by Y. S. Lee
He strode to the door, produced a key from his pocket, and unlocked it. Seeing that the corridor was unoccupied, he turned back to her and made a courtly gesture with his other hand. “After you.” It was that same damned conversational tone.
Mary stared at him. What the devil . . . ?
He glanced into the hall again, then back at her impatiently. “Quickly, now.”
Standing her ground, she shook her head slowly. “No. After you.”
“Come, now — are we really going to squabble?” His tone was distinctly patronizing.
“I have no intention of squabbling,” she said loftily. Now that he was talking, she felt more certain about holding her ground. “If you wish to leave, I wouldn’t dream of stopping you.”
He closed the door again and glared at her. “My dear girl, just what are you playing at?”
She looked at him haughtily. “You are hardly in a position to ask such a question.”
The corners of his mouth twitched again. What an odd gentleman. “Touché.” He paused and stared at the ceiling, as though for inspiration. “Very well, then. Might I propose that we leave the room simultaneously?”
Mary considered this. They could hardly remain. Apart from the risk of someone returning to the office, she would soon be missed at the party. He might be as well — assuming he was actually a guest. She inclined her head graciously. “An excellent idea,” she murmured, mimicking his polite tone.
She glided toward the door, which he held open for her. They slipped into the corridor, and she watched while he locked the door again, then pocketed the key. It was a proper house key. How had he pinched that?
He glanced down at her, eyebrows rising arrogantly. “Well? Hadn’t you better run along to the drawing room?”
Mary suppressed a powerful urge to hit him. With as much dignity as she could muster, she turned on her heel and walked quickly down the hall.
Why hadn’t she screamed bloody murder in that closet? As he stalked through the crowds in the drawing room, considering his next move, James Easton spotted his mystery lady assisting Angelica Thorold in the pouring of tea. They made a lovely contrast: Miss Thorold, with her blond ringlets and pink-and-white complexion, and Miss Closet (as he’d come to think of her), with her black hair and fierce eyes. What color were those eyes — hazelnut brown? It had been difficult to tell by candlelight. It was a distinctly un-English look that set off Miss Thorold’s doll-like beauty to great advantage. Which was almost certainly the point.
Miss Closet must have paused to repin that hair. It was scraped back severely now, when a few minutes ago it had been tumbling round her shoulders. Her scent came back to him — clean laundry, lemony soap, girl. He’d been surprised by the absence of perfume and then grateful for it in that small space.
He considered her from the opposite end of the room. Her gown, plain and high-necked, made it clear that she was not a debutante. And her hair was wrong, too: the fashion for young ladies this season was a cascade of ringlets pinned high over each ear. Her role at the tea table seemed to confirm all that. Miss Closet kept back slightly, her gaze lowered, and poured cup after cup of tea. Miss Thorold, in contrast, stood forward, daintily adding cream and sugar to the cups and passing them to a string of guests — mainly admiring bachelors. James’s elder brother, George, was part of the pack.
As though she could feel his open stare, Miss Closet suddenly raised her head and met his gaze. A prickle of energy, both pleasant and startling, rippled up and down his body. He had to force himself to remain still and expressionless. Her look was defiant when it should have been ashamed. She gazed at him a moment longer — taking his measure? — and then looked away haughtily, as though she had seen all she required. He bit back a grin. Arrogant brat.
The girl was rather attractive for a governess. She was no fool, either — her behavior in the closet suggested as much. A lesser woman would have screamed or struggled, or at least begun to cry silently. But her reaction had been quick, disciplined, and pragmatic. Not an ordinary young lady, then. Perhaps she was a poor relation? Finally, there was the question of what the devil she’d been doing poking around that office. Alone. In the dark.
James edged his way round the room, toward the open balcony doors. At this point, he’d take stench over stifling.
“Young Mashter Jamesh — what a shurprishe!”
He blinked and focused on the man who’d popped up beside him. “Mr. Standish. Evening.” Warner Standish was an old family friend, a pompous fool, and a shameless gossip.
Standish’s pointy reddish beard parted to reveal the cause of the lisp: a magnificent set of new wooden dentures. “Didn’t think I’d run into you here, young fellow. Nearly time for your beddy-byesh!”
