A Lady's Guide to Improper Behavior

by Suzanne Enoch

  “No, thank you. I think I might read for a bit. Good night, Sally.”

  “Good night, Miss Tess.”

  Once alone in her bedchamber, Theresa went to the window that overlooked the carriage drive and pushed it open. Cool, damp night air rushed into the room, putting out the candle on the bed stand and making the low fire in the hearth spit and hiss.

  Logically and practically, she’d done nothing wrong today. She’d even performed a good deed of sorts by going out of her way to inform a friend of impending ill news. After that, she’d only done as he asked—ordered—and left him to himself.

  And every proper chit was supposed to distance herself from scandal. Any scandal. Even when it involved someone of whom she seemed to have become fond. Theresa touched her lips with her fingers. His kisses had been…electric. Nearly heart-stopping. They had certainly stopped her breath and her mind.

  She could easily count the number of times her other beaux had kissed her—because they hadn’t done so. She hadn’t allowed such liberties. Not even from Montrose. Bartholomew touched her in ways she’d never expected. But now that trouble had found him—again—she could no longer spend time with him.

  Theresa clenched her fingers into the base of the window sill. This was the first time that following the rules of propriety made her feel like a coward. For heaven’s sake, if she could do whatever she pleased, she would march straight over to James House, stomp up the main staircase, shove open Tolly’s bedchamber door, and punch him flush in the nose.

  He’d sent her away just before she could make her excuses and leave—and both of them knew it. But so what if he had? She didn’t owe him her allegiance. Reddening her fingers with his blood and shaving him when no one else was allowed to touch him and encouraging those naughty, exhilarating kisses didn’t obligate her to stand by him. But what nerve, to assume that she wouldn’t do so.

  Except that he’d been utterly correct. Tolly James wasn’t the coward. She was.

  “Did you see this?” Michael waved the newspaper at Theresa as she walked into the morning room just after nine o’clock.

  Dash it all, she thought she’d stayed in her bedchamber long enough to miss both Michael and her grandmother. And yet there they both were, clearly discussing the very thing she’d hoped to avoid this morning. “Of course I haven’t seen it,” she returned aloud, “but I told you it was coming.”

  Agnes stirred her tea so vigorously it sloshed over the side of the cup. “I’m going over to James House at once,” she stated, rising. “This is even worse than I imagined. If I know Amelia, and I do, she’s smiling on the outside and rattling about like a broken teapot on the inside.”

  “I’m going with you,” Michael said, sending a pointed glare at Theresa as he, too, pushed away from the table. He shoved the newspaper across the table’s surface in her direction. “Some new silks have arrived from Egypt. That’s on page four.”

  Yes, her family understood her dismay over impropriety, but they clearly didn’t like it. And she couldn’t blame them. She didn’t much like it, herself. “Please have some tea and toast sent up to my room,” she said to the waiting footman, then picked up the newspaper and headed upstairs again.

  The London Times’s coverage of the “Official Report of the East India Company to the Crown Regarding the Alleged Threat of the Thuggee in India” was quite thorough. She doubted that very few readers would feel the need to look farther and delve into the report itself.

  According to the newspaper’s interpretation of the report, Thuggee was the name assigned by the ignorant native population of India for everything from chicken thefts to the occasional, unfortunate native death. The Indians used the name in an attempt to drive up prices of product and to encourage the hiring of locals as guards for every well-heeled English traveler.

  The report quoted governors, rajs, generals, Company officials—anyone who had any authority over anything, to all say what could be boiled down to the same basic ingredient. The Thuggee were nonsense.

  Theresa sat back in her writing chair and sipped at her tea. Peppermint—evidently Sally thought her still out of sorts. Which she was, but not because of anything the tea could cure. The worst part about a report that promised safety and profitable enterprise and ridiculed danger was that everyone wanted to believe it.

