by Brenda Hiatt
Perhaps Lord and Lady Jeller’s ball tomorrow night would prove a better hunting ground for Mary’s love match? Violet would pay close attention to how Mary responded to each eligible gentleman there. If any appeared more likely to make Mary happy than Lord Rushford, Violet would prod her friend to creep far enough out of her shell to engage his interest.
* * *
Those plans were momentarily forgotten when Violet entered the Jellers’ ballroom the next evening, in her astonishment at having apparently walked into a garden in the height of summer.
“I must say, Lady Jeller has quite outdone herself this year,” Lady Simpson remarked as they progressed into the spacious ballroom, unusually large by London standards.
“Indeed!” Violet exclaimed, gazing around with wide eyes. “Where on earth did she find so many flowers at this season? Naught but crocuses were blooming in the park yesterday.”
Lady Simpson smiled indulgently. “Hothouses, my dear. They are costly this early in the Season, but that makes the profusion more impressive—no doubt the precise effect Lady Jeller intended.”
Whatever Lady Jeller’s motives, Violet was charmed and amazed by the result. While observing the array of flowers gracing every available surface, sconce, and chandelier, she perceived several gentlemen heading their way. The first to reach them was Sir Lawrence.
“Give you good evening, Miss Turpin. Dare I hope you still have a dance free?”
Violet grinned. “As I only this moment arrived, you are the first to ask, Sir Lawrence. I shall be delighted to reserve a dance for you. Are you acquainted with Lady Simpson and her daughter?” At his negative, she performed the introduction, after which he also solicited Mary’s hand for a dance.
Mary, Violet was pleased to note, managed something slightly above her usual murmur when granting it. When Sir Lawrence moved on, she complimented her friend on speaking up.
“Yes, at Mama’s insistence, I am trying to make more of an effort,” Mary sheepishly admitted.
“And see the effect already,” said Lady Simpson, overhearing. “Lord Rushford is noticing the difference, I daresay, for he has been most attentive of late. You are promised to him for the first set, are you not?”
Her daughter nodded. “He requested it after our ride yesterday.” She did not look nearly as pleased about it as her mother did.
Violet was about to point out Sir Lawrence’s good points to her friend when her attention was caught by the approach of the very person she had most hoped to see tonight—Julian Bigsby. At her welcoming smile, he hurried forward.
“Miss Turpin, how nice to see you again.” He swept her a bow. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to make me known to your lovely companions?” He favored both Simpson ladies with his most charming smile.
“Of course. This is Lady Simpson, at whose house I am staying while my aunt is from Town, and Miss Simpson, her daughter. Mary, my lady, this is Mr. Bigsby, whom I have known for many years. He was a school acquaintance of my brother’s.”
Julian’s smile broadened further. “Miss Turpin has been warm in her praise of your hospitality, Lady Simpson, and has spoken most highly of you as well, Miss Simpson. I am exceedingly honored to make your acquaintance at last.”
Though Violet could not recall having said anything at all to Julian about either lady, she appreciated him claiming that she had. Lady Simpson glanced approvingly at Violet and Mary, though clearly startled by his words, dimpled with pleasure.
“I thought it prudent to remind you at once of your promise to partner me in the first dance,” he said to Violet. “I feared if I waited, some other gallant might drive me from your mind.”
“You are as absurd as ever. Of course I have not forgotten.”
He then turned a flatteringly intent look upon Mary. “Might I hope to also solicit a dance from you, Miss Simpson?”
Mary blushingly granted it, though she appeared too flustered by his blatant admiration to respond as volubly as she had to Sir Lawrence. Promising to return when the music started, he bowed over each of their hands, as well as Lady Simpson’s. Then, with a glance over Violet’s shoulder, he took himself off.
“Goodness, your Mr. Bigsby certainly is handsome!” Mary whispered as he moved out of earshot.
“He is not precisely my Mr. Bigsby, but yes, he certainly is,” Violet agreed.