James shrugged. Was it worth pointing out that he was nearly twenty? Probably not.
“Are you at Eton or Harrow? I forget.”
Neither. “I left school a few years ago, Mr. Standish.”
“Ah. Then you’re up at Oxford.”
“No; working with my brother.” James gritted his teeth.
“At that bridge-making thingy? How very peculiar!”
“Civil engineering is the family business.” As you perfectly well know, you old sot, he added mentally.
“Where’sh your brother, then?” demanded Standish. “Not sheen him tonight.”
“You must be the only one,” said James through gritted teeth. Good Lord, George was embarrassing. Tonight he’d made a complete fool of himself over Miss Thorold, monopolizing her conversation, following her about with glasses of punch and plates of cakes, and trying to dance every waltz with her even though her dance card was full. Everyone had been laughing at George.
“Eh? Whashat?” hollered Standish.
James indicated with his chin. “Tea table.”
“Ah. Awaiting hish audiensh with Mish Thorold, eh?”
“He’s likely on his fourth cup by now. By the way,” he added casually, “who’s that pouring tea with Miss Thorold?”
“I think it’sh rather a queshtion of what, not who, dear boy.”
James raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I ashked about her earlier. Thorold shays she’sh hish daughter’sh new lady companion . . . name of Quinn. Mish Quinn.”
“‘Says’ . . . ?”
“Given what jusht happened, it’sh hardly shurprishing, ish it?”
James shook his head. He was generally ignorant of gossip. “You’ll have to explain it to me, I’m afraid.”
Standish smirked. “One of the parlor maidsh ish on leave . . . for about nine monthsh, if you follow my meaning. Replashement’s got a face like a horshe’sh arsh. Thish one turned up a month later.”
James’s jaw tightened.
“Thorold’sh a clever devil. Although I shouldn’t have tried to pash her off ash a paid companion, m’shelf . . . rather obvioush, don’t you think?”
“In his own house?”
Standish sniggered. “What could be more convenient?” He turned and looked across the room at Miss Quinn, still pouring cups of tea. “Tashty morshel, if you ashk me. Shomething exshotic about her . . . remindsh me of a Shpanish danshing girl I once knew. Or wash she Egyptian? Mmm — p’rapsh even shome short of half-cashte?” He sighed happily. “Damned if I can recall, but quite a houri, she wash.”
James tried hard not to picture this. But the rest of Standish’s argument made perfect sense. The girl was attractive, well spoken, unmarried. And she was young: sixteen or seventeen at a guess. It explained her low profile in this gathering. It also explained her unusual composure in the wardrobe and why she chose to remain silent and hidden with a stranger over being discovered with him and rescued. Yes, it was by far the most logical explanation for the mystery of Miss Closet.
“Is this generally known?” He kept his voice casual. “Or is it your theory?”
“Not pershuaded?”
James shrugged. “If there’s no proof . . .”
Standish lowered his voice.
“Don’t you shee the ice between her and Mish Thorold? The young lady doeshn’t like having her in the houshe.”
James had, in fact, noticed the strain between the two young women. “Hmm.”
Standish grinned at him broadly. “You’re quite taken with her, aren’t you?”
Tearing his eyes from Miss Quinn, James fixed him with a cold look. “I’m merely surprised that Thorold would introduce his mistress to his wife and daughter.”
“Gone all high-minded and moralishtic, have you?”
“Merely wondering why they haven’t clawed each other’s eyes out by now.”
“Perhapsh they’ve already had a go. I shay, if you’re going to the bar, get me a whishkey and shoda, will you, young Jamesh?”
But James was already out of earshot.
Who could have guessed that so many guests would require tea on such a hot night? Mary discreetly wiped a trickle of perspiration from her forehead and hefted the steaming kettle. Pouring tea was an excellent opportunity for Angelica Thorold to display her charms — a soft voice, dainty fingers stripped of gloves, a glittering web of diamonds at her breast. And it worked: the table was thronged with men, many of whom were either bachelors or widowers. It wasn’t that Mary begrudged the girl her social triumph, but after nearly an hour, this tea business was getting distinctly monotonous.
