by Cindy Anstey
“Did he ask any questions about Vivian? Or praise Lord Bobbington? Or say—”
“Please, Juliana.” Carrie’s eyes were now fully closed. “I am trying to sleep.”
Juliana frowned and reexamined Spencer’s conversation during the ball. It had, indeed, been sprinkled liberally with questions and curiosity. Why? Was he such a person that had to know all, of friends and neighbors? Or was there a purpose to his questions other than that which he had stated?
Despite the feelings he aroused in her when he was around, Juliana did not really know Mr. Spencer Northam. Their acquaintance had been for such a short duration.
Now upon examination, it did seem rather extreme for a gentleman to set up a grand escapade, such as he had with Juliana, for the purpose of providing a friend with the opportunity to see a young lady. A young lady who was now out in society and at liberty to see anyone of her mother’s approval. Perhaps Lord Bobbington was not worthy of this approval and, therefore, needed Spencer’s intervention. But why would Lord Bobbington not be acceptable? And why was Mr. Northam interested in Lamar Stamford?
The longer Juliana contemplated, the more uncomfortable she became. Was it possible that she had given her heart to an unqualified rogue? Someone who was using her for his own nefarious and mystifying purposes? Was it too late to claim back her heart and search his for truth?
CHAPTER
10
In which the all-important ride down Rotten Row presents the young ladies to their best advantage
THE NEXT AFTERNOON PROVED TO BE ONE OF THE finest that Spencer had experienced thus far in the Season. Faint drifts of harmless white clouds only occasionally interrupted the bright, clear blue sky. The breeze that gently lifted the burgeoning leaves was fresh and warm and held a promise of summer.
The value of such a gift was lost on none of the beau monde, for they went en masse to worship the day’s beauty at Hyde Park. Long, endless lines of the most fashionable people, coaches, and horses surrounded Spencer as the undulating crowds meandered down the sandy road called Rotten Row.
Spencer guided his tall black stallion into an opening behind Viscount Petersham’s chocolate-colored coach while Bobbington edged in beside him. The two feasted their eyes on the wild spectacle. It was a menagerie of livery, spotted dogs, yellow and blue waistcoats, ostrich plumes, and parasols. The Ton was here to flirt, greet friends, and fill others with envy. Spencer was here to see Juliana.
Only to ask some pertinent questions, of course. Nothing else.
He would not allow his mind to be distracted by her sweet rose scent. He would only make queries that would further his investigation, and he would refrain from observing her open, guileless expressions. Juliana might have caused him to notice her, but he would let it go no further than that. His resolve was once again in place.
Spencer had eaten heartily that morning, dressed impeccably, and then conversed with some wit. But there had never been a moment in which he hadn’t been required to dismiss Juliana from his thoughts. Bobbington had not called him on it, so Spencer could only think that he was hiding his distraction well.
“Sorry, what were you saying?”
Bobbington raised his right eyebrow, and Spencer realized that he had seen this expression several times recently. Perhaps hiding wasn’t the right word. Being ignored might be more apt.
“I was merely commenting on Hart’s grays. His horses appear to be mighty fine.”
“Yes, indeed,” Spencer said without following Bobbington’s gaze. He wasn’t really interested. He was acutely aware that he might miss Juliana in the huge crowd. She had said they would be here today if the weather was conducive. And it just didn’t get any more conducive.
“Northam. I say, Northam.” Bobbington’s tone was slightly irritated, as if Spencer hadn’t been listening.
“Yes, what is it?” Spencer turned his head and caught the profile of a flaxen-haired woman up ahead. She was resplendent in a flamboyant purple riding costume, surrounded by an animated cluster of young swains. Spencer quickly lowered his gaze. He continued to stare at the ground until he saw the hooves of her roan mare pass.
“I say, Northam, I believe that was Lady Rayne,” Bobbington commented most unhelpfully.
“Yes, indeed.” Spencer nodded. “I don’t think she saw me.”
The two riders considered each other. Bobbington was the first to look away. They were silent for several minutes, nodding and bowing to other acquaintances.