However, it was not Julian’s looks that interested her just now, for all the questions she was dying to ask him had come crowding back. She very much hoped their dance together would allow her to get answers to some of them.
The Jeller do was already becoming something of a crush when Rush and Killer entered the florally festooned ballroom. Almost at once, they were accosted by numerous ambitious mamas eager to introduce their daughters before the dancing got underway. On finally extricating themselves from that onslaught, Rush spotted Lord Peter Northrup coming their way.
“Give you good evening, Rushford, Killerby,” he greeted them. “I don’t believe either of you have yet met my wife? Sarah, my love, these are two of the gentlemen with whom my brother Anthony spends his winters hunting foxes.”
Lady Peter, a stunningly beautiful blonde, curtsied to them both. “I am pleased to meet you, my lords. If you are friends with Lord Anthony, I presume you are also acquainted with his wife? I quite long to see Tessa ride in a hunt one day.”
“Charmed, Lady Peter,” Killer replied with a bow. “And yes, you really must, for Lady Anthony is a sight to behold on horseback. As more ladies are joining the hunt of late, perhaps you can try your hand at it one day.”
Smiling, she shook her head. “I fear I am no horsewoman, as my sisters-in-law will attest. Indeed, I began learning only this past year.”
Rush greeted her in turn, marveling to think that this petite, very feminine lady had once been a Saint of Seven Dials. Though he could ask no questions about it in Killer’s presence, he hoped at some point to hear more.
A movement of the crowd just then revealed Lady Simpson’s party a short distance away—and that bounder Bigsby in conversation with them. Smoothing his instinctive frown, Rush turned back to his companions.
“Lord Peter, Lady Peter, might I make you known to Miss Turpin? She is newly in Town, the sister of another friend of ours and Lord Anthony’s. At the behest of her brother, Lord Killerby and I are attempting to ease her way in Society.”
Bigsby spotted their group approaching before Miss Turpin did and hastily decamped. Rush glared after the presumptuous fellow for a moment, then donned a smile as he apologized to the ladies for his lateness.
“Lady Simpson, you know Lord and Lady Peter Northrup, do you not?” he said then. “They expressed a wish to meet Miss Simpson and Miss Turpin.”
After greetings were exchanged, Lord Peter said to Miss Turpin, “I understand you are acquainted with my brother Anthony and his wife?” She assented and several minutes of animated conversation followed.
When the couple moved off, Rush stepped close to Miss Turpin and murmured, “Did I not warn you against encouraging Bigsby?”
Her violet eyes widened, then narrowed. “You did, my lord. But as you gave no reason for your warning beyond vague hints, I see no reason to accede to your whims. Clearly Lord and Lady Jeller consider him acceptable enough to merit an invitation to their home, so I cannot believe most people hold him in the same low esteem you do.”
“Lady Jeller is well known for her eagerness to have every event she sponsors declared a crush. She is therefore less than discriminating about the guests she invites. No doubt Bigsby took advantage of that to insinuate his way into a higher tier of Society than he merits.”
“My Lord,” Lady Simpson interrupted, “what are you and Miss Turpin whispering about?”
Forcing a smile, Rush turned to face her. “I was merely dispensing a bit of brotherly advice, as Miss Turpin’s own brother is not here to do so.”
Miss Turpin glared at him. “Yes, Lord Rushford is as eager to meddle in my affairs as ever Grant could
be.”
“Only at his request, I assure you,” Rush snapped.
The barbed exchange appeared to reassure Lady Simpson. “Miss Turpin should be grateful that her brother has such…loyal friends.” Her brittle smile encompassed Killer as well. “I perceive that the dancing is about to begin, Lord Rushford, and unless I am much mistaken, you are promised to my daughter for the first set.”
“Of course. Miss Simpson, shall we take our places?”
As he and his fiancée joined a set that was forming, Rush saw Bigsby hurry over to claim Miss Turpin for the same dance. They moved to a set on the far side of the room, no doubt by design—though whose, he did not know. Likely a joint decision.
