Let Me Be The One

by Jo Goodman

  "It is all very well that you find my predicament amusing," Eastlyn said. "I assure you, it is not. I am not engaged. I have never been engaged. I have no intention of becoming engaged." He said this as if by rote, in the youthful tones he had once used for declining Latin verbs at Hambrick. "I should like to know how this rumor began."

  Northam and Southerton said in unison, "Marchman."

  "Hah! I don't believe it." He lowered his tumbler. "West might enjoy seeing me in a tangle, but he would not be so cruel as to involve another. This predicament most definitely involves an innocent." He glanced at his friends and saw they were duly sobered by this reminder. "It seems likely that Lady Sophia will hear of our engagement before I can assure her of its falseness. I fear she will be in expectation of a proposal when she sees me. Worse, she may have already found a priest to perform the nuptials. I might be walking into a trap, and while I find her company unexceptional in the extreme, she does not deserve to be treated shabbily."

  Southerton nodded. "You're right, of course."

  Northam added, "West, in fact, is the one who warned us the story was circulating. He was concerned you would hear of it from someone other than one of us. Apparently you did."

  "Lady Caroline took me aside, ostensibly to inquire of the particulars regarding my engagement. I say ostensibly because the Lady Caro seemed more intent on divining the direction of my bedchamber."

  "Did you decline or accept the invitation?" Southerton asked.

  "Declined." Eastlyn shrugged. "Had to. Didn't know how to get there myself. Seems I'm in the east wing on the north side of the house. Or it may be the reverse. Can't understand how it's possible either way. I simply try to keep the courtyard on my left and hope that I'll spy something familiar." He took another swallow of his drink. "In any event, I am resigned to being celibate until it is perfectly clear to the wags that there is no engagement. Lady Sophia deserves that much at least."

  "And how will Mrs. Sawyer feel about that?" Northam asked, referring to Eastlyn's mistress. "She is likely to object, is she not?"

  The marquess pressed the tumbler back to his brow. There was most definitely the beginnings of a headache starting behind his eyes, no matter what his friends believed. "Mrs. Sawyer is no longer under my protection, nor has she been these last twenty days." His long fingers tightened briefly on the tumbler before he removed it to knock back the remainder of his drink. "I had not considered it until now, but Mrs. Sawyer may be the source of the rumor."

  The same thought had occurred to the others. They withheld comment, trusting Eastlyn to know they would lend themselves in any way that was required. Mrs. Sawyer had never been a favorite.

  Eastlyn acknowledged the silence and what it meant with a slight nod. He rose from his comfortable position on the window seat and went to the foot of the bed. He poured himself another drink, then lifted the decanter in question, first at Northam, then Southerton. The viscount accepted the offer while Northam refused.

  "You know," Eastlyn said as he handed over a drink, "North's neatly managed to avoid the subject of Lady Elizabeth."

  "Practices roundaboutation better than anyone I know," Southerton said. "His mama agrees with me."

  "My mother said it first," Northam said quellingly.

  Southerton's smile was genial. "Did she? Then I suppose I agree with her."

  Northam sighed as Eastlyn encouraged the viscount's foolery by laughing."Lady Elizabeth is rather more provocative than she first appears and rather less sanguine than she would have others believe."

  Eastlyn stretched out at the window again."Which means precisely what?"

  "It means what it means," Northam said."I do not really wish to discuss her."

  Eastlyn and Southerton exchanged glances.

  Northam pointed to each of them in turn. "I am serious about this."

  They nodded in unison, identically bland smiles creasing their handsome faces.

  Rolling his eyes, the earl offered one other observation. "She would not have me as a gift."

  * * *

  The Baron Battenburn slipped through the connecting door to his wife's room. He was still dressed in fine evening wear: a cutaway coat with tight-fitting sleeves, striped vest in two shades of gray, high-collared white shirt with points so sharp they might have drawn blood, black trousers with a strap under each shoe to maintain their line. Only his neckcloth looked worse for wear after a long night at cards. The folds were no longer as crisp as they had been at dinner and there was some indication that he had been moved to tug on them from time to time.

