she whispered, but her voice lacked conviction, as if she were trying to convince herself of it as well.
“Not if I’m seen to be courting you.”
“But that’s horrid.”
In a nutshell, he thought. But there was no point in saying it.
“And you’re not courting me. You’re fulfilling a promise to Harry.” She paused. “Aren’t you?”
“Does it matter?”
“To me it does,” she muttered.
“Now that Lady Whistledown has gone and labeled me,” he said, trying
not to wonder why it mattered to her, “I shan’t be able to even stand near you without someone speculating that I’m after your fortune.”
“You’re standing next to me now,” she pointed out.
And a damned torture it was. He sighed. “I should return you to your parents.”
She nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” he snapped. He was angry at himself, and angry with Lady Whistledown, and angry at the whole damned ton. But not at her. Never at her. And the last thing he wanted was her pity.
“I’m ruining your reputation,” she said, her voice breaking with a helplessly sad laugh. “It’s almost funny, that.”
He eyed her sardonically.
“We young maidens are the ones who have to watch our every move,” she explained. “You lot get to do whatever you want.”
“Not quite,” he said, moving his gaze over her shoulder, lest it fall to riper areas.
“Whatever the case,” she said, waving her hand in that blithe move she’d used so successfully earlier in the evening, “it seems that I am the obstacle in your path. You want a wife, and, well…” Her voice lost its breeziness, and when she smiled, there was something missing in it.
No one else would notice, Peter realized. No one would realize that her smile wasn’t quite right.
But he did. And it broke his heart.
“Whomever you choose…” she continued, bolstering that smile with a hollow little laugh, “you shan’t get her with me around, it seems.”
But not, he realized, for any of the reasons she thought. If he wouldn’t find a wife with Tillie Howard nearby, it would be because he couldn’t take his eyes off of her, couldn’t even begin to think of another woman when he could sense her presence.
“I should go,” she said, and he knew she was right, but he couldn’t seem to bring himself to say farewell. He’d avoided her company for precisely this reason.
And now that he had to send her on her way once and for all, it was even harder than he’d thought.
“You’re breaking your promise to Harry,” she reminded him.
He shook his head, even though she would never understand just how tightly he was keeping his promise. He’d promised Harry that he’d protect her.
From all unsuitable men.
She swallowed. “My parents are over there,” she said, motioning to her left and behind her.
He nodded and took her arm, turning her so that they could make their way to the earl and countess.
And found themselves face-to-face with Lady Neeley.
Chapter 4
One can only wonder what events will transpire at tonight’s Hargreaves’ Grand Ball. This Author has it on the best authority that Lady Neeley plans to attend, as do all of the major suspects, with the possible exception of Miss Martin, who received an invitation only at the discretion of Lady Neeley herself.
But Mr. Thompson has RSVP’ed in the affirmative, as have Mr. Brooks, Mrs. Featherington, and Lord Easterly.
This Author finds that she can only say, “Let the games begin!”
LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS, 31 MAY 1816
“Mr. Thompson!” Lady Neeley shrilled. “Just the person I’ve been looking for!”
“Really?” Tillie asked with surprise, before she could remember that she was actually rather peeved with Lady Neeley and had quite intended to be politely icy when next they met.
“Indeed,” the older woman said sharply. “I’m furious over that Whistledown column this morning. That infernal woman never gets but half of anything right.”
“To which half do you refer?” Peter asked coldly.
“The bit about your being a thief, of course,” Lady Neeley said. “We all know you’re hunting down a fortune”—she glanced rather obviously at Tillie—“but you’re no thief.”
“Lady Neeley!” Tillie exclaimed, unable to believe that even she would be so rude.
“And how,” Peter said, “did you come to that conclusion?”
“I know your father,” Lady Neeley said, “and that is good enough for me.”
“The sins of the father in reverse?” he asked dryly.
“Precisely,” Lady Neeley replied, completely missing his tone. “Besides, I rather suspect Easterly. He’s far too tanned.”
“Tanned?” Tillie echoed, trying to figure out how that related to a theft of rubies.
“And,” Lady Neeley added, rather officiously, “he cheats at cards.”
“Lord Easterly seemed a good sort to me,” Tillie felt compelled to put in. She wasn’t allowed to gamble, of course, but she’d spent enough time out in society to know that an accusation of cheating was a serious indictment, indeed. More serious, some would say, than an accusation of theft.
Lady Neeley turned to her with a condescending air. “You, dear girl, are far too young to know the story.”
Tillie pursed her lips and forced herself not to reply.
“You ought to make certain you have proof before you accuse a man of theft,” Peter said, his spine ramrod straight.
