“Do you happen to remember how you heard he was in town?”
Lady Candover gave her a puzzled, indeed a very peculiar, look, before shrugging her shoulders. “Heavens, I haven’t the slightest idea. One just does hear, doesn’t one?”
“Yes, of course,” Amelia agreed in the most demure manner possible. “He’s rather a friend of my brother’s, you see. I thought possibly Peter mentioned it to you.”
“Ah, perhaps.” Lady Candover clearly felt the subject wasn’t of the least interest. “If you’ll excuse me, Lady Amelia, I should just speak to Mrs. Woolbridge for a moment.”
“Certainly.” Amelia watched the older woman struggle through the crowd toward a matron with what must have been two dozen ostrich plumes in her frizzy white hair. People did think you were awfully peculiar if you asked unusual questions. Poor Lady Candover patently believed there was something strange about Amelia’s interest in Lord Verwood, but she was too polite to say so. Amelia decided it was time to abandon her efforts for the evening, and enjoy herself, as Peter had suggested. She placed herself in a spot where the searching Mr. Rollings would see her, and accepted the next dance.
* * * *
But that was the first evening she had the distinct impression Lord Verwood was watching her. Until then it had seemed only peculiar that he happened to appear wherever she went. Even if two people moved in the same circles, it was highly unlikely one would run into the other so often, but since that seemed to be the case, for a week Amelia had accepted it.
At the Candovers’ she began to have doubts. Twice when she glanced over at the viscount, he was looking at her. Such a thing had happened before, of course. There were a certain number of gentlemen who found her attractive, and had been known to follow her progress during the course of an evening. But those men invariably approached her at some point and begged the favor of a dance. Lord Verwood never even spoke to her, and pretended, when she happened to catch his eye, that he didn’t see her at all. A very strange and annoying circumstance.
Lady Amelia did not attend exactly the same functions as her brother. If that had been the case, she wouldn’t have been as surprised to see Verwood here and there, with Peter. But when she and Trudy decided to go to the Hampworths’ rather than the Comptons’, there Verwood was, with his unruly black hair and his fierce eyes, standing in a corner watching her again.
It was really too much, and yet there wasn’t a thing Amelia could do about it. Once, while she was dancing (and listening to the most outrageous compliments from Rollings), she glanced over to see Verwood speaking with Aunt Trudy. He was, of course, long gone by the time she rejoined her aunt.
“What did Lord Verwood want with you?” she asked when she got her aunt alone.
Trudy frowned at her from under a confection of lavender-and-pink lace of which she was particularly fond. “He didn’t want anything, my dear girl. The merest civility brought him over to speak with me.”
“And what did you speak about?”
Her aunt sniffed. “The most ordinary things, I assure you. What’s gotten into you, Amelia? Have you formed a tendre for the fellow? I wouldn’t do that, you know. These military types are the devil to land. They’re used to being in charge, and they don’t want anyone who’ll speak up to them. Have you ever been in Mrs. Ovington’s house? Well, it would open your eyes. Everything is run with the greatest precision because her husband was once in the Horse Guards. And not very recently, you may be sure. She’s always in the greatest dither that he’ll find something amiss. No, no, you wouldn’t want to consider an alliance in that direction.”
“An alliance! Your mind must be gathering wool, Aunt Trudy. I haven’t the slightest romantic interest in Lord Verwood! In fact, I think there’s something peculiar about him.” Amelia could feel the color rising to her cheeks and willed it down as she plied a fan briskly just below her face. “How could you think I’d developed a tendre for him? He’s never even spoken to me, let alone danced with me.”
“Ah, I see how it is,” Trudy murmured with a complacent nod of her colorful head. “You resent his indifference to you. Well, I shouldn’t let that bother me. One can see clearly enough that he’s not one for the ladies. Whom has he stood up with this evening? Marissa Hampworth? That’s only to be expected; it’s her ball. And Julia Binderton? I saw Colonel Binderton lead him straight over to the girl. No getting out of that sort of spot, now, is there?”