  She wanted to believe it. If not for Tolly’s wounds and scars and more tellingly the haunted look in his eyes, she would be tempted. With a frown, Theresa read the article’s final paragraph again. Of course it didn’t directly challenge the recollections of any Englishmen who claimed to have encountered the Thuggee, themselves. It didn’t call them liars, cowards, or traitors to the fattening purses of all good Englishmen, but it certainly implied it.

  Slowly she rose and walked to her window. It was a lovely morning; a few white, picturesque clouds deepened the blue of the sky around them, and a pair of wild finches perched in the tree just outside where they chirped musically.

  And there she stood knowing that all was not well. Safe in her bedchamber with its yellow curtains and white and green walls, pages of her favorite fashion plates and a sketch of just the most darling hat tacked up beside her dressing mirror.

  Nothing untoward ever came through her door; it wouldn’t dare. Theresa glanced back at her writing table. Even that awful article was, in its neat black print, full of optimism and opportunity. The fresh shadows in the room, then, weren’t from what she’d read. They were from her.

  “Damnation,” she muttered, using Bartholomew’s favorite curse. The curses she chose weren’t anything terrible, either. Yes, they might cause a lifted eyebrow or two from the silver-haired set, but otherwise they were very nearly fashionable.

  No, the problem was her. Definitely her. She’d spent so long being good. It had never failed her before. Today, in fact, was the first time she could recall that doing the absolute right proper thing felt…wrong. Dirty, even.

  She knew what others might say to her dilemma. If it seemed to be the thing she should do, then of course she should step forward and denounce the article, or at the least claim Tolly as a friend. What was the worst that could happen?

  Except that she knew the worst penalty for being contrary and acting badly. The last time she’d made a scene, two people—her parents—had died.

  So what could she do now? She needed to behave properly. Which meant no Tolly. Not ever again. No matter how much she wanted to do otherwise.

  “Miss Tess?” Sally called, knocking at her door. “Miss Silder and Miss Aames are here to go shopping with you.”

  “I’ll be right down.” Yes, she still had shopping. Just nothing that meant anything. Nothing that actually mattered.

  The difficulty with belonging to a secret club, Bartholomew decided as he held on to the door of the hired hack with one hand and jammed his cane into the hard-packed earth with the other, was that it was a damned secret. Half stumbling, he made it to the ground with the grace of a headless chicken.

  “You certain you know what you’re about?” the driver asked, watching him skeptically as he disembarked. “I’ll throw ye over my shoulder and carry ye to the bloody front door for a quid.”

  “Drive on,” Bartholomew ordered. “Bastard,” he added under his breath.

  Harlow, the groom, appeared from around the side of Ainsley House, took one look at his face, and vanished again. At least someone knew what they were about.

  Riding Meru from James House would have been easier, but he hadn’t wanted to hear the questions about where he was going, and he hadn’t wanted the assistance of Lackaby or the groom that Stephen would have pushed at him. If and when he moved out again he would make the announcement, but not before.

  He made his way to the half-concealed door mostly by willpower and stubbornness, then dug the key from his pocket and let himself into the Adventurers’ Club. At least they hadn’t changed the lock—though it was early yet. There was even the chance that no one had yet read the morning’s newspaper.
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br />   He’d read it, of course. Whatever he thought of his decision to encourage Tess to abandon him, he was grateful to her for alerting him to the coming storm. The story had actually sounded very convincing, though they’d gotten some of the facts wrong. For a moment he’d actually been…thankful to have been wounded. The hole in his leg and the scar around his neck at least provided evidence that something had gone awry.

  Easton was of course inside the club as Gibbs came forward to close the door after him. So were five other members, though he only recognized two of them.

  “So you had your leg nearly shot off by a chicken thief?” Easton said, guffawing and clearly amused at himself. “It’s no wonder they retired you, James.”

  Bartholomew ignored him, instead keeping his attention on Gibbs. “I need a word with Sommerset,” he said to the valet. “Didn’t think I should call at the front door.”

  Gibbs nodded, his expression as impassive as always. “I’ll inquire.”

