A Lady's Guide to Improper Behavior

by Suzanne Enoch

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I have heard endless debates over whether it is better to stand at the side of a dance or to accept an invitation from an imperfect gentleman and take to the floor. I find it best to keep in mind that the gentleman may be thinking the same thing about me. And I like to dance.”

  A LADY’S GUIDE TO PROPER BEHAVIOR, 2ND EDITION

  Well?” Lackaby prompted, glancing up from the red and white officer’s coat he had spread across the table.

  Bartholomew flipped another page of Wellington’s—or rather Wellesley’s, back then—India journal. “Good God, the man drones on,” he muttered. “Dinners he attended, the entire guest list, the cleverest bits of conversation, supply timetables, weather, the food he ate for breakfast, th—”

  “And the Thuggee?” the valet interrupted. “I know Arthur heard tales, because I did.”

  Cursing under his breath, Bartholomew turned another page, then another. “Arthur likes facts.”

  “Yes, he always was a bit of a foot-in-the-mud,” Lackaby mused, turning the coat over and running a polishing cloth over the buttons.

  “But why would he even bother with loaning me his journal if there’s nothing in here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That,” Bartholomew retorted, “isn’t helpful.”

  He’d been looking through the damned thing for an hour, though it had swiftly become clear that a quick glance through such densely packed bits of facts and information would never net him anything. He was beginning to think that Wellington couldn’t possibly remember what he had or hadn’t said in his journal, because he recorded every nonsensical thing imaginable.

  In another ten minutes Stephen would begin conjuring reasons that Amelia and Violet should remain home tonight—which they more than likely should. But as of this morning he’d had to alter his plan. He was no longer going to throw himself into the whirlwind and damn all consequences. Now he intended to survive to the end, hopefully with some semblance of a reputation. For that he needed his family, he needed some way to spread the word and make it credible without damning himself, and he needed Theresa Weller. Without her, he had no reason to stay alive at all.

  “Time we got ye dressed for battle.”

  Nodding, Bartholomew turned another page. “Finally,” he muttered.

  “You found something?”

  “Yes. A rumored Thuggee attack on a group of travelers.” He read on. “Damnation. No survivors. There’s some speculation that the party simply got lost and perished.”

  “Can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that blasted story.” Lackaby carried over his well-polished black Hessian boots. “If ye ask me, as many fellows as they say got themselves lost in the wilds of India, they all must be standing two deep.”

  “You make a good point.” Bartholomew stepped into his right boot, then held his breath and clenched his jaw as the valet pushed and twisted to get his foot into the left one. “If there are no Thuggee, then where the devil have five or six thousand people vanished to over the years?”

  “If I was Lord Hadderly, I’d ask which five thousand you might be referring to. Who says anybody’s missing at all?” Lackaby commented.

  “True again, being that more natives than Englishmen have vanished. Rather than ruminating over what we can’t prove, let’s be more productive, shall we?”

  “I knew three fellows, went out to Delhi on leave and were never heard from again. They were tried for desertion in absentia. One of em, Evers, he might have found some pretty Urdu chit, but Willis and Smythe, they were good men and married. Their families had to live with them being called deserters. Sad business.”

  Tolly looked at Lackaby as his valet shook out the uniform coat. “Yes, it is sad. Four of mine were married. The others had parents and siblings. I wrote too many letters.”

  “Arthur wrote letters, too.”

  Halfway to his feet, Tolly sank back again. “Did you see any of them?”

  Lackaby cleared his throat. “I suppose we can keep chatting and I could stand here all night waiting to help you get your coat on, but I’d rather be hunting after them sugar desserts at the soiree.”

  Bartholomew shook himself. “You know you’re supposed to be serving me at the party—not eating sweets.” He stood up, and Lackaby helped him pull on his formal military coat, medals and all. Medals and honors that he now rather detested, but they did help prove the point that he wasn’t some idiot whose family had purchased him a commission beyond his abilities.

  “I don’t take ’em when anybody’s looking.”