Trudy pursed her lips in an imitation of thought. “He did bring refreshments to that pretty little Bissett girl. Now, she’s just the kind of girl an army man might cotton to. Fluff straight through from her head to her toes. Pretty as a picture, of course.”
“Have you been watching him all night?” Amelia demanded. Trudy wasn’t usually so knowledgeable about which gentleman had danced with which lady.
“One can’t help but notice him,” Trudy grumbled. “He’s half a head taller than most of the people in this room.”
Only Beningbrough topped him, it was true. Perhaps that was the reason he seemed so obvious. Amelia had thought it must be his air of negligent disrespect for the proceedings. Even dressed appropriately, he exhibited none of the elegance of his fellow man. There was something unpolished about him; a bluntness that was not, perhaps, unattractive, but it certainly wasn’t the standard in society gentlemen. His features, too, were aggressively rugged, suffering from none of the pampered softness of his associates. And the size of his hands! One could not imagine how a fragile champagne glass managed to escape unshattered from his grip.
Amelia was not particularly aware that she’d been staring at him, her violet eyes narrowed under furrowed brows. The fan in her hand had stilled and come to rest unconsciously against the bare skin above her jonquil gown. It was, though unstudied, a rather provocative pose, since she quite automatically carried herself with remarkable assurance and often stood with one hip thrust slightly forward, a posture which had long recommended itself to her because it eased the tiredness caused by dancing.
Because her mind was wandering over the few facts she’d learned about him, Amelia didn’t really notice that Verwood was moving toward her until he had almost covered the distance between them. Her mind snapped back to the present with an unpleasant jolt. Whatever must he think of her? His expression was especially grim, even for him, as he closed the remaining distance.
Whom was she supposed to be joining the country dance with? For a moment her mind refused to dredge up a name, and then, with relief, she realized it was Bepton. She cast a frantic glance about her, but could see him nowhere. Verwood stood in front of her now, his brows raised in query, the line of his mouth straight and uncompromising. There was a faintly sardonic note to his voice when he spoke.
“Lady Amelia? Was there some problem?”
“Goodness no, Lord Verwood.” She wasn’t at all comfortable under his scrutiny. He made her feel decidedly gauche, and Lady Amelia was not accustomed to feeling gauche. An outrageous scheme entered her mind, and without giving herself time to consider its consequences, she said archly, “I dare say you’ve forgotten you solicited my hand for this country dance.”
Chapter 4
His eyes narrowed only slightly. There was no other indication of his reaction, one way or the other. He bowed slightly to her, saying, “I do beg your pardon, Lady Amelia. Shall we?”
She accepted his proffered arm. There didn’t seem to be anything else to do, though she was now feeling slightly nervous about what she’d done. What if he didn’t know the steps for this particular country dance? Well, it would serve her right if he fumbled his way through the whole thing. When she was standing in the ladies’ line, opposite him, she found it difficult to meet his eyes, but forced herself to appear completely at ease.
“Where did you serve in the army, Lord Verwood?” she asked.
“Most recently, in Egypt.”
“Is that where you were wounded?”
“I was wounded in the leg.”
For the merest f
raction of a second she saw a gleam of humor in the fierce black eyes, but it was gone so quickly she could almost believe she had imagined it. “Well, yes,” she muttered, “I could tell by your limp.”
Their hands were joined, at shoulder height, as they promenaded down the line. The other dancers were watching them, naturally, so it was not a propitious moment for him to ask, with astonishment, “Do I have a limp?”
Amelia was ordinarily quite a graceful dancer. If, during her first season, she had not been designated as a diamond of the first water, she had at least been acknowledged as the most accomplished and elegant dancer of all the young women who made their bows that year. She stumbled now, flushed with embarrassment.
If she had met his eyes, she would have again seen that flash of humor, but she was too mortified to even look at him as they parted to continue down opposite sides of the lines. By the time she reached her spot, however, she had decided it was impossible he didn’t know he had a limp, and she stared across at him for the brief moment before she joined hands with the second gentleman in the line. There was nothing to he read in his face now but indifference.
