"But what about Damien?" Ada asked with a significant look. "You're supposed to be madly in love with him."
Irritated, Jessica kept her gaze roaming over the brightly lit ballroom. "I never said I was madly in love with him. I said I thought, since he's run free in our house since we were children, that Uncle Emory might approve of him. I was wrong." Bitterness edged her voice. "Damien didn't even attempt to change his mind. Arguing, you see, is beneath him."
Ada sighed gustily in sympathy. "Not such a devoted swain after all. You would think, from his poetry, that he would slay dragons for you."
"He won't even put down his pen for me. I, of course, am expected to give up my collection for him." Jessica almost let the oppression overtake her again. Then she grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing footman and sternly reminded herself that she was at a wonderful party, surrounded by acres of silk and the light from a thousand candles, and that even if she couldn't marry any of these men, she might at least dance with them. "Lovely champagne, this. Ada, have a glass with me."
Absently, Ada shook her head. "Champagne makes me giggle. And since I'm already married, giggling does me no good!" She craned her neck to see past a knot of debutantes. "Perhaps that nice Lord Mumblethorpe will do. Your uncle can't call him a rake like Tressilian, for he isn't the least in the petticoat line. I think he'd make a most comfortable husband."
"I am certain he would, for the sort of girl who wouldn't mind being known as Lady Mumblethorpe." The champagne was having an effect; she could hardly get the name out. "As for me, I think I would give that prospect a pass, even did he look like Tressilian."
"You're so cruel, Jessie! Lady Anything-at-all would suit most girls. Hmmm. Is that a bishop coming out of the cardroom? He's young, isn't he, for a bishop. And not so badlooking, rather genial, in fact."
"I expect he won a good deal at picquet." Jessica let the bishop stroll past before she pulled Ada closer and whispered, "Do you think Uncle would want a bishop in the family? He'd have to watch his language!"
Ada laughed and added significantly, "And what's more, Jessie, you'd have to watch yours! And you wouldn't. I know you, you'd forget yourself and speak frankly while you were entertaining the Archbishop of Canterbury!"
"I would not! I've gotten much better than I was at school, I assure you. Living with my aunt and uncle has truly taught me the value of discretion in speech—blast!" A footman's tray collided with her arm, and after the exchange of apologies, she tugged at Ada. "We are in the way. Let's walk."
They strolled down the side of the ballroom, Jessica glancing sidelong at the other partygoers. It looked to be a glorious crush, all in all, for a rural entertainment. And Jessica was weary of the conundrum of her collection and its curator. It was easier to slip back into the irreverent camaraderie she and Ada had known at Miss Falesham's Institute for Young Ladies, when they were called "The Terrible Two."
Now she felt someone watching her intently, and raised her fan to hide her face. She stole a quick glance, though, and for just an instant met the gaze of the man standing a few yards away on the staircase leading up to the main part of the house. "What about that one?" she whispered. "I think he's staring at me."
She had to repeat it more loudly because the orchestra had struck up a mazurka, but finally Ada turned obediently and raised her lorgnette in the indicated direction.
Jessica groaned and tried discreetly to pull down her friend's arm. "You needn't let him know you're interested, Ada."
"I am not the interested one, you are! I'm merely doing reconnaissance work for you." But the lorgnette dropped, and Ada started away at a brisk pace, almost dragging Jessica along. "But that one is not a likely candidate, dear. Uncle would not approve, not in a thousand years, even with the spanking new title he's got."
Jessica risked a quick look back over her shoulder. He was still watching her. She kept walking, eyes forward, but his gaze felt like the brush of his fingers across the back of her neck. There was something indefinably alien about him, in his casual but wary stance, in the exotic lines of his face, in the opaque intensity of his gaze. "He's not English, is he?"
"Well, of course he is. He was born just down the road in Devlyn village. To the apothecary's wife."
Jessica felt a deep rush of disappointment. How very mundane, after all. But then, she reminded herself, that was rather mysterious. "A shopkeeper? At a ball like this?"