When the music began, he moved through the figures of the dance almost by rote, half his attention given to that other set instead of his own. Even from here he could tell that the cut of Bigsby’s coat was more expertly tailored than the one he’d worn in the park two days since. The man was clearly trying to up his game.
Violet, meanwhile, danced as gracefully as she had at Ivy Lodge, smiling up at her partner each time they passed in a way that made Rush clench his teeth.
“Oh!” The exclamation abruptly brought his focus back to his partner. In his distraction, he had trodden on her foot.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Simpson! I have not performed this particular dance since last summer and seem to have forgotten a few moves. I will endeavor to suffer no more such lapses, or at least not to injure you if I do.”
Though he was the one at fault, she seemed far more embarrassed than he, reddening and ducking her head.
Cursing his preoccupation with Miss Turpin and her partner, Rush paid close attention to his steps for the remainder of the dance. He reminded himself that he did not actually know of any recent indiscretions by Bigsby, despite his youthful indiscretions. It was possible, he supposed, that the man had mended his ways since their schooldays.
But he doubted it.
Violet, meanwhile, was taking every opportunity the dance offered to wheedle more information from Julian.
“When last we talked, you were on the point of telling me something important,” she reminded him as they took their places. Their set was some distance from that including Mary and Lord Rushford, a circumstance for which she was grateful.
Her partner furrowed his brow. “Was I? If so, I would doubtless be wiser to deny it now.”
“Oh come, Julian, you said yourself I was bound to get it out of you anyway, so you may as well tell me all. Was my guess correct? Are you…the man we were discussing?”
The start of the music prevented him answering her question, though his conscious expression was nearly answer enough. She moved through the figures impatiently until the dance brought them back together.
“Well?” she whispered. “Is it true?”
He gave her a sidelong glance that she could not read. “You always were a perceptive girl. I suppose there is little use in denying it, though this is scarcely the setting in which to discuss such matters.”
Unfortunately, he was right. As crowded as the ballroom was, the couples were not far enough apart to allow for true confidences. To speak over the music was to risk being overheard by their nearest neighbors in the set.
“You will tell me more soon, won’t you?” she pleaded before they were obliged to separate again. “If you call upon me tomorrow, perhaps Lady Simpson will allow us to walk out together, as my aunt did.”
Julian merely smiled as he turned away.
“You are every bit as delightful in the dance as I imagined,” he told her when they next came together, before she had a chance to speak. “I am enjoying the sight nearly as much as I enjoyed seeing you ride to the hunt last month. I recall you told me your aunt keeps no riding horses, but what of the Simpsons? I would offer to mount you myself, if it would not be considered unforgivably forward, for it seems wrong to deprive you of an activity you enjoy so much.”
Violet blinked. Completely apart from the impropriety of such a suggestion, she had not thought Julian would have sufficient means for such a thing.
“I thank you, but that will not be necessary. Just this morning Lord Marcus Northrup lent me a horse for the duration of my stay in London, at the behest of his sister-in-law, Lady Anthony. I was most grateful, as you may imagine, for I have missed it dreadfully.”
“I do not doubt it, for you seem formed for riding,” he said as he again moved away from her.
Though she smiled at the compliment, she would much have preferred to use that brief interlude to ask more discreet questions. Alas, the dance ended without offering any further opportunity for conversation.
As Julian returned her to her party, he relieved her frustration somewhat by reminding her that she had also promised him a waltz.
“Of course,” she eagerly replied. “I very much look forward to it.” That, of all dances, should allow for enough private talk that she could finally learn something of his activities as the Saint—and offer to help him. She was therefore in excellent spirits when he left her…until she encountered Lord Rushford’s critical eye.
“Miss Turpin, would you be willing to grant me a dance?” he asked icily.
She frowned. “I am engaged for the next with Sir Lawrence.”