  “Ah. Carry on, then.” Pushing back against the uneasiness that would likely always be present, he lifted his chin to let Lackaby finish fastening up his coat. “Is your reluctance to talk about Arthur’s correspondence out of loyalty to the man, or because you think he would deny ever attributing a soldier’s death or disappearance to the Thuggee?”

  The valet scowled. “A bit of both, I reckon. But if I know Arthur, and I do, he won’t do anything to counter what the East India Company’s said. And the Company’s already stated that the bastards don’t exist.”

  “I agree,” Tolly said slowly, sending a last glare at Wellington’s journal. “He loaned me this damned thing because at worst he thought I would find someone else who’d be willing to come forward without involving him.”

  “Or at best because Arthur thought you wouldn’t find anything and you would stop going about charging into the street in front of his coach.”

  That made at least as much sense, damn it all. “We’re back to the beginning, then.”

  “Breaking into the Horse Guards? In a wheeled chair?”

  “I reckon I could still set you on your arse if need be, Lackaby. You’re to be helpful, remember?”

  “Aye, Colonel.”

  “I do have someone making a discreet inquiry with the War Office, but I haven’t heard anything yet.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Hmm, what?” Tolly retorted, frowning.

  “I don’t want to be set on my arse.”

  Bartholomew blew out his breath. “Out with it.”

  “I’m just wondering how much blunt the Company puts into the pockets of your discreet friend, is all. Perhaps that’s why you haven’t heard anything.”

  And he’d thought he was the cynical one. Wealthy as Sommerset was, it was entirely likely that he had ties to the Company. “I’ll look into that this evening,” he said.

  “Do as you will, Colonel.” Lackaby finally stood back. “There. You look fine enough to march before old King George himself. I dare anyone to not be impressed with you.” The valet picked a fleck of dust from one shoulder. “She’ll be impressed, for certain.”

  Bartholomew scowled. “None of that. And my appearance has never much influenced Theresa one way or the other.”

  All day he’d barely been able to put two seconds together where he hadn’t thought about Theresa, her voice, her touch, her soft skin and warm mouth and the way she’d squared her shoulders before she’d announced that yes, she meant to stand with him. The proper chit who hadn’t been able to behave properly in his company. He meant to ask Amelia for a look at Tess’s booklet. If nothing else, it would remind him how fortunate he was that he had somehow escaped being lumped in with the general pile of gentlemen who were courting her. Whether she felt lucky to have met him or not, he didn’t know.

  “She ain’t the mistress sort, Colonel.”

  Bartholomew glared at his valet. “I know that. All I asked for where Theresa Weller is concerned was your discretion, Lackaby. Not your observations or advice. Leave off.”

  “No offense meant, Colonel. I was just wondering what your plans might be.”

  “My plans,” Tolly returned, grabbing up his cane and skirting the wheeled chair, “depend on whether I’ll be tarred and feathered and run—or rolled—out of London. So if you like seeing Tess about, I suggest you keep your attention on helping me locate anyone who’s survived a Thuggee attack.
”

  “Yes, sir. Not riding the chair down the stairs this evening?”

  “My dignity seems to be recovering faster than my knee. So, no. You bring the chair, and I’ll bring the cane.”

  Thankfully for the sake of his leg, Stephen caught sight of him before he’d made it to the landing. “Christ, Tolly,” his brother grumbled, taking the stairs at a trot and slinging an arm around his waist, “do you have to wear the uniform again?”

  “I want the attention,” Tolly grunted, stifling a curse just in time as his sister pranced out of the morning room and into the foyer. “You look lovely, Vi.”

  She curtsied. “Thank you, Colonel. The red sash is meant to match your uniform.” Violet brushed her fingers across the wide sash at her waist. “I’m showing my support for your cause.”

  “Damnation,” Stephen murmured. “Tolly, do something.”

  Bartholomew cleared his throat. “You’re showing support simply by being there tonight, Vi. The trick is to not directly set anyone’s back up. The more everyone is charmed by you, the less they’ll be able to say something unpleasant later.”

