How to Ruin Your Reputation in 10 Days (Ladies of Passion)

by Harmony Williams

  Mary turned on her heel and said, “I’ll go find us seats.” She strode across the runner to the left side of the manor and the open door beckoning.

  I let out a sigh of relief.

  Julian dropped his hands as I rounded on him. Despite the pronounced summer heat, a prickle crawled over my skin at the absence of his warm body at my back.

  “You shouldn’t rile her,” I said.

  A laugh escaped his lips. “She’s smaller than you. What will she do?”

  He clearly hadn’t visited Town long enough to find out. Mary had quite the reputation. For all her size, she didn’t shy away from anything. I admired that trait in her, even if it sometimes mired me in less-than-ideal situations.

  “We should follow her,” I said, sidestepping the question. I turned to Julian. During his rescue, he’d been most cordial about what he no doubt deemed inappropriate behavior. “Unless, of course, you’d care to shout at me due to my deplorable attire?”

  A grin flourished across his face. “A tempting scenario. You look ridiculous.”

  “Don’t I know it,” I muttered under my breath.

  He didn’t seem to notice. “You resemble a man in no way.”

  I had to giggle. “Of course I do. The doorman allowed entry to Mary and me, and none of the other attendees have noticed me at all.”

  “Your friend Mary does not have the well-rounded figure men worship. You do. I recognized you instantly.”

  He worshiped my figure? I averted my gaze. “Only because you know me so well.”

  Side by side with Julian, I strode into the cozy lecture hall. It seated fifty, at most. Old men dotted the seats; young men trussed around the edge in clumps, chatting before the lecture started. Mary stood on a chair in the very back, waving her arms. I lifted mine to acknowledge her.

  As Julian and I picked our way along the perimeter of the room, I cast him a sidelong glance. “You know I’m mad for botany. I’m much more likely to be here than you are.”

  He shrugged. “You know I have several plots of land in Leicestershire. I farm them.”

  He’d mentioned his farm in his letters over the past two years. With so much land, I’d assumed he hired help, but the defined muscles in his arms bespoke of a fair share of the physical labor. I pictured him with his sleeves rolled up or his shirt doffed. Suddenly hot, I fanned myself and squeezed around a cluster of men, hoping he wouldn’t notice the flush staining my cheeks.

  “What does a farm in Leicestershire have to do with desert plants in the Viceroyalty of New Spain?”

  “Nothing,” he admitted. “But I often come across investment opportunities. I’m partners in a plantation in the Caribbean Islands that has proven quite lucrative. While in London, I thought it best to attend as many of these lectures as I can so I’m prepared if another opportunity should arise.”

  I doubted anyone would try to sell him desert cacti, but I dropped the subject. We reached the seats Mary had earmarked for us and I claimed the one next to her. Best to use myself as a buffer between her and Julian, just in case.

  Once settled in my seat, I opened my journal to a fresh page and set my charcoal pencil within easy reach. To my surprise, Julian also prepared paper, a pen, and a jar of ink to take notes.

  Mary unabashedly peered around the room, searching for Sutton. I groped for her sleeve as she stood to get a better vantage. I didn’t want to risk unveiling my disguise. I didn’t know what the Royal Botanic Society would do if they found two women amongst them, but I didn’t care to find out. I yanked her down next to me.

  More men filed into the room. Some chose seats, others joined various groups. Over forty people must be gathered now. Any more and some might have to continue standing.

  “There he is.” Mary jumped to her feet in triumph.

  A large sable-haired man stepped into the room. He straightened his lapels, gauged the crowd, and took a seat in front. When he took a slim volume and a pencil from his coat pocket, my heart skipped a beat.

  I clutched Mary’s arm, anchoring her in place. “He’s a botanist?”

  A man with a love of plants and a titled lord. If any man existed who met both Papa’s and my standards for a husband, it was him. But it seemed he also manhandled women. Fungus took root in my stomach. Could no man be perfect?

  Mary glanced down at me uncertainly. “Did you want me to introduce you?”