“Actually, I thought to request the dance following.” His expression was still disapproving.
“Very well, if you like.” She attempted to match his cool tone, refusing to be cowed.
He bowed stiffly and moved away. Watching him go, she reminded herself that she need not worry about losing his good opinion, as she’d never had it to begin with. It therefore mattered not how he would react if he learned of her plan to help the Saint of Seven Dials.
Not that he would, for nothing in the world could induce her to tell him. Julian’s secret was quite safe with her.
Sir Lawrence came forward to claim her then, and she greeted him cheerfully. Tomorrow, she felt sure, would bring her at least one step closer to her noble goal.
Though he was careful not to let it show, Rush heralded the end of the next dance with relief. Most young ladies, in his experience, had little on their minds beyond fashions and gossip. Unfortunately, Lady Beatrice Bagford seemed shallow by even that standard.
“Do tell me whether Miss Stuckton has the right of it, Lord Rushford,” she pleaded when their set concluded. “She assures me you intend to marry Miss Simpson and if she is wrong, I should take immense pleasure in telling her so.”
Rush gave her a bland smile. Lady Simpson might be willing to drop hints to all and sundry, but he would honor their agreement to keep the matter private until receiving Sir Clarence’s consent.
“I fear you and Miss Stuckton must learn the truth along with everyone else, Lady Beatrice, when it either appears in the papers or does not.” Ignoring her pout, he sketched her a parting bow and went in search of Miss Turpin.
He saw Bigsby leading Miss Simpson to the floor as he approached. Oddly, that sight didn’t bother him nearly so much as seeing him with Miss Turpin had done—no doubt because he had little fear that Miss Simpson could be led astray. Turning his attention to her adventure-prone friend, he bowed.
“I believe the next is mine?” he said rather more stiffly than he had intended.
In return, Miss Turpin coolly inclined her head and allowed him to lead her back to the dance. When the orchestra struck up the opening strains to a waltz, however, she appeared startled, even displeased.
“Oh! I did not realize—” She broke off, frowning.
Though chagrined by her obvious dismay, Rush strove to hide it. “Do you not waltz, Miss Turpin?” he asked, despite having seen her do so at Ivy Lodge. In fact, he had requested this specific dance in hopes of speaking with her privately.
“I… Of course I do. I was merely caught by surprise, as I did not attend to the program. I, ah, did not mean to appear reluctant, Lord Rushford.” She attempted to smooth over her vexation with a smile.
“Glad I
am to hear it. Shall we?” Taking her gloved hand in his, he lightly placed his other hand at her waist while she tentatively set her other hand on his coat sleeve.
Facing the alluring Miss Turpin in such close proximity, he was irresistibly reminded of their encounter in the stables at Ivy Lodge. Their current posture suddenly felt rather too intimate, despite the crowd surrounding them. Rush had waltzed with dozens of ladies and had never understood why some considered the dance scandalous. Now he did.
He commenced guiding Violet about the floor to the music, hoping that might make him feel less as though he were embracing his partner.
It did not.
If anything, he was more aware than ever of her alluring form and the grace with which she moved. With an effort, he recalled his original purpose in engaging her for this dance and cleared his throat.
“Miss Turpin, as a stand-in of sorts for your brother, I feel obliged to make one more effort to warn you against over-familiarity with Bigsby. I know you had a passing acquaintance with him in your youth. However, I—and your brother—had opportunities to see him in unguarded moments at school. ’Tis that which convinced us both that he should not be trusted around any young lady of character.”
Though he’d hardly expected gratitude for his advice, he was startled by the anger suddenly sparkling in her beautiful eyes.
“I’m sure you believe you are acting in my best interest, or at least my brother’s, my lord, but you are being unreasonable in the extreme. Surely you cannot expect these vague references to whatever you knew of Julian during your school days to alter my opinion of him. People do change, you know. Did you do nothing during your youth, or during the war, that you would prefer not to be judged by now?”