"He's not a shopkeeper," Ada replied. "He's the son of a shopkeeper. Or so the shopkeeper thought, anyway." Before Jessica could ask for elaboration of this cryptic statement, Ada had gone on with a hint of pride, "No, this one used to practice the South Coast's oldest profession."
Prostitution seemed unlikely, so Jessica ventured, "Fishing?"
"Nothing so dull! He does have a fleet of ships, I think, but he's after more impressive cargo. He was a pirate, you see."
Jessica couldn't help it. A deep thrill rippled through her, just as it might have years ago, when she and Ada were dreaming up outrageous Gothic plots for the edification of their schoolmates. But she sneaked another look and regretfully shook her head. "A pirate? Surely not. He looks the perfect gentleman."
"Oh, I agree, he does appear to advantage in evening dress. No one who didn't know him would ever imagine the truth, until they caught sight of him on the deck of a ship. The veriest corsair!"
Jessica stopped by the refreshment table and pretended to busy herself with a plate and fork. From this vantage point, she could see him out of the corner of her eye, without even turning her head. "He's not a pirate. I know that much. There aren't any left. And if he were a pirate, I hardly think Tressilian the naval hero would be stopping to address him."
It was true; the earl in his Navy uniform and the supposed pirate were deep into conversation now. Jessica felt a moment's regret that his apparent fascination with her had ended so soon. Wasn't that just like a man? But she supposed she was no more romantic than he, since she had already decided that this acquaintance wasn't worth pursuing if he couldn't help her win the collection.
Still, he was intriguing, from all the hints Ada had let drop so far. A new title, a dark past... "Perhaps he does look a bit piratical," she allowed, aiming her fork randomly at the display of food, her sideways gaze fixed on him. "So tanned, and those devilish winged brows. I can imagine him with a patch over his eye and a ring in his ear. Oh, Ada, tell me more. What's his name?"
Ada added another lobster patty to her plate, and frowned. "Oh, I can't remember. Manning, that's it. John Manning. Of course, he hasn't called himself that since he took up his illicit profession."
"Piracy? Come, now, Ada. I agree, he would make an impressive pirate. But he's here, at the princess's ball, and look, she's coming to greet him. I just don't think she'd welcome a pirate."
Reluctantly Ada gave in. "Oh, all right, he's not a pirate. That's just so much more romantic than a free-trader, for there are dozens of those around here. Not around here," she amended, as Jessica looked around the ballroom with renewed interest. "I daresay he's the only free-trader at this ball. But the South Coast just crawls with them. It is a sign of moral decay, my papa always said, how the villagers make heroes of outlaws like that John Dryden. And now he's Sir John Dryden. Papa must be spinning in his grave."
Jessica took another quick look at the elegant outlaw talking to the princess, and remembered where she had heard that name. "You don't mean that's really John Dryden?"
"Not the poet, dear. He's a century dead. I told you it was an assumed name."
"I know precisely when the poet died," Jessica said impatiently. "The collection has three copies of his last volume of poetry—'None but the brave, none but the brave, none but the brave deserve the fair.'" Jessica took Ada's plate from her hand before she could heap it even higher with lobster patties, and led her to a little table in a silk-draped alcove. There they could nibble and watch without observation. "But this is the new John Dryden, the art dealer?"
"Well, that's what they
say he used to smuggle. Isn't that unique—a smuggler who deals in art. But," Ada added reluctantly, "I gather he's gone respectable, and does everything legally now."
"I should say so. He's the Prince Regent's consultant on books, also, I think. They say he has the most extraordinary contacts on the Continent! And I know he's in the Royal Society of Antiquaries, and you must believe me, Ada, they are the stuffiest group. My father never applied to join, because he knew they would object to his handling of the collection. So that is John Dryden," she mused, pulling back the silk drape for a better look. "I wonder what he's doing here at the princess's party."
"I should think it would be obvious. He's very close to the family."
Jessica watched as Sir John Dryden smiled down at the princess, and realized with a sinking heart what Ada's implication must be. "He loves her, doesn't he?"
