Lady Victoria's Mistake

by Amy Corwin

  Spying the ladies at the pianoforte, Mr. Fitton strode across the room to join them. The handsome, dark-haired man smiled and said something to Miss Urick, causing her to giggle nervously. Her left hand played nervously with the cameo dangling from the gold chain around her neck. She kept running the pendant back and forth along the chain as she smiled into Mr. Fitton’s blue eyes, dimpling and blushing prettily when he returned her smile.

  They looked well together, Mr. Fitton with his handsome, chiseled features and dark hair, and Miss Urick with her fair coloring. He bent closer, selecting a piece of music out of the sheaf she held in her hands and placing it on the pianoforte. Several other members of the party noted the trio and moved closer.

  “Will you not play for us, Miss Urick?” Lady Longmoor asked as her husband pulled several gilt chairs into a rough semi-circle facing the instrument.

  “Excellent notion! A bit of music is just what we need. Help our digestion and all that.” Sir Arnold rubbed his hands together as he approached them, before stopping to drag two more chairs forward to add a second line to the arc.

  As the rest of the guests drifted toward the arranged seats, Victoria gently caught Mrs. Stedman’s arm. “Is your headdress still bothering you?”

  Mrs. Stedman nodded, her mouth compressed into a white-rimmed line.

  “Why don’t you go upstairs and remove it? No one will notice, I assure you, and I wouldn’t wish to see you suffering the rest of the evening.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Please don’t worry. I assure you no one will notice. You cannot possibly enjoy yourself with a throbbing headache.”

  Mrs. Stedman sighed. “You’re very kind, Lady Victoria. If anyone notices—”

  “No one will.” Victoria gestured toward the pianoforte. “And if they do, I will make your excuses for you.”

  Miss Urick had already seated herself, and Mr. Fitton was standing nearby, ready to turn the pages of music as required.

  “You see?” Victoria continued. “Everyone will be listening to the music. They will never notice if you are gone for a few minutes, and you will be so much happier when you return.”

  “You are right, I suppose.” Mrs. Stedman smiled wryly, her mouth twisting to the right. “We all believe our presence will be missed, and I would certainly think that the presence—or absence—of such a magnificent headdress would be remarked upon, but sadly, I fear no one will notice. A hostess, particularly one of a certain age, is nearly invisible, is she not?”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Stedman. I did not mean to imply that,” Victoria said hastily, horrified that her remarks might be construed as insulting. “Not at all.”

  Mrs. Stedman laughed and patted Victoria’s arm. “Never fear, Lady Victoria. You said nothing wrong. My mood is not a cheerful one tonight—blame this ridiculous tiara and my vanity. It is not easy being a mature woman in a room full of beautiful, young debutants, as I’m sure you understand. Make my excuses if need be. I shall not be gone long.”

  Feeling a bit stung, Victoria studied her hostess’s face, but Mrs. Stedman was rubbing her temple again and eyeing the pair at the pianoforte. Perhaps Victoria was simply oversensitive about her age and the fact that this was her fifth Season. Before she could think of a suitable reply, Mrs. Stedman smiled at her and slipped away through the drawing room doors. The tinkle of a cheerful Bach sonata in D major covered the swift patter of her footsteps as she crossed the hallway to the wide staircase beyond.

  When Miss Urick completed the sonata, she partially rose, only to have Mr. Fitton stop her with a hand on her shoulder and a smile. While Victoria couldn’t hear what he said, he showed Miss Urick another sheet of music and placed it on top of the sonata on the rack in front of her. Smiling, she nodded and seated herself again.

  Before she could begin the second piece, however, most of her audience had risen to their feet and were shuffling around the room. At some point during dinner, the servants had set up several card tables, draped with white damask cloths, in the far corner of the room. Stacks of playing cards, counters, and other paraphernalia for games had been arranged on one table, and Victoria’s parents, as well as several others, were chatting and making their way towards them. Victoria glanced around, unsure whether she wished to join a game of whist, listen to the music, or move to one of the sitting areas to talk.