But Bobbington could not hold his peace for long. “I don’t think it would have mattered, Northam. She has found herself another lapdog—a litter of salivating puppies, in fact.”
“So it would seem.” Spencer half smiled and then turned to his friend and shrugged. “Being out of Town has done the trick.”
Bobbington laughed. “It most certainly has.” Shaking his head, Bobbington returned his gaze to the crowd. Spencer knew that the Pyebalds had been sighted as Bobbington sighed and a spoony smile spread across his face.
Glancing over his shoulder, Spencer saw that two open carriages approached. The first contained none other than the illustrious figures of Lord and Lady Pyebald, dressed in their finest and looking as disheveled as ever. The second carriage followed closely behind, and while Spencer could see none of the young ladies, he knew them to be in the party if by nothing other than the lifted chests of the bucks parading nearby.
“Mr. Northam,” Lady Pyebald squealed. Her greeting allowed Spencer and Bobbington to separate from the long line and approach their carriage for conversation. “How perfectly grand to see you. I do hope you enjoyed yourself at our little gathering last evening?”
It was sad to see a woman of her advancing size and years simpering.
“Yes, Lady Pyebald, it was generous of you to include us in your celebration. I assume none of you fine ladies are feeling any ill effects from the rigors of the ball?”
Spencer glanced about as he addressed the company at large. He wanted to see reassurance in Juliana’s eyes, proof that she had not been further subjected to Pyebald’s advances.
However, only Miss Pyebald, who sat across from her parents, nodded and fluttered her eyelashes. Her simple white carriage dress was spread out before her in an artful display that was far from spontaneous. With a quick glance to the other carriage, Spencer noted that Miss Reeves occupied the seat facing Mr. and Mrs. Reeves. There was no sign of Juliana. His stomach clenched and was on its way down to his boots when Spencer noticed the pair on horseback waiting patiently on the other side.
Spencer was greatly relieved to see Juliana. He gave her a broader smile and deeper bow than he had intended but saw the tentative hesitance of her nod and wondered at its lackluster nature.
The riding costume she was wearing was not the unflattering affair from St. Ives Head but a becoming style that both accentuated her small waist and brought color to her cheeks, color that deepened the longer their eyes were locked.
Eventually, a snort from the horse beside her broke the spell. And while Spencer could have sworn their greeting was not overlong, the discomfort on Juliana’s face seemed to indicate that it was.
Then Spencer noticed the rider beside her and understood, all too well, from where her discomfort issued.
Mr. Pyebald sat rigid on his horse, staring at Spencer with his typical expression of animosity. His proximity to Juliana almost propelled Spencer from his saddle, but a sudden, tight grip on his coattail prevented any such move.
The grip belonged to Bobbington.
* * *
JULIANA WATCHED THE RUSH OF COLOR SUBSIDE FROM Spencer’s face and wondered if the anger that had spurred it was based on her protection or his pride. She was grateful for Bobbington. He had understood his friend’s intent instantly and brought Spencer to his senses with a mere touch. Bobbington hadn’t even said anything but continued to converse with Aunt Phyllis in waxing banal tones about the splendor of the previous evening. Spencer had collected his emotions, divested himself of his
friend’s hand, and then joined in the discourse with witty banter that impressed Carrie and Vivian excessively. He completely ignored Pyebald.
With bated breath, Juliana waited. She might be wrong. All the uncertainty of Spencer’s true nature that had plagued her throughout the night might not stand up to the scrutiny of a bright day.
Up to this point he had been the picture of propriety, dividing his attentions evenly among the ladies. He laughed over Lord Pyebald’s comment that the Season was already too long, and he shared a prediction with Mr. Reeves regarding the next turf race at Newmarket.
It was all harmless. There was nothing out of the ordinary, and his questions focused on common social subjects, such as the weather and Carrie’s favorite novel.
