He shrugged. “I haven’t heard how or if the Horse Guards means to respond. But I do know how much money the Company drops into their coffers.” Montrose inclined his head. “And now I imagine you’ll want to be elsewhere—unless you would care to go driving with me after all.”
Theresa shot to her feet. “Um, no. I need to—”
“I thought so,” he interrupted. “I’m not your enemy, Tess. And I didn’t give you this information for anyone’s sake but yours.”
She hardly noted what he was saying. Her ties to Tolly might be tenuous by Society’s standards, but all she could think was that he needed to know—at once—that both the East India Company and the War Office were about to call him a liar, and the entire ordeal he’d faced, a coward’s tale.
“Go on, Tess,” Montrose said, heading for the door. “I’ll see you tonight at the Fallon soiree. I hope he appreciates that you’re willing to go speak to him in person.” He shook his head. “I never much liked Tolly James, but now I almost feel sorry for him. Once the report comes out, he’ll go from wounded hero to overmatched and failed officer.”
With a nod he excused himself from the sitting room. For a long moment Theresa stood there in the middle of the floor. Alexander Rable had impeccable manners. He’d politely informed her that the fellow who’d caught her eye was about to be very unpopular. He’d done it without asking her to make a choice, or even requesting an apology from her for making such a silly error in judgment. To keep her own reputation and standing safe, all she had to do was…nothing.
He’d even made the suggestion that she play the heroine and ease her own conscience by giving Tolly the news herself. And then she could go on tonight and dance with her beaux, and tomorrow she could shop and flirt and pretend she’d never befriended the poor, misguided colonel.
She pulled off her smock. “Sally, tell Ramsey to have the coach readied. I’ll be down in a moment.”
Bobbing in a curtsy, the maid hurried out of the room. Theresa went across the hallway to her bedchamber to fetch her gloves and bonnet. As she did so, she caught sight of her reflection in the dressing mirror.
Yes, she’d promised to be good. Thirteen years ago she’d sworn that she would never give her family a moment’s pause, that everything she said and did would be proper, and correct, and honorable. And in thirteen years she’d never so much as stumbled. But then again, this was the first time she’d found the ground beneath her feet to be uncertain.
Theresa took a steadying breath. She would call on Tolly. Anything beyond that she would decide when the moment came.
Bartholomew glanced toward his valet as someone knocked at the bedchamber door, but Lackaby continued muttering to himself while he pulled out the left leg seam of the black trousers he held.
Well, Lackaby hadn’t precisely been hired for his grasp of etiquette. “Come in,” he called. Going back to the simple knot he was tying into his cravat, Bartholomew leaned forward in his wheeled chair. Whether it was the twice-daily dashes of whiskey over his knee or the fact that he hadn’t put any weight on his leg in nearly a week now, he felt…better. Sounder, inside and out. More alive.
Of course the main ingredient to his recovery was one witty, lovely female with hair the color of sunshine and eyes the changeable color of the sea. Because of Theresa Weller, his heart persisted in its return to life, despite the fact that his mind knew he didn’t deserve the opportunity.
“Good morning,” his brother said, stepping into the room.
“Stephen.”
“I’m going to White’s for luncheon with Masey and a few others, if you’d care to join me.”
Hmm. His disposition had improved, if Stephen was now inviting him places. “I’ve a previous engagement with Tess and your wife, but thank you.”
His brother closed the door behind him. “Yes. About that.”
The muscles across Bartholomew’s shoulders tightened, but he finished the cravat. He very much doubted that Stephen could say anything about his pursuit of Theresa that he hadn’t already considered, himself. Even so, he had no intention of encouraging criticism.
Stephen cleared his throat. “Lackaby, give us a moment.”
The valet stood.
“Stay,” Bartholomew countered, moving from the cravat to buttoning the last few fastenings of his waistcoat.
The valet sat again.