  Louise's welcoming smile faded when she saw the state of his stock. "How much did you lose, Battenburn?"

  In spite of this less than auspicious greeting, Harrison Edmunds, the Right Honorable Lord Battenburn, crossed the room to his lady's side and dutifully kissed the rounded cheek she presented to him. It was not until he stepped back that he noticed Elizabeth Penrose almost secreted away in her wing chair. Her legs were curled under her, and the stool, which she had most assuredly been using earlier for her comfort, was lying overturned in front of her. Battenburn regarded it pointedly then turned the same regard on Elizabeth.

  "Has it offended you in some way?" he asked. He touched the toe of his shoe to one of the legs and righted it with no effort.

  "No, my lord," said Elizabeth. And it was true. Her legs offended her, stretched out as they had been, her hip aching and the small of her back so pinched with pain that it might have been in a vise. She was offended by what she had become. She looked away, afraid to hold the baron's gaze for fear she would lose all composure and humiliate herself in front of him.

  "Leave off, Harrison," Louise said. "Libby is overset. It has been a very long day for her. For all of us." She watched her husband go to her bed and sit on the edge. Always fastidious about his appearance, Louise was not surprised when he touched his neckcloth, straightening and creasing the folds between his fingertips. His posture was relaxed but not weary. His shoulders never slumped; he carried himself like an athlete, which he was. An avid horseman and boxer, her husband appreciated the importance of interests outside the political arena. Louise wished that gambling was not one of those interests. He smiled in her direction, a slight and slightly rueful lifting of his full mouth. She withheld her response, her own mouth set in the flattest line her generously curved lips would permit.

  "Five hundred pounds," he said. "Almost all of it to Southerton. I thought I might recover my losses when he left the table, but sadly, that was not the way of it."

  Elizabeth glimpsed the merest flash of relief in Louise's eyes. No doubt she was thinking it was a sum that could be easily managed and even replaced. Elizabeth's own stomach twisted in response. She hugged herself, pressing her forearms tightly against her midriff in an attempt to quell the roiling.

  "So Southerton is a cardsharp," Louise said. Her mouth had loosened its disapproving line. "Does he enjoy himself at the table?"

  Battenburn tugged at his jacket sleeves, straightening the line of them. "I would not pronounce him a sharp. He is rather more lucky than skilled. He passed the time at the table, but I suspect he did so from an ulterior motive."

  "Really? Pray, what motive?"

  "The desire to remove himself from the presence of Lady Powell. She was of a single mind this evening to capture Southerton's complete attentions. I fear she is in her room now plotting tomorrow's activities so she may contrive to have him to herself."

  Louise's brow lifted. "So that is the way of it. Lady Powell is a sufficiently attractive and witty companion. She is also a widow with no desire to marry again. I wonder what Southerton finds objectionable?"

  "Perhaps the way she fairly launched herself at him," Elizabeth said dryly. "I thought she would topple him when he entered the music room this evening."

  Louise looked at her husband for confirmation of this observation. She had been late to the entertainment, delaying the start because of a loose clasp on her diamond necklace. It required ten minute
s in her bedchamber for her maid to repair the clasp to her satisfaction. Now she wondered if she had missed something worth seeing by insisting on wearing that particular piece."I shall look forward to the morrow, then," she said. "It will be quite delicious to see who prevails. I only hope Lady Grace does not make a cake of herself. She cannot hold her seat, and tomorrow is the hunt. I should not like to see her trampled. Perhaps I shall speak to her, confidentially, of course. Subtlety is called for on her part."

  "I am not certain she will welcome your insights, dear," Harrison said. "Though your instincts on matters such as these are far superior to mine, I think it would not come amiss if you were to watch first, see how the matter progresses, and offer advice when it will be more agreeable. In the meantime we shall all pray she doesn't draw the hounds down on her."

  Louise recognized the truth of this, but she could not completely veil her disappointment. "You know how I love to bring a couple together. It is above all things satisfying to know one has had a part in it. In what other way can a man or woman discover their true nature if it is not through love?"