Her desire to question him had abated completely. When they were joined by the dance again, she remained mute, waiting for him to offer some pleasantry, if he was able. He didn’t seem to even realize that such an effort was called for, but listened unabashedly to the couple next to them, interjecting a remark now and then, something that smacked of good-natured raillery. Amelia began to wish she’d never come to the ball.
It was a great effort to thank him for the set. She mumbled something wholly unintelligible as he led her back to Aunt Trudy, but he merely stopped abruptly to ask in a determinedly patient voice, “I beg your pardon? There’s so much noise here; I didn’t catch what you said.”
“I said thank you,” she hissed through clenched teeth.
“My pleasure, I’m sure. I trust you know you can rely on me anytime to rescue you from such an awkward situation. These Bond Street beaux can’t be trusted to remember their names after a few glasses of champagne. Who was it stood you up?”
Amelia glared at him and said nothing.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said, sounding obnoxiously hearty. “Peter would do the same for me, if there were the need. Quite a good chap, your brother. I’m sure he has your best interests at heart. Not every young woman could say that about a sibling. I hope, in future, he considers your welfare before even that of his country, and I hope you have the good sense to follow his advice.”
His eyes had that all-knowing look now, as though he could see right into her mind. (And didn’t approve of what he saw there.)
“Please don’t trouble yourself on my account, Lord Verwood,” Amelia said with an angry toss of her head. “It must be a great strain for you to say so much all at once, and I assure you I’m perfectly capable of attending to my own welfare.”
“If you believe that, you’re less astute than I gave you credit for being,” he murmured. Then he bowed stiffly and turned on his heel.
She refused to watch him walk away, but turned to her aunt instead. Trudy, unable to hear their exchange, though she had tried, said, “I thought he’d never asked you to dance.”
“He never has,” Amelia replied, with what she hoped was a mysterious smile. She immediately turned to her next partner, who was already standing at her elbow. “Ah, Mr. Gray. It’s frightfully warm in here, isn’t it? Would you mind if we get a glass of champagne before we join the set?”
* * * *
In the carriage, on the way home, Amelia sat back against the squabs and listened, more or less, to her aunt’s commentary on the evening. Trudy had a way of making each evening sound the same as the last, which, Amelia realized, wasn’t very far from the truth. To be sure, the company varied minimally, the decorations changed from place to place (but not significantly), the food was distinctly similar, and the music identical.
On the other hand, it was the most interesting time of year, during the season. There were more private parties, as well as more public events, to keep one from boredom. But when you were enduring your third season as a marriageable young woman, the similarity of events was rather daunting.
Amelia hadn’t been brought out until she was nineteen, owing to the circumstances surrounding her parents’ incarceration and death. Looking back, she could remember how excited she’d been that first season, ready for some gaiety in her life, anticipating the romantic advances of elegant gentlemen and the intelligent friendship of similarly minded young women.
There had been grave disappointments. So much had seemed frivolous rather than fun, after a while. Only at small, intimate parties had there been real conversation. Only through Peter’s allowing her to help in his work had she felt useful.
More than ever Amelia was convinced Lord Verwood was the one who’d changed Peter’s mind about letting her help. He had as much as said so when he brought her from the dance floor to Aunt Trudy. Since he most assuredly took no personal interest in her, why would he have interfered in the first place? It occurred to Amelia as she stared out into the dark London night that the most likely reason was that she had somehow stumbled onto something important, and he didn’t want her to learn more. Was that because of concern for her safety—or because she might find out something disadvantageous to him?
Trudy gave an impatient tug to the sleeve of Amelia’s blue velvet redingote. “We’re home, Amelia. Where’s your mind wandering?”
“Not very far,” Amelia sighed, following her aunt out of the carriage and up the stairs into the house in Grosvenor Square.