“Very well.” The viscount walked across the room to look out the window. Either something extraordinary was taking place in the garden, or his brother was working very hard to choose how he wanted to say something unpleasant. “Tess Weller is a delightful young lady,” he finally said.
That wasn’t so bad. “Yes, she is.”
“You’re not the…sort of fellow I generally see about her.”
“So she told me.”
Stephen faced him. “She said that to you?”
“Several times. She thinks I’m sullen.”
“I—Do you like her?”
Bartholomew shoved backward from the dressing table, muscling the chair around to face his brother. “I just told you that she said I was sullen.”
“Then you don’t like her.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Stephen frowned. “Tolly, you’ve just returned from a nightmare. It makes sense that you would be attracted to someone with such a sunny disposition, but I want to make certain you know that she has other suitors. Men who’ve been in pursuit for far longer than you have. And—”
“I might be crippled, but I’m not blind.”
“You are not crippled,” his brother retorted. “You’re injured. But your wound does make competing with Tess’s beaux even more problematic. I don’t want to see you hurt again. That’s—”
“I appreciate your concern,” Bartholomew cut in again, “but I haven’t required your advice or your opinion since I turned seventeen.” He held his brother’s gaze, touched by the compassion and worry he saw there. Stephen had certainly never done anything to hurt or trouble him. “Do you have an objection to my…interest in Theresa Weller?”
“No! God, no. But—”
“So your objection is that you don’t think I am capable of winning her hand, not that winning her will add her to the family.”
“No. Yes. No.”
“Mmm-hmm. I’ll manage my own affairs then, Stephen. Thank you for your concern.”
The viscount jabbed a finger in his direction. “Just don’t send your surly self against Violet and Amelia and me if the world doesn’t turn your way. We’re family.”
“The world doesn’t turn my way. And whether you believe it or not, my main concern is that I not hurt you.”
“I—”
The door rattled again. With a glance at the seated Lackaby, Stephen returned to the doorway and pulled it open himself. The butler stood there, a silver salver laden with a calling card in his hand.
“My lord,” Graham intoned, “Major-General Ross is here to see Colonel James.”
“Ross? Do you know him, Tolly?”
Bartholomew gestured for the card. “Yes. He’s with the Horse Guards.” The card didn’t contain a note or a sentiment—nothing but “Major-General Anthony Ross,” printed in very unimaginative style across its front. Not a very friendly greeting from someone he’d once saved from a bayoneting at the hands of Boney’s Imperial Guards. “Tell him I’m not up to visitors today.”
The butler nodded. “Very good, sir.”
“Graham, my boy,” Lackaby spoke up, “muster the lads to move the colonel down the stairs, will you?”
Graham’s stony face could have cracked granite. Not only had the butler more than likely never been called “my boy” before in his life, but being ordered about by an inferior—Bartholomew was rather surprised he didn’t drop dead on the spot. “Lackaby, go find our own damned troops,” he ordered.
“Aye, Colonel.” With a jaunty grin the valet slipped past the butler and down the hallway.
“That…man i
s trouble, my lord,” Graham announced, and vanished as well.
“I’ve tried to sack him thrice already,” Bartholomew told Stephen, “so good luck.”
His brother snorted. “I’ve surprised myself with the amount of chaos I’m willing to tolerate in exchange for having you home.” He reached out a hand as if to touch his brother’s shoulder, then lowered it again. “I won’t warn you to be cautious, because I know you don’t require my advice. All I’ll say, then, is to enjoy your luncheon.”
“Thank you.”
As his brother left, Bartholomew favored Ross’s card with one more glance before he placed it on the dressing table. Eventually, he supposed, he would have to agree to chat about the weather with old friends and acquaintances. Not yet, though. He’d allowed only one exception to disrupt his virtual hermithood. And as he’d discovered, she was also the most likely person to understand what he’d become.
“Colonel.” Lackaby strolled back into the room, his quartet of assistants with him. “Your lady just turned up the drive.”