  Being introduced by Mary would be social suicide, especially considering she only informally knew the man because she’d taken it upon herself to belittle him. I shook my head rigorously.

  I released her. “No, thank you.” If I was ever presented to Lord Sutton, I insisted upon doing it in my own clothes.

  No—if he was no better than a rake, I’d best think of him differently. Lord Cypsela. I inwardly grinned at the botanical insult, though I would have to explain it to anyone else.

  With my refusal to interfere, Mary seemed to regain her equilibrium. She cut through the crowd at a brisk pace, stalking her prey.

  Julian tapped the nib of his pen on the table twice, catching my attention. “What does it signify if this lord likes botany?”

  I fiddled with my stick of charcoal. My cheeks heated. I ignored the blush, hoping it would dissipate. “It doesn’t matter. I was just curious.”

  The weight of his stare prickled along my neck, though for a long moment, Julian kept quiet. I risked a glance at his pensive expression. Could he tell I was lying? A commotion at the front of the room saved me from finding out.

  “Lord Sutton.” Mary’s loud summons rent the air.

  Upon spotting her, he blanched as white as a daisy. Hastily, he stuffed his journal into his coat pocket again. She squeezed herself into the open seat next to him, barring his exit. He shouldn’t have chosen to sit in the front corner, far from the door.

  “You must make amends.” She snipped off each word. Her spectacles were perched precariously atop her nose and her cheeks bloomed rosy with anger.

  Lord Cypsela bristled. Although not as large as Rose’s husband, Lord Hartfell, he loomed at nearly twice Mary’s size, even while seated. She didn’t seem intimidated by his bulk or his hulking stance.

  “Just what are you accusing me of?”

  I gulped. One of these days Mary would confront the wrong man and pay the price. I prayed today was not that day.

  When I stood, Julian gathered hold of my hand and pulled me down beside him again. “He hasn’t noticed you. Don’t put your identity at risk.”

  “I can’t leave her there.”

  Creases formed between Julian’s eyebrows as he frowned in disapproval. “She knew what she was getting into. She instigated this. He can’t harm her here, not in front of everyone.”

  Maybe not, but given the sour look on Cypsela’s face, he dreamed about it. In his shoes, I might have strangled her, too.

  Loudly, Mary announced, “Last week, you threw a house party. At that party you demonstrated your clear lack of respect for the well-being of those poor females under your protection.”

  A baffled expression knit Lord Cypsela’s features. “To which females are you referring? I have no wards.”

  “Your maids, of course. They rely on you for safe employment. In other words, to avoid being groped or ravished like a common doxy. Such behavior is unacceptable in Town and it is unacceptable at your country estate, as well.”

  Undoubtedly, Mary had a few things to say about the treatment of common doxies, as well. Thankfully, she kept them to herself.

  Even from across the room, I noticed the muscle in Cypsela’s clenched jaw twitch. “I haven’t visited my country estate in the past week.”

  “Then who do you propose threw this lewd house party in your place? A relative, a friend?” She didn’t pause for breath long enough to allow him to answer. “If you’re not to blame for such crass behavior, perhaps you ought to choose your associates more carefully.”

  “I certainly need to choose my conversation partners more carefully,” he muttered
under his breath.

  Mary heard. Her mouth gaped in affront. A cluster of university students staring openly at the exchange sniggered.

  The guest professor, a distinguished gentleman with short-clipped gray hair, a thick mustache, and an air of resentment, stepped to the front of the room and called for order. Cypsela faced forward. Mary, glowering so fiercely a dark cloud all but formed over her head, did the same. I sensed the conversation was not at an end.

  The other men in the room bustled to take their chairs. Many also carried journals or sheaves of paper with which to take notes. The second their rumps kissed their seats, the professor launched the lecture.

  The American spoke with such an accent I had trouble understanding him. I strained my ears as I tried to make out his words and take the appropriate notes. He didn’t take pity on us poor Londoners and slow his speech patterns. I hoped my notes would make sense later.

  Mary resumed her tirade in a ferocious whisper. Cypsela returned her quips with just as much heat and vehemence. They spoke too low for their words to carry, but the indecipherable exchange interfered with my concentration.