  "Or lust," Harrison said under his breath.

  Elizabeth dropped her eyes to her lap. She knotted her fingers into a single fist.

  "I heard that," Louise said. "And it is very bad of you to say such things. Observe: Libby is mortified. She heard also—as you intended we should."

  Harrison's clear blue eyes settled on Elizabeth. They were neither cruel nor kind, but neutral in their regard of her bent head and huddled figure. "I most humbly apologize, Lady Elizabeth, for my plainspeaking. My wife's notions are highly romantic and of dubious validity. We all know what part lust plays, whether we say it or not. I am for saying it."

  Louise sighed. "That is no sort of apology at all," she said, though there was no heat in her words. "I have been trying to persuade our dear Elizabeth to set her cap for Northam. I'm afraid you have cooled that argument with your talk of the baser motivations."

  Elizabeth vaulted from her chair as gracefully as her aches would permit. "If you will both excuse me, I wish most sincerely to retire."

  The baron was on his feet immediately. "Of course. Do you require an escort to your room?"

  She shook her head. Her smile was slight. "No, do not trouble yourself. If you will but recall, I know the way." The house had initially presented the same challenges to her as it did to all the guests, but Elizabeth had been a frequent visitor to Battenburn, often without the baron and baroness in residence, and she had grown comfortable enough with the maze of halls to find her way even without benefit of a candle. It was a test of sorts, and when she demonstrated her accomplishment to her hosts, they declared it a rite of passage—pun intended, they said in unison.

  "Let her go," Louise said to her husband. "I told you, it has been a trying day. Northam's attentions were rather more than she wanted, I think. He informed her that she had no talent for watercolors."

  "Indeed," the baron said, his tone as dry as dust.

  Elizabeth slipped out of the bedchamber as Battenburn was inquiring of his wife to provide more of the particulars.

  * * *

  The manor was quiet when Northam left his room. The servants had not yet been roused from their beds to begin preparations for another day's entertainment. From his limited observations, Northam believed the baron and baroness were exacting employers. There seemed to be no guest who was unattended, no whim that was not satisfied. He had overheard Lady Armitage complain that the floral arrangement in her chambers was not at all to her liking. Very plain, she had said. Insipid, really. It was not long afterward that he spied one of the maids ducking into a backstairs passage with an armload of roses. Later, when Lady Armitage commented that her room was a veritable garden, Northam felt certain she had been the recipient of the flowers.

  Most assuredly it was not the baron and baroness who directed these things—more likely it was Lady Elizabeth Penrose—but she could not be acting outside the expectations of the baron and baroness. He wondered again at the arrangement that existed between the Earl of Rosemont's daughter and his hosts. It was something of a curiosity to Colonel Blackwood as well, which ultimately made it Northam's concern. It was, perhaps, not the most auspicious of assignments the colonel had trusted him with, and certainly it was not the most dangerous, but it was proving to be not without some rewards. Northam could think of many less pleasant ways to pass his time than living in the pocket of Lady Elizabeth.

  Northam wandered the hallways of Battenburn, familiarizing himself with the twists and turns as he had not been able to earlier, when the majority of guests were still roaming. He did not want to be included in the games of hide and seek that were being played among some of the more adventurous guests. Lady Grace Powell, the lovely widow with a fortune and, by all accounts, no designs on a second marriage, had made her interests in South clear within minutes of their introduction. The viscount, never one to appreciate the strategy of a full frontal assault, had been in retreat most of the evening. Northam suspected his friend was sleeping soundly—and alone—in his own room, providing his candle wax trail had led him back to it.

  The same could not be said of some of the other guests. Southerton had also mentioned seeing Lord Allen and Lady Heathering secreted in a room that appeared to be a linen closet. The viscount came upon them by accident and backed away with all alacrity when he realized his error. "One would think they would have the good sense to hold the door shut," he said. "Lord Heathering might have stumbled on them."