“She’s early.” Bartholomew flipped open his pocket watch to make certain. Tess was nearly an hour early. Each day he saw her, the sight left him surprised; because each night he expected her to come to her senses and change her mind. “Get me downstairs,” he said aloud.
Huffing and puffing, Lackaby and the other servants set him back on his wheels in the foyer just as Graham opened the front door to admit Tess and her maid. At least she didn’t have to see him tumbling headfirst down the main staircase.
“Tolly,” she said, hurrying past the butler before he could even acknowledge her presence. “I need a private word with you.”
His stomach muscles clenched; so she’d come to her senses after all. “Lackaby,” he said, gesturing toward the door just off the foyer.
Theresa led the way inside. “Sally, please wait in the kitchen,” she told her maid as she took over the short handles of Bartholomew’s chair. “And Lackaby, go away.”
The valet sketched a bow. “With pleasure.”
Once they were alone in the room, she pushed him close by the hearth. “What’s amiss, Tess?” he asked, craning his neck to keep her in view.
“Oh, I don’t even know how to tell you.”
For a short moment he watched her pace. And whatever news she meant to give him, he couldn’t help noticing the soft sway of her hips, the flash of shoe and ankle as she crossed the floor. It served him right for hoping; he knew better. Now that he’d done so, being rejected by the enchanting Tess Weller would hurt more, but it was no more than he deserved. “Just tell me,” he said. “There’s little chance you can wound me, my dear.”
Finally she came to a stop in front of him, then she clenched her fists and tucked them beneath her chin. “I don’t believe in passing on gossip,” she said, her voice unsteady, “but I have no reason to think any of this is untrue. Tolly, tomorrow the East India Company will be publishing a report. They’re going to say that the Thuggee threat is imaginary, conjured by cowards who couldn’t perform their duties. The Horse Guards is apparently going to remain silent on the issue, though I’m not certain about that.”
Bartholomew stared at her. The information was so far from what he’d expected to hear from her that for a hard beat of his heart he thought he’d imagined it. Then it all crashed into him with the force of a brick wall. And he had to sit there in his damned wheeled chair with his damned mangled leg and take it.
“Tolly?” she said quietly. “Bartholomew? I believe you. I want you to know that. But I also thought someone should…warn you about what’s coming. The—”
“Thank you,” he said stiffly. “Good day.”
She blinked, though he scarcely noted it. “Good…That’s all you have to say? This is terrible news! What are you—”
“I don’t need you to tell me what sort of news this is, Miss Weller. Thank you for informing me. You should leave now, before someone connects your name to mine. We both know you don’t want that.”
Theresa put her hands on her hips. “And what is that supposed to mean?” she demanded. “I have done nothing wrong, so I see no reason for you to be angry with me, Colonel.”
He grabbed the arms of the chair and shoved, lifting himself into a standing position. From there he could look down at her, remind her that he was more than a cripple and an object of pity. “I am going to ask you one last time to get the devil away from me. Because if you don’t…” He reached out, grabbed her arm, and yanked her up against him. Roughly he kissed her, knowing it was for the last time and refusing to dwell on how sweet her mouth was or how her touch warmed him inside.
“Save yourself from scandal, Tess,” he said, and pushed her away. “Get out. Now.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Propriety must be more than a word. I could claim to be proper all day, for instance, but unless I behave in that same manner, I might as well save my breath.”
A LADY’S GUIDE TO PROPER BEHAVIOR
Miss Tess,” Sally said, leaning out of the coach’s open door, “are we going?”
Theresa, arms folded across her chest, continued to glare at the closed front door of James House. “He threw me out,” she muttered to herself.
Yes, his emotions were high, but no one—no one—had ever treated her in such a manner. It wasn’t as if she was the one who’d decided to call him a liar, for heaven’s sake; she actually believed him. How could anyone look into his eyes and not understand that something extraordinary and awful had happened?