  “Then I will be charming. You know I excel at that.” She saluted. “They won’t know what’s hit them.”

  “Thank you.”

  Once he and Stephen reached the foyer Bartholomew shrugged free of his brother’s grip. Grumbling and complaining, Lackaby and two footmen hauled the wheeled chair down after them. “Your throne, Colonel,” the valet panted.

  Tolly gestured at the front door, and Graham pulled it open. “Go lash it to the back of the coach, will you?”

  “At least I don’t have to carry the damned thing to the party on my back,” Lackaby grumbled, heading outside.

  As the valet left the house Stephen glanced after him. “If you find him too insufferable, Tolly, I’ll look for someone else for you.”

  “No need. Lackaby and I seem to understand one another.”

  “Good, then.”

  Stephen seemed rather pleased with himself, and Bartholomew let him have his moment. He hadn’t precisely been pleasant when his family had arrived back in London. And with anyone other than Theresa and Lackaby standing with him, he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be as relatively civilized as he was now.

  Their party arrived before the Wellers, though it was entirely possible that Tess or her brother or their grandmother or all of them together had decided it would be best if they didn’t attend. Her absence, though, divided his attention between the circulating crowd and the main ballroom doors.

  “Colonel James.”

  He looked up to see a man ten or so years his elder and wearing a very similar uniform, down to the gold and white epaulets on their shoulders. “General Mayhew.” Pushing to his feet, he saluted. By the strictest interpretation he was retired from the military, but he’d chosen to wear the uniform tonight. And he didn’t want any new rumors of improper conduct attached to him.

  “You’re a disgrace, James, looking for attention with your men lying dead somewhere.”

  “Not somewhere, General. My men are in India,” he returned coolly, very aware that everyone around them was listening to the conversation. “We pulled them out of the well the Thuggee had thrown all of us into. Unless you think they all jumped in on their own.”

  “That’s your story. I’ve seen and heard nothing to substantiate such nonsense.”

  “I’m not surprised, since the evidence lies beyond your well-lined pockets.”

  A low snicker came from somewhere behind him, and General Mayhew’s already ruddy face went beet red. “That is inexcusable,” he sputtered.

  “You’re the one who began an argument with a cripple,” Bartholomew said easily. “Didn’t you realize you’d look either a buffoon or a bully?” He saluted again, then deliberately resumed his seat. “Good evening, General Mayhew.”

  As the general stalked away, muttering to himself, Stephen returned carrying two glasses. He handed over one of Scotch whiskey. “That was a bit savage, wasn’t it?”

  “My original plan would have been fisticuffs.”

  “Not that I’m complaining that you’ve decided to alter your tactics, then,” his brother returned, “but why have you done so?”

  His breath stilled. Without looking he knew Theresa was in the room, and he knew she approached. “Her,” he said quietly, finally turning his head.

  “Her?”

  Stephen continued speaking, but Bartholomew had no idea what he was saying. All his attention focused on the petite young lady with gray-green eyes and hair the rich color of morning sunshine. Tonight she’d chosen to wear a full silk gown of emerald green, stones of the same color at her throat and dangling from her ears and left wrist.

  Liquid heat and desire flowed through him, its ferocity stunning. He wanted her, immediately. For a heartbeat he wondered whether she would regain her senses and walk right past him, but he stood again anyway.

  She stopped, gazing up at him. “Good evening, Tolly,” she breathed, her voice not quite steady.

  Good God, he wanted to touch her. Digging his fingertips into the outside seams of his trousers, he inclined his head. “You took my breath away, just then,” he returned.

  “Good. I didn’t dress up for nothing, you know.” She smiled.

  A moment later her brother and grandmother walked up behind her. Lord Weller looked agitated and as though he was doing his best to hide that fact; he knew, then, that Tess would be much better off elsewhere. The dowager viscountess, though, was practically beaming as she looked from her granddaughter to Tolly. At least someone approved the match—whether it would be possible ever to make a match, or not.