  Taking the closest chair, Bartholomew half fell into the seat. The grinding agony had gone from his leg, but it hurt enough that he knew damned well he shouldn’t be walking on it yet. Considering that his main goal in seeing it mended was so he could dance with Theresa, he supposed he could mangle it again now as he liked.

  Thomas Easton rose from the table across the room and ambled over to him. Whatever Bartholomew thought of the man’s character, the fellow wasn’t shy about arguments. “Go away,” he said, before the former silk importer could pull out the neighboring chair.

  “Newspaper says only one attack on travelers occurred in India last year,” the fellow commented, sitting anyway. “If we suppose that one attack was yours, then you’ve been exaggerating, Colonel. One man wounded and one man killed ain’t nearly the same as one man wounded and eight men killed.”

  “Fifteen men,” Tolly corrected flatly. “The zamindar’s son and his attendants were murdered, as well.”

  “I was only counting Englishmen.”

  “Count whomever you damned well please, Easton,” Bartholomew snapped. “You didn’t have to write the letters to their families. I did. And I know how many men I lost. Nor am I likely ever to forget, whatever Lord Hadderly and his gaggle print.”

  “You’ve read it, then,” the Duke of Sommerset said as he crossed the room from the door that opened to his house proper. “Good. That saves me breaking the news to you.”

  “I didn’t know you allowed victims of chicken thieves into the Adventurers’ Club, Your Grace. My uncle’s stableboy might—”

  “Go away, Easton,” the duke interrupted.

  Scowling, Easton picked up his glass of vodka and returned to his former seat. As tempted as Bartholomew was to ask Sommerset why he’d decided to invite the bag of hot air that was Easton to join the club, he kept his silence. He was on shakier ground than Easton at the moment.

  “Thank you for seeing me,” he said instead.

  The duke nodded. “I thought I might have to call on you, actually.”

  That didn’t sound promising. Little as he cared to admit it, he respected the opinions of Sommerset and the men the duke had gathered here. They’d seen their way through things that would leave most members of the peerage quaking in their Hoby boots, if not dead. Being asked to leave their company…well, if they thought he deserved the ridicule and condemnation heading his way, he wasn’t likely to be able to convince anyone otherwise.

  “How fares your leg?” Sommerset asked.

  Bartholomew looked at the duke for a short moment. “I’d prefer to head straight for the end of this conversation, rather than meandering about the beginning.”

  Steel gray eyes met his levelly. “I very rarely meander. How is your leg?”

  “Mending, I think. I can feel my toes now. Thank you for asking. Do I turn in my key to you, or to Gibbs?”

  “I didn’t invite you to join this club because of the East India Company’s recommendation, so I don’t feel obligated to ask you to leave it because of their condemnation.” He sat forward. “On the other hand, if you mean to hide here until everyone forgets you were in India, I won’t allow it.”

  “I won’t forget India,” Bartholomew retorted. “I don’t give a damn what anyone else remembers.”

  “You’re welcome to take a room here again once the scandal ebbs. Give it a week. Perhaps a fortnight.”

  “Yes, and then the next scandal from India will be about some lord’s son who goes looking for his fortune and ends up dead or missing.” He clenched his fist. “I don’t understand how the Company can turn its back on the memory of brave murdered soldiers and send others to join them when they know the cause of it.”

  “Because the deity they worship has drawings of the king across it and is made of sterling silver.” Sommerset sent a glance at the open space around them. “What do you intend to do about this, Tolly?”

  “I imagine I might find a few other Englishmen acquainted with the Thuggee and see if I can persuade them to corroborate my story with theirs.”

  The duke smiled. “Perhaps I shall make a few inquiries along that line. There are some in the Horse Guards offices who owe me favors. Perhaps a look through the records would be helpful.”

  “That would make you rather unpopular with the East India Company,” Bartholomew noted. Another pair of eyes and ears could be useful, but he refused to have anyone involved who didn’t know the full measure of what they faced.

  “Hmm. I believe I can look out for myself.” Sommerset moved his chair closer. “To my surprise, I find myself curious about the chit who had you thinking about dancing. How goes the hunt?”