* * * *
Alexander Thomas Alresford, Viscount Verwood, did not stay long at the Hampworths’ after Lady Amelia and her aunt took their leave. In spite of the huge crowd, he was aware when they left because he seldom let Lady Amelia out of his sight. This was from no personal fondness for the young lady. He didn’t, after all, know her very well, and he had not, as some of the Bond Street beaux were fond of proclaiming (to anyone who would listen, about anyone who had happened to catch their fancy), been stricken by her enormous violet eyes or her dazzling smile. His concern was purely and simply that she would get herself in trouble and ruin Peter’s endeavors, and his own. It had seemed safest to suggest her leaving town, but as she wouldn’t, he could easily keep an eye on her.
Actually, there was another facet to the problem, one which he had not even broached to Peter when he’d discussed the matter. It was, in many ways, irrelevant. At least to Verwood. To Peter it would no doubt seem very relevant indeed. It concerned Lady Amelia’s methods of extracting information.
The Hampworths had a house in Berkeley Square, a reasonable walk to South Street. Verwood had, in fact, walked there, and intended to walk back home, but he was feeling restless when he left the overheated mansion. So instead of turning into Hill Street, he walked around the square and down Berkeley Street to Piccadilly.
A chuckle escaped him when he remembered poor Lady Amelia’s embarrassed flush when she’d mentioned his limp. Of course he knew he had a limp. The owner of a bum leg could hardly be oblivious of such a nuisance. The wound was healing, and his doctor assured him the limp would eventually disappear, but he couldn’t resist the urge to embarrass Lady Amelia, after the way she’d manipulated him into dancing with her. Verwood didn’t much like dancing, especially with the limp. Oh, he’d done it, of necessity, a number of times during the last week. That didn’t mean he enjoyed it.
Berkeley Street joined Piccadilly just beyond Green Park, and Verwood turned left toward St. James’s Street, where any number of activities went forth day and night. There were Brooks’s and White’s, for the Whigs and Tories, respectively, where gambling would go on until all hours. He passed Hoby’s, where he’d had his military boots made, and now, reluctantly, his Hessians. There was a grocer’s at number 3 and Lock’s the hatter’s at number 6. Lock’s charged exorbitant amounts for their beplumed and gold-laced shakos, as though all Hussars and Drag
oons were good for a fortune. Hotels dotted the street, too—Symon’s, Ellis’s, Fenton’s, and Reddish’s.
Verwood was headed for Boodle’s, across the wide thoroughfare from Brooks’s. Since his return to London he’d steered clear of either of the politically affiliated clubs. The Ministry of All Talents which had formed after Pitt’s death the preceding year had not proven very talented after all. The only thing they’d accomplished was the abolition of the slave trade, which was a worthy achievement, but hardly enough when it should have addressed itself to the Napoleonic dangers on the Continent. Their prosecution of the war was lethargic, and Verwood hadn’t been much distressed to witness their downfall.
It remained to be seen whether the wholly Tory administration under the old Duke of Portland would be any more successful. “All of Pitt’s friends without Pitt,” as Moore had said. Already Lord Granville Gower had been sent off to Russia and Sir Arthur Paget to the Aegean. The government had ordered up transports, and reached agreement with Russia and Prussia. But everything moved so slowly with a parliamentary system.
Verwood had seen the unconscionable waste of men in Egypt, which was still going on. He had agreed with Sir John Moore that a military expedition was necessary to support the forcing of the Dardanelles, but the Cabinet had instead ordered Lieutenant General Fox to land six thousand troops in Egypt. Under Major General Mackenzie Fraser they had taken Alexandria, but had subsequently suffered horrendous losses at Rosetta. And now Fraser’s forces were blockaded in Alexandria. Only time would tell whether the new government would be more forceful in its efforts, and more realistic in its use of its limited resources.
Wounded at Rosetta, Verwood had been lucky enough to find transport back to England after resigning his commission. There seemed little point in continuing, disabled, with the misdirected forces. He had begun to conceive that his influence at home would be more useful than in the field. There were not enough militarily knowledgeable men here to understand the best advice they were getting from the field, in the voices of Sir John Moore and Sir Arthur Wellesley. He intended to see that they listened more seriously to that advice.
The Ardent Lady Amelia Page 4