And yet there she stood, round cobblestones beneath her feet and her coach waiting behind her. And now returning home, not speaking of him, and continuing on with her Season as if they’d never met would take absolutely no effort whatsoever. Every opportunity, every choice to be…other than her usual, proper self had been removed, by Montrose, by Tolly, by everyone.
Everyone but her. She’d done nothing. No disruption, no upset, no harm. With a last look at the closed front door she turned and climbed into her coach. “Take me home, if you please.”
For the remainder of the day and all through the evening, while she chatted and danced and played her usual charming self, she half felt she was still standing out on the James House front drive. It was as if that moment had been something pivotal, something vital, and she’d let it pass her by.
“That was a fine evening,” her grandmother said, as they left Fallon House with the last dance of the evening still going on behind them. “Did you see Wilcox? Wearing lavender like some man a third his age. I can’t decide if he’s attempting to recapture his youth, or if he’s gone completely mad.”
Michael chuckled as he handed Theresa into the coach behind Agnes and then climbed in, himself. “I hope you were flattered. Clearly he views you as a youthful spirit.”
“So I am.” Agnes took her granddaughter’s hand. “And you were the belle of the ball, Tess, as usual. Half the men there couldn’t take their eyes off you.”
“Thank you.”
“Didn’t Leelee say they would be attending?” Michael asked, sitting back as the coach rolled out into the dark streets of Mayfair. “Did she say anything to you, Troll?”
Theresa shook herself. “No. I imagine Tolly told them the news about the East India Company, and they decided to remain at home.”
“What news? What are you talking about?”
She glanced at her brother, then faced out the window again. They needed to know; Amelia’s marriage connected them to the James family. “The rumors about the Thuggee murders are hurting the Company’s business, apparently, so they’re putting out a statement tomorrow that the Thuggee don’t exist.”
Both of her companions stared at her. “How do you know this?” Grandmama Agnes finally asked.
“Montrose told me this morning. He wanted to give me advance warning so I could distance myself from Tolly. His reputation will be utterly ruined, you know.”
“Oh, my goodness. Did you speak to Amelia?”
“No. I to
ld Tolly. He threw me out of James House.” She attempted to shrug, but her shoulders were clenched up so tightly that they ached already. “Thank goodness I didn’t send him those flowers after all. Can you imagine what people would have said about me once it became known that Colonel James is a liar?”
“Christ. That’s a bit cold-blooded, don’t you think?” Michael muttered.
“She doesn’t mean it.”
“Of course I do.” Theresa kept her gaze out the window, taking in the darkness punctuated by the occasional gas lamp or candle-lit window. “That’s who I am. Everyone knows how propriety-minded I am. I may have forgotten for a moment, but I certainly remember now.”
For a moment she saw her grandmother’s hazy reflection gazing at the back of her head, until the dowager viscountess faced forward again. “Michael, we must call on James House tomorrow, to show our support of the family.”
“Certainly, Grandmama.”
“I can only hope that Lord Hadderly’s greed causes him as much pain as it does those around him. Never trust a man who breeds wolfhounds, I’ve always said.”
Theresa doubted that Bartholomew James would want anyone gathered around him for any reason. She’d attempted to…well, at least to tell him that she believed him, and he certainly hadn’t appreciated that. “Or one who’s sullen,” she added.
“Tess, I don’t like th—”
“Leave her be, Michael,” their grandmother interrupted. “She knows how she wishes to live her life.” She shifted. “You needn’t come with us tomorrow, my dear. Amelia will understand.”
Settling for a nod, Theresa stayed away from the subdued conversation filling the coach for the remainder of the drive back to Weller House. Amelia would understand her wish to stay far away from any scandal—or even any sideways glances or muttering.
As soon as they reached the house she said her good nights and went upstairs. Sally had already set out her night rail and made down the bed, but Theresa didn’t much feel like sleep.
“Are you ill, miss?” the maid asked, as she helped Theresa remove her deep blue evening gown. “I could fetch you a peppermint tea.”
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