  The professor stuttered over his words. Presumably, the disturbance had interrupted his train of thought as well. He scowled at Mary and Cypsela and demanded they leave the room. At least that’s what I thought he said. His accent was rather dense.

  The end result was the same. Cypsela stood in a jerky, angry movement. He stomped from the room. Mary trailed in his wake, taking two steps for every one of his.

  I nibbled on my lower lip. Should I follow them? But I’d scarcely written half a page of notes, and the professor resumed his lecture. I tucked the stick of charcoal into my palm.

  Julian laid his hand over mine. Like me, he sported no gloves today. The heat of his bare skin sent tingles up my arm. Some emotion I couldn’t name bloomed in my stomach.

  “Let her go,” he said softly.

  I stared at the door, hoping Mary would decide to come back. Seconds stretched as they passed by. She didn’t.

  The calluses on Julian’s palm scraped against my skin, inducing a shiver as he retracted his hand. “What if Cyps—what if Sutton hurts her?” My stomach tied itself into intricate knots.

  “He won’t.” Not a twitch of his expression or quaver in his voice belied his words as false. He believed them. “You heard the man, he’s innocent.”

  I hoped he was right. The conviction in his voice eradicated most, if not all, of my fears.

  I attended the lecture once more as the professor cleared his throat loudly. He glared in our direction. Oh, no. Surely he wouldn’t eject us from the premises, too! I hunched over my journal, pretending to take notes. Unfortunately, I couldn’t understand the man without concentrating. An impossible task with the memory of Julian’s touch invading my mind. He shifted position, settling so close beside me he brushed my arm with his as he took notes.

  I glanced over at his page, which seemed a sheer and utter mess.

  “Can I help clarify something for you?”

  He dropped his gaze to his notes. A wry smile teased the corner of his mouth. I sincerely hoped he wouldn’t say all of it. That might take the entire afternoon.

  He settled on, “Perhaps you could explain to me what an epi—” He squinted at the page, trying to make the word out.

  “Epiphyte,” I corrected. “And you’ve spelled it wrong.” I wrote the letters in clear, legible print on my page, then turned it toward him for him to copy. While he scribbled down the word, I explained, “It’s a plant that grows on another plant or sometimes on a rock. Like how moss often grows on trees.”

  “Oh.” Understanding dawned on his face as he jotted down my explanation in the margin. He pointed to another word. “And this one?”

  The rest of the lecture passed quickly, as I tried simultaneously to take notes and to explain certain terms. Julian understood the speaker a lot better than I, so we worked in tandem. By the time the professor deigned to take questions, Mary still hadn’t returned.

  Julian turned toward me with a winsome smile. “If you’re still taking questions, I have a dilemma at my estate.”

  I leaned toward him. “Ask me anything.”

  “I had issues with low nutrients last year, so this spring I put down new fertilizer. In one corner of my fields, no seeds will take. I’ve tried growing the plants indoors and transplanting them, but they die within days.”

  I tilted my head to the side. “I’ll need more information than that.”

  He shook his head. “That’s all the information I have.”

  “What did the plants look like as they died?”

  His mouth puckered as he thought. “They turned yellow and shriveled up. The rest of my fields are fine. The estate isn’t suffering from a drought.”

  “You said you put down fertilizer this spring?”

  He nodded. “Over every field.”

  “Possibly, you laid down too much in that area. If the plants are overfertilized, they’ll die. Water the ground heavily—it’ll leach some of the nutrients out of the soil and leave it safe for the plants to thrive.”

  Julian smiled. “I’ll write back to the estate for my farmhands to try your solution. How long will it take before I can plant again?”

  I shrugged. “I can’t say for certain. Each kind of fertilizer lingers for a different length of time. It also depends on how much was tilled into that particular area. You might be able to plant again in a couple days, or it might take a couple weeks.”

  “I’ll be sure to let you know how it turns out.”

  Would he? He hadn’t written to me for months, and he could easily have asked me this question by letter had we still been corresponding. I wondered if he would return to his estate and all thought of me would evaporate from his mind once more.