Ada made an exasperated sound. "Jessica, you were always one to suspect the worst! Of course he's fond of the princess! But it's not at all what you think." She leaned over and peered out around Jessica. Oblivious to propriety, she pointed her fork at Lord Devlyn, who had come up beside his wife. With the dark earl, Jessica recalled, he had seemed every inch the jealous husband. But he greeted Sir John with a smile and an outstretched hand. And then, while they clasped hands, Jessica blinked and the images of the two men seemed to merge. They were of a height, similarly slim, with the same dark brown curls, the same square-cut jaw. "They are brothers."
"Half-brothers. It was Devlyn's father, not his wife, who was indiscreet, you see."
Now that Jessica understood their connection, she could also see the distinctions too. They weren't identical, by any means. Devlyn was plainly English; Dryden still looked exotic, foreign, with those winged brows and the cool challenging eyes. His dark hair was gilded with gold—a sailor was ever in the sun, she supposed. "It was acknowledged, then, their fraternity?"
"Oh, no. The apothecary raised him as his own. Never noticed, as far as anyone knew. My mother used to marvel at that. She said the two boys were always together, and everyone else could see the resemblance. Not Mr. Manning. But they must know, the two of them."
Now that she thought of it, Jessica realized it made perfect sense. Of course he was the bastard son of a lord. Where else would he have gotten that elegant manner, the interest in finer things, the impeccable taste an art consultant needed?
But the circumstances of this man's birth were not important, except that, perhaps, they had made him something of a maverick. And, for the plan that was half-born in her mind, a maverick might come in quite handy.
She rose and shook out her skirts, smoothed her hair back, straightened the pearls around her neck. "Ada, do hurry. I want to be presented to the princess. And soon, before he walks away!"
Sir John Dryden's eyes glinted ironically as the introductions were performed, as if he knew that she had come to meet him. Jessica put up her chin proudly. He had been the one who had challenged her to do this, watching her in that intent way. The orchestra struck up a waltz, and, as she knew he would, he asked her to dance. They left Ada and the princess smiling, as if they had engineered this themselves.
The waltz was no longer a scandalous dance, and Jessica, in three London seasons, had learned not to blush at being held so closely by a man. But this felt more intimate than she remembered. That was absurd, of course. She had often waltzed with Damien, and that should have been more intimate, for she had known him most of her life. She knew John Dryden not at all.
But somehow, even before he took her in his arms, she knew that his hand under the white glove would be hard and capable, that his arm around her waist would be taut, that she could look up and see her own image in his oddly reflective gray eyes. Instead she looked straight ahead, at the sapphire pin in his cravat, and told herself that this eerie familiarity resulted from her secret knowledge of his birth, his past, his connection to the world of rare books. It was a bit unnerving, to know so much about him, and he still a stranger. More unnerving still was the sense that he knew more about her too than he had any right.
No matter. What counted was his unusual expertise, and his knowledge of the rare books trade. Casting about for an opening, she recalled the little notice that appeared in the Times last week, of an addition to the royal library. "I understand you recently procured the Jerusalem Manuscript for the Regent. I thought that had been destroyed during the Inquisition."
This was not, perhaps, the usual waltz patter, and it certainly captured his attention. "You have an interest in antiquarian books, Miss Seton?"
She took pains to persuade him that she hadn't merely studied up in hopes of impressing him. "I hope to inherit a library soon. Perhaps you've heard of it. The Parham Collection."
He gave it a moment's thought, then replied, "Yes, I think I have heard of it. Quite a selection of Bacon memorabilia, I believe? But I understand that the library is permanently closed, and so of little moment to a dealer such as I, or to scholars either."
She heard the implied rebuke, and knew with some despair that she would have a hard job to restore the Parham's stature in the antiquary community. Perhaps, though, she could use his disapproval of the current policy to entice him into an alliance. She looked up at him, watching for a change in his carefully neutral expression. "Yes, Bacon is the center of the collection. He was a particular passion of my grandfather's, you see. But there is much, much more, mostly English, but also a few Continental items." There it was: a flicker of interest, just a slight narrowing of his eyes, a moment's cessation of breath. "If—when I inherit, I mean to do a full catalogue, and make it available to scholars. I hope then I shall have the wherewithal to begin acquiring more books. There have been no additions, you see, since my father died."