It was also embarrassing. Although Mary tried to keep her head down and stand behind Angelica, she was still the target of lingering looks and invasive stares. She had always hated being stared at. While most of it was harmless, there was always the danger that someone might look at her and guess the truth . . . and she couldn’t afford to be spotted for what she really was.
She overheard odd snippets of conversations in which guests inquired about her. One or two of these had been deliberately loud in their speculations, making the blood rush to her cheeks and her hands clench round the teapot. She forced herself to calm down; temper and bone china were a poor mix. Mechanically, she poured another cup of Darjeeling.
“Hello again, Miss Thorold!” said a stocky, pink-cheeked man. He was about thirty, with light brown hair, a fulsome beard, and a bright sheen of perspiration coating his face.
Angelica laughed in disbelief. “Mr. George Easton! This must be your sixth cup of tea this evening!”
“Indeed, Miss Thorold, but I find I’m terribly thirsty this evening! It must be the heat!”
“Indeed?”
“Or the smashing tea! Or” — he leaned close — “perhaps it’s the lovely lady who — ouch!” He yelped, pivoted, and scowled at the man behind him. “Stop elbowing me!” Then his voice flattened. “Oh. It’s you, James.”
James ignored him. “As my brother was trying to say, Miss Thorold, it’s a lovely party.”
In the act of handing a cup and saucer to Angelica, Mary’s hand jerked with surprise and her head snapped up: the second voice. It was that man from the wardrobe! The cup wobbled in its saucer, then recovered. A moment later, however, one of George’s more extravagant gestures tipped it again, sending a flood of scalding tea over Mary’s left hand. At least her gasp of recognition was covered by a louder hiss of pain. She managed to lower the cup to the table without breaking it, although she did spill tea all over the table and floor.
Angelica jumped back with a little shriek. “You clumsy thing!” she cried, inspecting her dress for damage.
“I beg your pardon,” muttered Mary through clenched teeth. “It was an accident.” She fumbled about for a napkin with which to mop up the mess.
James was more efficient. Beckoning a passing footman, he said, “Clean up this spill.” Glancing at Angelica, who was still fussing about her dress, he added dryly, “And fetch Miss Thorold’s maid. Quickly.”
“Miss Thorold, are you quite all right?” asked George. He took the opportunity to seize Angelica’s hand. “What a nasty accident.” He looked at Mary in accusation.
Angelica’s shriek created a scrum of fussing guests: sympathetic young ladies, openly relieved that their own dresses were unstained, and gallant young gentlemen who continually reassured Angelica that she looked perfectly lovely, really she did. A clutch of middle-aged matrons bustled through and, in their rush toward Angelica, pushed Mary out of the way and toward the balcony doors. She didn’t mind. Better to be ignored than scolded.
“Show me that burn.”
The quiet voice made Mary start once again. She tilted her head back and looked up into James’s dark eyes, expecting mockery or contempt. What she saw instead was . . . concern? She held out her hand. “It is not very painful.”
He frowned. The back of her hand was covered in angry red blotches. “Scalds are always painful.” He lifted a glass of punch out of a surprised guest’s hand and scooped the bits of crushed ice into his handkerchief. “Here.” His voice was brusque but his fingers careful as he folded a makeshift ice pack and placed it gently on Mary’s hand.
“Thank you.” Mary stole another look at him. He behaved like an older man, but in the bright lights of the drawing room, she could see that he was clearly much younger than she’d first thought. Why, he couldn’t have been more than twenty!
“I apologize for my brother’s clumsiness.” James was tall and angular, George stocky and broad-faced. There was absolutely no family resemblance, unless one counted pushy behavior.
“No apology is necessary.”
There was a lengthy pause. Then he said, “A physician ought to look at that.”
“It’s nothing,” she insisted.
“Will the Thorolds think to call one for you?”
“My hand is fine.” Her burned skin throbbed at the lie.
“Very well, then,” he said after a pause. “If it’s fine, dance the next waltz with me.”