“Bah. I’ll have all the proof I need when they find my jewels in his apartments.”
“Lady Neeley, have you had the room searched?” Tillie cut in, eager to diffuse the conversation.
“His room?”
“No, yours. The drawing room.”
“Of course I have,” Lady Neeley retorted. “D’you think I’m a fool?”
Tillie declined to comment.
“I had the room searched twice,” the older woman stated. “And then I searched it myself for a third time, just to make sure. The bracelet is not in the drawing room. I can say that as a fact.”
“I’m certain you’re right,” Tillie said, still trying to smooth things over. They’d attracted a crowd, and no fewer than a dozen onlookers were leaning in, eager to hear the interchange between Lady Neeley and one of her prime suspects. “But be that as it may—”
“You had better watch your words,” Peter cut in sharply, and Tillie gasped, stunned by his tone, and then was relieved when she realized it wasn’t directed at her.
“I beg your pardon,” Lady Neeley said, drawing her shoulders back at the affront.
“I am not well acquainted with Lord Easterly, so I cannot vouch for his character,” Peter said, “but I do know that you have no proof with which to level a charge. You are treading in dangerous waters, my lady, and you would do well not to besmirch a gentleman’s good name. Or you may find,” he added forcefully, when Lady Neeley opened her mouth in further argument, “that your own name is dragged through the very same mud.”
Lady Neeley gasped, Tillie’s mouth fell open, and then a strange hush fell over the small crowd.
“This’ll be in tomorrow’s Whistledown for certain!” someone finally said.
“Mr. Thompson, you forget yourself,” Lady Neeley said.
“No,” Peter said grimly. “That’s the one thing I never forget.”
There was a moment of silence, and then, just when Tillie was quite certain that Lady Neeley was going to spew venom, she laughed.
Laughed. Right there in the ballroom, leaving all the onlookers gaping with surprise.
“You have pluck, Mr. Thompson,” she said. “I will give you that.”
He nodded graciously, which Tillie found rather admirable under the circumstances.
“I do not change my opinion of Lord Easterly, mind you,” she said. “Even if he didn’t take the bracelet, he has behaved appallingly toward dear Sophia. Now then,” she said, changing the subject with disconcerting speed, “where is my companion?”
“She’s here?” Tillie asked.
“Of course she’s here,” Lady Neeley said briskly. “If she’d stayed home, everyone would think her a thief.” She turned and leveled a shrewd look at Peter. “Rather like you, I expect, Mr. Thompson.”
He said nothing, but he did incline his head ever so slightly.
Lady Neeley smiled—a rather frightening stretch of her lips in her face,
and then she turned and bellowed, “Miss Martin! Miss Martin!”
And she was off, with swirls of pink silk flouncing behind her, and all Tillie could think was that poor Miss Martin surely deserved a medal.
“You were magnificent!” Tillie said to Peter. “I’ve never known anyone to stand up to her like that.”
“It was nothing,” he said under his breath.
“Nonsense,” she said. “It was nothing short of—”
“Tillie, stop,” he said, clearly uncomfortable with the continued attention from the other partygoers.
“Very well,” she acceded, “but I never did get my lemonade. Would you be so kind to escort me?”
He couldn’t very well refuse a direct request in front of so many onlookers, and Tillie tried not to smile with delight as he took her arm and led her back to the refreshment table. He looked almost unbearably handsome in his evening attire. She didn’t know when or why he’d decided to forgo his military uniform, but he still cut a dashing figure, and it was a heady delight to be on his arm.
“I don’t care what you say,” she whispered. “You were wonderful, and Lord Easterly owes you a debt of gratitude.”
“Anyone would have—”
“Anyone wouldn’t have, and you know it,” Tillie cut in. “Stop being so ashamed of your own sense of honor. I find it rather fetching myself.”
His face flushed, and he looked like he wanted to yank at his cravat. Tillie would have laughed with delight if she hadn’t been quite sure that it would just discomfort him further.
And she realized—she’d thought it was true two days before, but now she knew—that she loved him. It was an amazing, stunning feeling, and it had become, quite spectacularly, a part of who she was. Whatever she’d been before, she was something else now. She didn’t exist for him, and she didn’t exist because of him, but somehow he had become a little piece of her soul, and she knew that she would never be the same.
“Let’s go outside,” she said impulsively, tugging toward the door.
He resisted her movement, holding his arm still against the pressure of her hand. “Tillie, you know that is a bad idea.”
“For your reputation or mine?” she teased.
“Both,” he replied forcefully, “although I might remind you that mine would recover.”