  Her gaze fluttered over the other guests, searching for Mr. Archer. Mrs. Stedman had returned at some point, and now wore a silver ribbon threaded through her hair and adorned with a curling white feather. She had joined the twins and Colonel Lord Parmar, who stood to one side of the fireplace with one elbow propped up on the white marble mantle, apparently telling them some sort of a story. The ladies stood around him, smiling and nodding, as he spoke, and as Victoria watched, Grace giggled, covering her mouth with a gloved hand. The gesture so closely echoed Maud’s earlier one that Victoria found herself checking the color of the ribbons decorating her hair and yellow dress.

  Green ribbons—yes—it had to be Grace.

  Curious to hear what the colonel was saying that was so amusing, Victoria took a few hesitant steps forward before her glance strayed back to the gaming tables. Mr. Archer and Mr. Wickson stood halfway between Victoria and her parents, who were seating themselves at one of the tables. As she watched, Mr. Archer’s head came up and he looked in her direction. A quiver of excitement ran through her at the gleam in his eyes. She raised a hand, touching her fingers to the base of her throat as she caught her breath. Flushing, she gave him a shy smile before she looked again in the direction of her parents.

  Feet caught in an invisible web, she couldn’t seem to decide or move to join any of the groups shifting around her. For the first time in five long Seasons, she felt like a gauche girl, unsure of what to do and feeling lost in the elegant crowd.

  Mr. Archer strode to her, with Mr. Wickson trailing after him. “Are you enjoying yourself, Lady Victoria?”

  “Oh, yes. Miss Urick plays beautifully, does she not?” As soon as she said the words, Victoria winced at the utter banality of her conversation.

  “Adequately.” Mr. Archer chuckled. “Barely adequate. Do you play?”

  “I’m not sure I should admit that I do. I’ve had numerous lessons, in any event, and to my shame, I am even less adequate than Miss Urick.”

  “No one could be less adequate than Miss Urick,” he replied dryly, a twinkle in his brown eyes.

  Victoria laughed and shook her head. “Now you are simply being cruel, Mr. Archer.”

  “John, if you please.” He studied her with such an intent look in his eyes that her stomach fluttered.

  She looked away to break the hushed stillness growing between them. A nervous laugh bubbled in her throat, and she bit her lip to keep from giggling like a child.

  When she dared to catch his gaze again, she nodded. “Very well, John.”

  Golden flecks glimmered in his brown eyes, and a small, self-deprecating smile twisted his mouth to the left.

  His gaze was so warm, so rich with tender affection that she looked down again while her fingers yanked and played with one of the curls Rose had taken such pains to perfect. Everyone else in the room seemed to grow dim and shadowy, despite the golden candlelight of the crystal chandeliers and the crackling fire. She risked another glance at him, unable to resist. As her gaze roved over his handsome face, she noticed that a faint shadow of a beard was already darkening the hollows of his cheeks, and although she hadn’t seen it earlier, there was a small cut—perhaps from shaving—on the right edge of his stubborn jaw.

  His neckcloth, though starched and gleaming white, had grown rumpled, and the left point of his collar had wilted slightly. Her fingers twitched, longing to touch that small scrape on his chin and run her hand down to feel the beat of his heart under the gold-embroidered satin waistcoat he wore over his lean form. As if sensing her thoughts, his eyes grew darker and the wry twist of his lips more pronounced.

  “I say, Archer, I could do with a bi
t of air, eh?” Wickson said suddenly. He nudged John’s arm and jerked his head toward the door at the rear of the room that led out to a small balcony. He patted the breast of his jacket and gestured again at the French doors. “Air? Smoke?”

  A flash of irritation knotted John’s forehead briefly before his expression smoothed out again. His glance at one of the empty chairs near the fire, combined with his pallor, indicated that he had other thoughts. Victoria raised her hand to give his arm an encouraging squeeze, but when her gaze flashed around the room, she noted her mother staring at her. She rapidly amended the gesture to another tug of her much-abused curl.

  With a faint smile, John took a step back and bowed. “I do apologize, Lady Victoria. Will you excuse us?”

  “Certainly. Though perhaps you might prefer to sit by the fire?” Victoria smiled in return, feeling warm and cherished.

  “I certainly would,” John agreed.

  Mr. Wickson glared at him, his plump lower lip thrust out and his brows drawn down over his eyes. “Fresh air would suit us both, just as well.”