  Northam suspected the cuckolded Lord Heathering would have to have left the arms of Mrs. Flagg in order to make that discovery. These lapses in discretion were the exception and Northam truly had no way of knowing to what extent the other guests at Battenburn were seizing the opportunities presented by too much fine wine and the great hall's peculiar architecture. He suspected this rout was in no way different from any of the others he might have attended this month. Any exposition of affairs would serve as a nine-days' wonder, nothing more.

  Northam eventually found his way to the grand staircase. Potted ferns stood at post on either side of the landing. He was careful not to bump into one of the urns and send it crashing to the parquet floor below. Beneath his feet was a dark wine carpet runner. He held up his candlestick to make sure he found the first step and then started down. Northam had been shown the library earlier in the day when he expressed an interest in the baron's collection. He had no difficulty coming to it again. The handle turned noiselessly for him and he let himself in. The addition of light from an oil lamp made him blink. It took a moment to see beyond the circle of light at the corner of the baron's desk and to the occupant of the baron's chair.

  "Lady Elizabeth," he said. Surprise made his manner somewhat stiff. Lulled by the stillness that had settled over the house, he had neglected to look for signs of occupancy before he opened the door. "Forgive me. I did not know this room was in use."

  Elizabeth's eyebrows arched fractionally. She had the feeling she was not being apologized to at all, but rather taken to task for interrupting him. She placed her quill down slowly and, in the same deliberate motion, lifted her chin. She was wearing a hunter green flannel shawl across her shoulders, and now she adjusted the ends so they covered more of her bosom. Her cotton nightdress was less revealing than the gown she had chosen to wear at the musicale, but since it was clearly intended for the bedroom, she felt more exposed. To his credit, Northam's eyes remained on her face. Far from being insulted, Elizabeth was relieved. "May I assist you in some way?" she asked in polite but reserved accents.

  Northam remained where he was. "I thought I might find something to read."

  "How fortunate you have come upon the library, then."

  "It is not by accident," he assured her, "but by design."

  Elizabeth withheld comment, her skepticism communicated by her silence.

  Northam lowered his candle and his gaze fell on the quill and foolscap in front of Elizabeth. "Your letter to the col
onel?" She nodded. "It is rather late, is it not, to be composing your missive?"

  "Months late. As you pointed out this afternoon."

  He did not correct the meaning she took from his question, suspecting that the misunderstanding was deliberate. "May I intrude upon you long enough to search for a book?"

  She made a graceful sweep with her arm, indicating he could go where he would. Elizabeth made no attempt to return to her writing, but chose to watch Northam instead. "Is there one in particular you have in mind?"

  "The one containing Malthus's Essay on the Principle of Population," he said. "I believe I saw it earlier."

  "Are you certain hot milk would not be more to your liking?" He laughed out loud at that, and Elizabeth was reminded anew how very enjoyable that sound was. She regretted she was not a more amusing person, for listening to his laughter would surely be a pleasure. "It is to your right. One shelf up."

  Northam's index finger swept the gold-embossed bindings, guiding his eyes. He stopped suddenly and raised his candle. The yellow light burnished the dark leather spines, deepening and enriching their color. "Ho," he said, his interest arrested by one particular book. "What's this?" He picked out the book carefully, grinning as he examined the cover. "Castle Rackrent," he read aloud. "'A Gothic novel.'" He checked the spine for the author's name. "By Maria Edgeworth. A pseudonym, no doubt, for who would willingly give over their name to the penning of a Gothic novel?"

  "That is very small of you. It is highly entertaining."

  Still grinning, Northam somehow managed to arch one brow. His bright crosshatch of yellow hair gleamed in the candlelight. "Is it?" he asked, his tone signifying great cynicism. "Is it yours?"

  "It is her ladyship's," Elizabeth said coolly. "But yes, I have read it. That is how I know it is entertaining. You, on the other hand, have no experience by which to judge its content."

  "Well said, my lady." He slipped the book under his arm and continued to search out the Malthus essay. "Aaah. Here it is." Northam put the candle down in order to take the collection of essays from the shelf. He fanned through the pages, making certain it contained what he was looking for, then folded it under his arm with the Edgeworth Gothic tome.