Juliana swallowed and took a deep breath. Her imagination had taken her on a ridiculous journey once again. There was nothing sinister about Spencer Northam and his strange appeal for their comings and goings. It was nothing more than he had stated, a way to bring Bobbington and Vivian together. It was the work of a romantic.
Juliana was relieved that she had not acted on her suspicion, although what she would have done she knew not. It was all water under the bridge. She could take up enjoyment of Spencer’s company once again, embed the memories to take home with her, and hoard the pulsing emotions to examine at a later date. She need not see anything behind the questions and curiosity.
“Of course, Mr. Northam, if you wish.”
It was the sour tone of Lady Pyebald’s comment that drew Juliana from her reverie. The lady’s voice had been all honey and sugar to this point.
“Maxwell will accompany you for the sake of propriety. Cannot be remiss in our duties as chaperone, now can we, Mrs. Reeves?”
Aunt Phyllis suggested that Mr. Northam might be better served if he paced their carriage instead of pulling ahead. They might find that they had a lot in common, but Spencer demurred and turned his magnificent stallion in Juliana’s direction.
He expertly maneuvered between Pyebald and herself, then set the pace at a trot while leaving the others slightly behind at a walk. Juliana noticed that Bobbington called out to Pyebald just as he was about to encourage his horse to a faster speed.
“Are you well, Miss Telford? You are uncommonly quiet this afternoon,” Spencer asked the moment they were out of earshot.
“Am I that much of a gabster, Mr. Northam, that a modicum of silence denotes an ailing disposition?” Her smile took away any pretense of insult.
Spencer returned her smile and then looked over his shoulder to Mr. Pyebald, who was slowly catching up despite Bobbington’s efforts to engage him.
“I hope you are not finding your situation too difficult—”
“I am fine, Mr. Northam, in all circumstances,” Juliana interrupted quickly. “You need not be concerned.”
“But—”
“He has apologized most profusely, as has Vivian. Both are quite contrite and desperate to make amends. Unfortunately, I now find that I am no longer an ignored appendage to the household but something much worse. I am now subjected, at every turn, to flowery, inexhaustible prose on my exceptional qualities and goodness. It is all rather tedious. But nothing worthy of concern; no subsequent rescue is required.”
The frown that had entrenched itself between Spencer’s brows slowly dissipated. “Are you certain?”
Juliana glanced to the road ahead and then back again. She met his gaze directly. “Mr. Northam, can we ever be certain of anything? Or anybody?”
“No, I suppose not.”
Juliana pulled her lips together in disappointment. She would dearly have loved for him to disagree, to claim that they might know each other, eventually, as good friends. It was a future that Juliana knew she would have to forgo, but it would have been pleasant to imagine.
“So what are your plans this evening?” Spencer asked, as one would in a proper discourse.
Bobbington and Pyebald had finally caught up and were within earshot. While the desire to outpace them again made her heels itch, Juliana bowed to convention and slowed. Spencer followed suit.
“I believe it is a private card party. Lady Pyebald supposes it best to spread out the excitements.”
“And then?”
Without any encouragement, desire, or need, the thoughts and suspicions of Spencer’s motives came flooding back. She tried to drop them back into the abyss of insecurity from which they had sprung, but they would not be moved.
Juliana lifted her hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. She stopped the movement abruptly. It was a telltale sign of discomfort, a state she would rather hide. She dropped her hand, but not before grabbing at the place where her locket should have rested. She sighed with recollection of its loss.
“I am not sure as yet,” she hedged. “There was talk of taking in a play.”
“Hamlet?” Spencer’s voice was strangely tight. “I thought you would be going … later.”
“Really, how so?”
“It was in my mind that your party would be enjoying the festivities on May Day.”
“Do you know something that I do not?”
Spencer laughed, but it held no humor. “I must have misunderstood an earlier comment, is all. I am sure that you will enjoy it. I hear it is all-the-crack. Perhaps I will see you there.”
That sounded like a bouncer to Juliana and not a well-executed one at that. She frowned and tilted her head, as if by doing so the words would fall into place.