  “Or at least one of us.” John sighed and shrugged.

  With a light laugh, Victoria waved the two men away, leaving her once more trying to decide which group to join. The other guests were milling around in small clusters, pursuing other activities, despite Miss Urick’s efforts at the pianoforte. She hesitated and glanced at her mother again, but Lady Longmoor was now engaged in watching her husband methodically deal the cards.

  An urge to visit the retiring room struck her, and with another quick look around, Victoria slipped into the hallway. To her dismay, none of the servants were present. Apparently, they were clearing away the remains of the dinner or eating their own. Her gaze followed the long, graceful curve of the grand staircase to the shadowy landing above.

  She’d just have to find the designated retiring room for herself. No doubt it was on the second or third floor, and really, since many townhouses were laid out in a very similar fashion, it should not be too difficult to find. She climbed the staircase to the second floor, and paused on the landing to look around.

  A lamp, lit and providing a golden light amidst the shadows of the second floor landing, reassured her that guests were expected to come to this floor. Most likely, that meant that the room they were to use was along the short hallway to her left, where the lamp had been left on a narrow table. She strode in that direction with more confidence, stopping at the first doorway on her right.

  The door was open, but there were no candles or lamps lit. She peered into the darkness and then went back to pick up the brass lamp from the hallway table. When she returned, she discovered that the open door led into a lovely cream and blue bedroom. Holding the lamp up, she glanced around. Her gaze was caught by a box lying on the cream, blue, and gold carpet in the center of the room.

  How odd. She moved forward.

  The box appeared to be a rather large jewelry case, lined with green velvet. She picked it up, frowning. It was empty. A cold, uneasy feeling teased her with clammy fingers at the back of her neck. Holding the box, she looked around again, searching for anything that might have spilled out of it, but the carpet appeared bare of anything else.

  A few curls of dust and a lone, white stocking were hiding under the bed, but her quick search revealed nothing more.

  Standing in the center of the room, she looked around again.

  “Lady Victoria! I hadn’t realized you had left the party,” Mrs. Grisdale said from the doorway. Hands clasped at her waist, she stepped further into the room. The long grooves running from her aquiline nose to the corners of her mouth deepened as she frowned. “What are you doing with that?” She jerked her chin at the box in Victoria’s hand.

  Bemused, Victoria glanced down at the empty jewelry case clutched in her left hand. The lamp she gripped in her right suddenly felt hot. The light flickered as she moved her arms sharply. She almost threw the empty box on the bed before she managed to control the abrupt reaction.

  “Well?” Mrs. Grisdale grabbed the box out of Victoria’s unresisting hand. She turned it over, examining the polished exterior and empty interior. “This is Mrs. Stedman’s case for her tiara—what were you doing with it? Why is it empty?”

  “I—well—I don’t know,” Victoria answered helplessly. She waved at the carpet. “I found it. On the floor. Empty.”

  “Did you, indeed?” A look of suspicion sharpened her already pointed features. “Perhaps you had best explain that to Mrs. Stedman!”

  “What? I told you, it was empty.” Victoria edged backward, but there was no place to go with Mrs. Grisdale blocking the door. “I found it on the floor.”

  “I am sure you did.” Sarcasm bathed Mrs. Grisdale’s words in acid.

  Gripping the case in one hand, Mrs. Grisdale reached out and grabbed Victoria’s wrist. Her thin fingers bit into Victoria, despite her long gloves.

  “What are you doing?” She tried to shake off the woman, but Mrs. Grisdale’s hold on her merely tightened.

  “Mrs. Stedman must be informed. This is a serious matter, young lady. As the daughter of a marquess, you may believe you can do anything that pleases you, but I assure you that could not be further from the truth!” Mrs. Grisdale dragged Victoria out of the room, despite her increasingly frantic denials and attempts to free herself.

  The light waved wildly in Victoria’s free hand. Visions of the oil spilling over them and setting their gowns on fire crowded out her embarrassment at being dragged in front of the other guests by Mrs. Grisdale. As Victoria passed the table in the hallway, she jerked around to put the lamp down. It teetered, the oil sloshing around in its base. She glanced over her shoulder in concern as Mrs. Grisdale pulled her along. The lamp finally settled on its base, the flaring, flickering light shrinking to a normal, happy flame.