"The collection is concentrated on English books, you say? Have you any Elizabethan artifacts?"
"Oh, not very many. The collection was begun in 1611, but I think my ancestor hadn't any love for his contemporaries, and left them quite alone. That's a great gap, in fact, that I hope to remedy. We do have a few of Jonson's books, but they are a bit later, I think, the first from 1616," Jessica said, closing her eyes and envisioning the shelves for the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Her list perforce was a random one, for Mr. Wiley wasn't one for shelf maintenance. "A Coverdale Bible. Hakluyt's Voyages. Cawdray's little dictionary. A delightful little book of herbal medicines, illustrated, very primitive. An unattributed translation of Petrarch's sonnets. I think the Earl of Oxford is responsible, for my grandfather bought it from his estate. You know about the Bacon selections. And two First Folios, of course, but those are kept separate in the vault."
"That's all you have of Shakespeare, two Folios?"
The music ended as she opened her eyes to the sharp disappointment on his face. Defensively, she said, "The two Folios are quite good specimens, actually. And we have some Globe Theatre memorabilia, and an early playbook of Twelfth Night. But you know, much was lost when the theatre burned. There remains little to be had."
Sir John noticed that they were standing on the dance floor while everyone else headed for the supper tables. and started to lead her back to Ada. Suddenly she thought she might lose him forever, this man who seemed to possess just the right combination of intellect, skill, and amorality to suit her purpose. "Wait! It is so hot in here." It was a deeply stupid remark. For all the three hundred people were dancing here, and for all the hot red silk draped everywhere, this was the chilliest ballroom she'd ever known. Most of the ladies were clutching their shawls around them, and the men were slipping off into the cozier cardrooms.
But there was no sense in calling attention to the mistake by correcting it. She just forged onward, all too aware of what sort of invitation Sir John must imagine this to be. "Perhaps we could walk out onto the terrace? I hear there's a lovely view."
Sir John kept a creditably courteous expression, neither lustful nor displeased. "As you wish."
Just in case he had misinterpreted her intent, she
said, "I would like your advice on some obscure items in the collection that I might sell if—when—I inherit."
"Obscure?" There it was, the gleam of interest. Now she knew. Curiosity must be his great weakness. "Obscurity" was all she needed to draw him out the French doors.
Even with the salt-tinged breeze off the channel, the night air was warmer than the ballroom. Sir John stopped for a moment on the garden steps and raised his hand to test the wind. It was almost an automatic gesture, and Jessica was reminded that he was, before aught else, a sailor.
Once out in the fragrant night, he took charge, guiding her down a dark pathway towards a broad flagstone terrace overlooking the sea. Here they were sheltered from a view by narrow tall yew trees, and the noise and music of the ballroom were far away.
She glanced back at the house, wondering whether their absence would be noticed. It would be a novelty, at least, Jessica decided, to be gossiped about for doing something improper like taking to the gardens with an outlaw. Her name was already a May game in the London clubs, for a crime no worse than getting and having to refuse a clutch of marriage proposals.
At the least this man was a most unusual outlaw. As they passed a bank of rose bushes, he stopped to touch a petal with a gentle finger, then tested the thorn on the stem beneath. She waited for him to break the bloom off and hand it to her, as a gallant beau might, but he let it go and continued down the path to the terrace.
The tide was out, and the surf was just a whisper against the rocks below. Jessica took a seat on the bench, tucking her blue silk skirt beneath her legs to ward off the chill of the stone. "You know the gardens well," she observed, as he took his own position leaning against the granite wall.
The moon was behind him, but whenever he tilted his head, as he did now, the light outlined the straight lines of his face. He gave her that look again, both quizzical and mocking. "I grew up in the village down the road. Devlyn—"
Poetic Justice, a Traditional Regency Romance (Regency Escapades) Page 6