  Bartholomew shrugged, keeping his face carefully blank. “She likes to dance. She does not like scandal.”

  “That is a shame,” the duke commented. “She seemed to improve your mood.”

  “Yes, vain hope will do that. Now, however, you will find that my feet are firmly on the ground. Or my foot is, rather.”

  “If that is the case, I recommend not tripping. If I discover anything of interest, I’ll contact you.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  Sommerset stood. “One bit of advice. Don’t remain buried in your den, Colonel. The less everyone sees of you, the easier you will be to discount. And whether the Company likes it or not, you are a walking—limping—contradiction to their assertion that all is well in India.”

  All was not well in India. Nor, however, was London turning out to be any safer.

  Thankfully Lackaby arrived out the front door of James House at the same time as the hack Bartholomew had hired after he decided he couldn’t extend his luncheon at the Adventurers’ Club any longer.

  “What the devil do you think you’re about, Colonel?” the valet asked, coming forward to half lift his employer to the ground.

  Bartholomew pushed free as soon as he had his balance. “I think you meant to say, ‘Welcome home, sir, may I fetch your chair for you?’ To which I would then reply, ‘Yes, thank you.’”

  “Well, you’ve said all my bits, so I’ll go fetch the chair.”

  No sooner had the valet pushed back into the house past the rather offended-looking Graham, however, than Stephen appeared. “Where the devil have you been?”

  Everyone seemed to be singing the same tune. “I’ve been out. It’s called luncheon.”

  “And didn’t you consider that we would be worried about you today and that you should have left word?”

  “No, it didn’t,” Bartholomew said, blowing out his breath. “Apologies.”

  “Then I…Oh. Accepted. Let me help you into the house.”

  “I don’t need your help.”

  Stephen nodded even as he grabbed Bartholomew around the waist and helped him up the front steps. “I wasn’t asking.”

  Bartholomew untangled himself from his brother, eyeing the viscount. “You have a great deal of spleen today.”

  “Well, you weren’t here, but we had several callers who came by to express their support of and belief in y
ou. It was something of a pity we couldn’t trot you out to say thank you.”

  He didn’t feel in the mood to be trotted out, but that wasn’t what had caught his attention. “Who, precisely, came to express their support?” For a moment pretty ocean-colored eyes and hair the color of sun-shine played across his thoughts. If she’d changed her mind, then she was the one. And he wanted so much for her to be the one.

  “Humphrey, Lord Albert,” his brother began, “Mr. Popejoy, the Wellers, Aunt Patr—”

  “The Wellers?” he cut in.

  “Yes. Very kind of them, considering they’ve only known me for a year, and you only for a fortnight or so. Grandmama Agnes seems to have a very keen dislike of the East India Company.”

  “Ah,” he ventured. “And Theresa?”

  “She wasn’t feeling well this morning. I’ve noticed over the past year that she tends to avoid…upheaval.”

  Upheaval. That was a good, polite word for it. But though he understood the reason Theresa disliked upheaval, and though he sympathized strongly with her sense of responsibility for her parents’ deaths, he would still rather have had her there.

  “Are you going to stay about now,” Stephen asked, “or do you intend to vanish again?”

  Bartholomew knew quite well what Sommerset had advised, but the duke had also practically banned him from the Adventurers’ Club. “I will leave that up to you, Stephen,” he finally said. “I intend to defend my reputation and that of my men, so this is likely to become unpleasant. And if I stay here, I won’t be the only one affected.”

  His brother glanced toward the depths of the house for a long moment. At least he was taking this seriously, Bartholomew noted, whatever his answer would be.

  “The more I read about the so-called frivolousness of believing in the Thuggee,” he said slowly, “the more thankful I am that you survived.”

  “Stephen, you—”

  “If you’d been killed, or simply vanished, and the Company put out that nonsense of a report, I would be out for blood. As it is, I can only imagine the…outrage of the families of the men who didn’t return.” The viscount took a breath. “You are staying here, Tolly, if I have to remove every stair railing, cane, and wheeled chair from this house. Is that clear?”