  At the top of the stairs, Victoria tried once again to pry Mrs. Grisdale’s fingers loose. “Please, let me go!” Victoria insisted. “If you feel you must, why don’t you ring a bell and have one of the servants bring Mrs. Stedman here?”

  “Are you afraid of a scene, Lady Victoria?” Mrs. Grisdale asked, a grimly triumphant glint in her hazel eyes. Her mouth twitched into a faint smile. “Perhaps you should have considered that before you decided to steal that tiara.” With a sharp tug, she forced Victoria to follow her down the staircase to the first floor.

  With as much dignity as she could muster, she walked behind her captor into the drawing room. Her stomach clenched and crawled as if she’d swallowed a handful of live ants at dinner—it felt as if the eyes of everyone in the room were fixed on her. A humiliating flush burned her cheeks.

  She wasn’t an errant five-year-old child to be chastened thoroughly as punishment, and yet that was exactly how she felt.

  Thankfully, Mrs. Grisdale didn’t stop or say anything until she’d drawn Victoria over to Mrs. Stedman.

  Their hostess was sitting with Victoria’s parents and the colonel at one of the white-covered card tables in the rear of the room. Playing cards were scattered over the snowy surface, and each of the players held cards in his or her hand. Frowning at his hand, the colonel was the first to look up. His expression grew even more irritated when he noticed them, his brows bristled over his deep-set eyes.

  “Well? What is it?” Colonel Lord Parmar asked, placing his cards face down on the table in front of him and pressing a hand down over them. “Well?”

  “Mrs. Stedman,” Mrs. Grisdale said, ignoring the colonel. She lifted her chin and stared pointedly at their hostess.

  “Yes?” Mrs. Stedman raised her gaze from her cards. Her brows rose as she caught sight of the box in Mrs. Grisdale’s hand.

  When Victoria shifted from one foot to the other, Mrs. Stedman’s thoughtful gaze swept from the jewelry box to Mrs. Grisdale’s fingers, grasping Victoria’s arm. She looked up at Victoria, her eyes wide with surprise.

  “I caught this woman in your bedchamber with your empty jewel case in her hands,” Mrs. Grisdale announced, he
r voice ringing with triumph.

  Although she tried to stand with her shoulders proudly squared, Victoria couldn’t help cringing. Her gaze fell to the jumble of cards on the table in front of her, wishing she’d decided to join the game earlier.

  Before Mrs. Stedman could respond, Victoria’s mother gently placed her playing cards face down on the table. She lifted her head and studied her daughter. The corners of her mouth drooped. She sighed heavily and shook her head.

  “Oh, my dear—why?” Lady Longmoor asked in a plaintive, long-suffering voice.

  “But I didn’t! I have done nothing wrong!” Victoria expostulated. She shook her arm free of Mrs. Grisdale’s grasp and reached out to touch her mother’s shoulder, her gaze fixed imploringly on her sad face. “I found the box, and that is all!”

  “Found the box and took the tiara!” Mrs. Grisdale said, her cheeks flushed with triumph. She looked around, her eyes bright. “You all remember—it was Lady Victoria who insisted—absolutely insisted—that Mrs. Stedman take off her tiara. Why else would she have been so insistent? She wanted to take it. There could be no other reason.”

  “She did seem very determined,” Mrs. Stedman agreed, though her voice was slow with reluctance.

  When Victoria glanced at her, Mrs. Stedman refused to meet her gaze and stared down at the linen-covered table.

  “You see?” Mrs. Grisdale asked. “She must have decided to steal the tiara as soon as she saw it!”

  “Lady Victoria—really!” Her father coughed into his fist before he heaved a lugubrious sigh. His shoulders slumped as he stared down at the table, his fingers playing with the cards, aligning their edges and then spreading them out again. “Surely, you are old enough to know this sort of behavior won’t do—not at all. Won’t do at all.” Lifting his head, he glanced across the table at Mrs. Stedman. Every day of his sixty years was etched on his weary face. “I must apologize, Mrs. Stedman, though there is no excuse I can offer you, except to say we shall not leave until your headdress has been returned to you.”