  “There’s Harriet,” Lord Weller said, gesturing across the ballroom. “We should go say hello.”

  Theresa shook her head. “I’m staying here.”

  “You can’t do that, Troll,” her brother said more quietly. “No one’s even asked for your dance card.”

  While the deep, possessive part of Bartholomew was rather pleased to hear that she’d apparently foregone everyone in favor of him, the more logical part knew that she couldn’t be happy with any of that. “Tess,” he said with a grin, “the phrase ‘stand by me’ wasn’t actually meant to be literal. And I know you love to dance.”

  “That doesn’t signify.”

  “Yes, it does.”

  Her brow lowering, Theresa folded her arms across her lovely chest. “No, it doesn’t.”

  Violet looked from one of them to the other. “Tolly said I should be as charming as possible, to make it more difficult for anyone to say later that they don’t like us,” she said. “So I am going to dance with everyone, beginning with the most frown-faced gentleman I see.”

  Theresa’s mouth twitched. “Well, I will wager you a lemon ice, Violet, that I find a more frown-faced man than you.”

  With a giggle, Violet nodded. “That is a wager, then, Tess.” She curtsied. “Excuse me. I must go find someone unpleasant.”

  “Thank you, Tess,” Bartholomew murmured, brushing a finger against her skirts. “Save a dance for me, will you?”

  “That was the idea, originally,” she said wryly. “Now, I’ll see what I can manage.” With a swish of her emerald gown, she strolled away.

  “I hope you know what you’re about,” Stephen whispered. Then he walked off, presumably and hopefully to keep an eye on their sister.

  Violet didn’t have the experience or the skill at turning every conversation into something amusing and charming that Tess did. Bartholomew didn’t like the idea of either of them looking for trouble on his behalf, but clearly there wasn’t much he could do about it.

  A finger tapped his shoulder. Starting, Bartholomew twisted his head to look up. “Lord Weller,” he said, relaxing a fraction.

  Theresa’s brother eyed him speculatively. “I never thought it would be you,” he finally said, “though in retrospect it makes sense. Whatever you do, don’t force her into a scandal. Please.”

  “I never t
hought it would be her,” Bartholomew responded. “I will do my best to keep her clear of this. She is rather stubborn, however.”

  “Yes, I know.” Michael smiled reluctantly. “I keep hoping this will all be good for her.” He drew in a breath. “Just so you know, I’ve given Montrose my permission to court her.”

  Bartholomew clenched his jaw. “I wasn’t going to ask.”

  “Well, you have my permission, anyway. One rebellion at a time.” With a nod, Michael took his grandmother’s arm and they strolled off, as well.

  And so at the moment the total number of people physically standing by him was zero. Except for Lackaby. “What do you think?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “I think we’d be better off closer to the table with the sweets on it.”

  “Any more helpful observations?”

  “Mayhew’s a git. Glad you told him off. But his opinion doesn’t count for much.”

  “I agree. It’s a start, at least.” Bartholomew blew out his breath. Sitting here at the fringes wouldn’t do much good. Aside from that, he didn’t have much of a view of the dance floor. “Wheel me over to the refreshment table, will you?”

  “Oh, God bless you and keep you, Colonel.”

  “Shut up.”

  Theresa wondered how hard one’s heart had to beat before it actually erupted from one’s chest. She must be fairly close to that point. It would have been so much easier to remain at home this evening. And she would never have been able to look at herself in the mirror again if she’d done so.

  She hadn’t been in the ballroom when General Mayhew had confronted Tolly, but she’d heard about it. And even if that particular frown-faced gentleman was much more important in his own mind than in anyone else’s, if she could get him to dance with her, everyone at the Tomlin-Reese soiree would notice. And that would help Tolly.

  “Tess.”

  Dash it all. She swirled around as though she wasn’t at all surprised. “Alexander. You look very handsome this evening.”

  Lord Montrose took her hand and bowed over it. “I don’t even have the words to describe you, Tess. You are a goddess.”