She looked into his handsome face and tried to read his expression. It was almost as if he were puzzled. Or was that disappointment? There was no doubt that whatever Spencer Northam was contemplating, it had made him profoundly miserable. It was there, hidden behind his charming, lopsided smile.
* * *
“WHAT ARE YOU ABOUT?” Spencer watched Bobbington shift the large Chinese vase that had been sitting in the right corner of the drawing room window. It was the usual signal to Bibury, an agreed-upon message—meet me at St. James’s Church at nine.
“Well, I have seen you moving it about. Can’t make up your mind as to where it looks best, eh? Thought I would help.” Taking out an overly large handkerchief, his friend dusted the ornate urn and then he proceeded to shake it out in front of the window. As expected, the process did nothing more than send the dust sailing into the air.
Coughing, Spencer tried to nudge Bobbington out of the way, but his friend was quite determined to unsettle every little bit of dust from the large white square before he could be dislodged.
“There. Better, don’t you think?” Bobbington looked quite pleased with himself.
“No, I do not think. I will do the deciding … and I have decided that I like to move the vase about rather than have a stagnant arrangement. Today, I wish it to be here.” Spencer replaced the vase on the right side of the window. “Though I might change my mind tomorrow.”
With a shrug, Bobbington turned and picked up a notebook. “Suit yourself,” he said as he left the room.
“Indeed.” Spencer stared after his friend more annoyed than was warranted; after all, the fellow didn’t know he was interfering with a commission of the War Office.
* * *
“HE SHOULD NOT HAVE SENT YOU, Miss Telford. There is nothing more I can do for you.” The man who uttered these words was small in stature with sharp features that put Juliana in mind of a mouse. His white hair winged out on either side of his head as if it was his habit to pull at it when angered. Juliana could imagine that the hair stood on end by each day’s closing.
“As I stated earlier, Mr. Dagmar, my father did not send me. I came on my own.” Juliana noticed his eyes wander over to Nancy, who stood patiently by the office door and shook her head. Being alone was a relative term while in Town. “It was my understanding that you might consider publishing our scientific works on the Coccinellidae. That is what you declared in your letter of eighteen months ago. We have heard nothing from you since. I took up the correspondence these past five months, and still
you have not had the courtesy to reply. Please tell me, are you or are you not going to publish? It is of great importance to my father and to me.”
“Yes, but to no one else, I will warrant.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You and your father have attached your names to a common tedious insect. The only ladybirds of interest to the English gentleman these days are those found in Haymarket.”
“Mr. Dagmar! Really, that is most unmannerly of you to make such a reference in my hearing. And I will have you know that another scientific journal discussing the lady beetle is being shopped around. You would have the good fortune to be ahead of the game were you to—”
“Enough of this nonsense. Who would want to read a natural history as observed by a lady? And a young lady at that! Now be off with you. I am an important man with much to do. This is all beyond your understanding. I recommend, most heartily, that you go back to your needlepoint and leave the pursuit of learning to those with the minds to do so.”
“I will have our papers back then.”
“Be off, I said.” He muttered something under his breath that sounded like a derisive comment about women thinking that they could conduct business.
“Not without our research. It is not your property. I wish it returned at once.”
The agitated man looked around the cramped room. It was in complete disarray. Papers were strewn one on top of the other, books of various sizes hung out of overstuffed cases, and there was an overall clutter of gadgets and paraphernalia. Juliana was not surprised when he harrumphed and said he had no idea as to where it was.
“Well, it must be found, sir. I will not leave the city without it.”
“Fine, come back next week.” The man didn’t even have the decency to see Juliana to the door. Instead, he waved his hand at her as if she were a fly to be shooed away.
“I will, Mr. Dagmar. You can count on it. And I will not leave your office next time without the research.” She stood, straightened her dress, and marched to the door that Nancy now held open. “I will be back.”
Juliana made a dramatic exit with her head held high and her posture full of authority, but she was thwarted after all. Mr. Dagmar was not paying the least bit of attention. She had thought she had pulled it off rather well and was disappointed that Nancy was her only witness.