  The young man in the seat in front of me stretched his arms out over his sandy-haired head, twisting his torso as he surveyed the room. His journal was littered with drawings rather than notes, the most prominent a portrait of the professor and his prominent mustache.

  The man’s gaze settled on me. “You look familiar. Have we met?”

  I shook my head, but recognition petrified me. We had met. In fact, we’d danced once. He was the second son of the Duke of Beaufort. Lord Panicle, I called him, for his easy, airheaded manner.

  Julian hastily folded his papers and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. When I remained mute, he yanked me into a standing position and spoke for me.

  “I doubt it,” he said, slashing his hand through the air to punctuate the statement. “This is his first time in Town, isn’t it, Frank?”

  “What? Oh.” I lowered my voice as much as I could. “Yes, it is.”

  I followed on Julian’s heels as he cut a line around the perimeter of the room. Unfortunately, Lord Panicle stood and tailed us.

  A lump formed in my throat. Julian had said I still cut a womanly figure. Would Panicle notice? He strode a scant pace behind me. I urged Julian to a faster pace with my hand at his back.

  “I must have met you somewhere,” Panicle persisted. “Maybe at Oxford. Do we share any classes?”

  A cluster of men vacating the room jammed the exit. My heart sped as I searched for another exit. Only the windows, but that was far from inconspicuous.

  “You’re mistaken. We haven’t met.” My voice caught on the last syllable.

  Julian latched onto my wrist, his touch hot. He dragged me forward as he forcibly cut a swathe through the crowd. Panicle followed hot on my heels.

  “I never forget a face,” he said. “And I’ve seen yours. Maybe—”

  The lull of sound weighed heavy on me as Julian broke through the head of the crowd and into the less crowded hallway. I gulped in a breath.

  Lord Panicle’s voice followed us out. “Oh.” The syllable was heavy with recognition.

  Panic seized my lungs like rootbound runners. I wrenched free of Julian’s hold. Blindly, I dashed for the door. The sunlight dazzled me. I stoppe
d to get my bearings. To the left, a row of hackney cabs waited, but the one Mary and I had taken to this venue was missing. She must have taken it in pursuit of Cypsela. It was a long walk down the drive to the distant road and the chance of another hired hack. I couldn’t traverse that length without being seen.

  Julian erupted from the open doorway. Spotting me, he crossed to my side and latched onto my arm just above the elbow. “This way,” he said, towing me away from the hacks. The corner of the stone building loomed. Julian tugged me behind its cover and pressed me against the stone with his body. He pressed his hand over my mouth as he peered around the corner.

  I thrashed, shaking off his hand long enough to gasp for air. I welcomed the building’s support of my weight; my ankle throbbed with a fervor. The shadow of pain almost blotted out the sizzle of awareness that gripped me at the feel of his body. I battled to ignore it.

  “Did he follow?”

  “Yes. Hush.” Julian glanced at me only briefly. His body tensed against mine as he eased his head around the corner once more. He withdrew it hastily. “With luck, he’ll think we left in one of the hacks.”

  He tugged on my hand, drawing me toward the rear of the mansion. “We aren’t safe here. Come around back.”

  He hauled me behind him, far more swiftly than I cared to walk on an injured ankle. I let out a gasp as I stepped wrong. He pulled me forward when I faltered. “Francine, hurry.”

  “I’m trying,” I said on a wince. The manor was much longer than it seemed from the front. But we were almost to the corner. Hopefully, we would be safe back there.

  Julian glanced up, but his gaze aimed at something behind me. He cursed under his breath, lifted me by the waist, and spun us around the back of the manor. He pressed his body against mine once more, shielding me. When had he grown so protective? Ten years ago, he would have shoved me into the open and saved himself. Granted, we’d been children then. Some time in the interim, he must have grown up.

  Although we’d grown apart these past few months, deep down, I trusted him. He was—and always had been—my dearest friend.

  We both breathed heavily. “What did you see?” I whispered, as loud as I dared. “Did Lord Panicle follow us?”