She gaped at him. A long second passed. And then another. “I beg your pardon?”
“The next waltz. Dance it with me.” He sounded impatient. “You do waltz, don’t you?”
“I can’t —” Mary choked, and tried again. “I can’t dance with you!”
He leaned in, slightly menacing. “Why not?”
Glaring at him, she stood to her full height — not that it counted for much — and enunciated clearly. “A gentleman does not command a lady to dance; he asks. If rejected, he leaves her presence.”
The corners of his mouth definitely crooked upward this time. “That’s all very well, but I believe you gave up your status as a lady when you climbed into that wardrobe with me.”
“Hush!” Mary blushed and looked around guiltily. “You make it sound as though . . .” Her voice trailed off.
He raised one dark eyebrow. “Didn’t you?”
They locked gazes for a long moment. James’s expression was unreadable, Mary’s openly hostile. Then she took a deep breath. “I can’t dance with a guest. It would be inappropriate.”
“Not as inappropriate as being rude to a guest,” he said smoothly. “Isn’t it your job to do as you’re told?”
“You ought to dance with Miss Thorold,” said Mary through gritted teeth.
“Her card’s full.” Then, as though a new thought had just occurred to him, he added, “It’s not that I long to dance with you for your own charming self, you know. But we must discuss the incident in the office, and that is the easiest way.”
Mary didn’t want to dance with James Easton. She didn’t like James Easton, not even a little. But her pride stung, all the same. “I never imagined that your interest was personal,” she said stiffly. “And there is nothing to discuss. Now, if you will be so kind as to excuse me . . .” She took a dignified step to the right and nearly walked into Michael Gray.
“My dear girl!” He caught her gently, his hands folding round her elbows to steady her. “What on earth has happened? I could hear the uproar from the billiards room.”
He was heaven-sent. Mary resisted the impulse to stick out her tongue at James Easton. “I spilled some tea. By accident,” she added hastily. “I think I splashed Miss Thorold’s dr
ess in the process. Her, ah, friends are rather concerned about her.”
Michael glanced at Angelica, who was now being led from the room, bravely blinking back tears. “Good Lord, is that all? It sounded as though someone was being murdered.”
He was still holding her arms. Mary shifted slightly and he released her with a teasing smile. “I am glad to see that you are unharmed and unhysterical.” Then he caught a glimpse of her left hand and let out a sharp exclamation. “But you didn’t mention seriously burning yourself!”
He seized her fingertips and, ignoring her protests, lifted away the improvised ice pack. The burns, which covered the back of her hand and wrist, did look violent: bright red and swollen from both the scalding tea and now the ice.
“It looks much worse than it feels,” Mary said, squirming under his scrutiny. She could feel James watching the two of them. “Truly, Mr. Gray, it’ll be fine.”
Michael shook his head. “That’s a shocking falsehood, my girl. Come. Let’s go to the kitchen to get some salve for this burn. And call me Michael.”
She hesitated. She didn’t want salve. She wanted to be left alone to think about what this evening’s events meant. And she ought to check on Angelica. Yet going with Michael would at least get her out of the drawing room and away from the scrutiny of James Easton.
Michael smiled — pure flirtation. “First you won’t dance with me, and now you won’t accept assistance from me. I assure you, Mary — may I call you Mary? — I don’t bite.”
Risking a glance at James from under her lashes, she saw his frown deepen. He had one of the most forbidding faces she’d seen in some time, better suited to an inquisition than a party.
“Salve?” she said sweetly. “What a clever idea, Michael.” Placing her uninjured hand in the crook of his arm, she permitted him to lead her away.
Throughout the morning, a steady parade of footmen delivered a series of bouquets to the house. They were for Angelica, tokens of her status as a rich and attractive potential bride. There were so many that the drawing room looked like a greenhouse or a florist’s shop, with vases balanced precariously on every possible surface. Instead of being pleased, though, Angelica seemed bored and even unhappy. When the ladies gathered in the drawing room after luncheon, she curled herself into an armchair and stared out the window. Even after Mary encouraged her to play something on the pianoforte, she only got as far as riffling through her music books before slumping back into her seat.
