“You may gather whatever you like, Harry. Remind me to mention a little problem I need your advice on once we’ve taken a bit of exercise.”
Rosse smiled and followed his friend up the stairs. “I don’t recall you having a need to expend energy at Gentleman Jackson’s before, Noble. I used to have to beg you to come with me, despite the fact that you’re a great hulking brute perfectly made for dashing a fellow’s brains about the ring.” He shook his head in mock concern. “How comes a newly wedded man to have so much excess energy? It can’t be good, my friend. I sadly fear you are not doing right by your new countess and will have to take the issue up with you when you are finished expending all this energy you seem to possess.”
The two gentlemen were greeted and conveyed to the dressing room. “If I were another man, Harry, I should take offense at your comments.”
Rosse, secure in the knowledge that he had been practicing faithfully at Jackson’s for the last two years while his friend rusticated in the country, grinned. “Is that a challenge?”
“If you like.”
“My dear sir, I accept your challenge of a round of fisticuffs. Shall we set a boon upon the winner?”
“An excellent idea,” Noble said as he slid his arms out of his waistcoat and allowed one of the attendants to remove his neck cloth.
“Have you something in particular in mind?”
“I do.”
“And it is…?”
“To be named at the winner’s discretion.”
Rosse grinned again, carefully removed his spectacles, and handed them over to the man waiting, then swung his arms back and forth to limber them up.
“I should warn you, Noble, I’ve had several lessons while you’ve cloistered yourself away on your estate. I’m counted as quite handy with my fives. Even Jackson himself says I show considerable promise.”
Noble allowed himself a smile. “I’ll try not to hurt you too badly, old friend.”
***
“I believe I’ll stick to pistols from now on,” Lord Rosse said meditatively an hour later, rubbing his swollen jaw and fingering his torn lip. “Less dangerous. I think you loosened a tooth.”
“I did nothing of the sort,” Weston replied, wincing at the sunlight as they stepped from the building. “I told you I wouldn’t hurt you too badly. However, I shall have a bit of explaining to do when Gillian sees my eye.”
Rosse smiled a lopsided smile. “That’s quite a mouse. As the satisfaction in landing a blow to you goes a long way in easing the sting of my defeat, I’ll ask you now what it is you want my help with.” He paused a moment to direct his driver. “St. James’s, John.” Then he turned toward his friend. “White’s or Boodle’s, Noble?”
“White’s, don’t you think?”
“White’s it is. Ah.” Lord Rosse sank back into the plushly upholstered seat and gingerly flexed his fingers. “Now tell me what sacrificing my good name and excellent reputation in favor of yours has cost me.”
Weston fingered the swollen tissue around his eye. A momentary distraction in the form of the sudden mental image of Gillian on the floor in his library, gown askew, hair tumbling down upon her golden shoulders and spilling onto those mouthwateringly lovely breasts had been all the opening Rosse had needed to land a powerful left.
“McGregor’s back in town.”
Rosse nodded. “I saw him a few days back at the theater. Didn’t acknowledge him, of course.”
“Of course. He paid me a visit.”
Rosse blinked behind his spectacles. “Why would he do that?”
“To threaten me.”
“Threaten you with what? Oh. Gillian?”
“Exactly. He muttered some deranged comments about wanting to warn her, but I know the truth. He’s never forgiven me for marrying Elizabeth and will do his best to steal Gillian away as he did her.”
Rosse relaxed. “I don’t blame you for being angry that the bastard called on you, but I wouldn’t worry that he can melt the heart of your Amazon. She’s made of sterner stuff.”
“She’s a woman, and thus is capable of whatever deceit is necessary to achieve her goals.”
Rosse watched the pain flit over his friend’s face with a sorrow that had its origins deep in a night five years past. “Any other woman, perhaps. I don’t claim to know everything about the species, but I know this—you’ve captured the heart of your Amazon.”
Weston grinned suddenly, then grimaced against the pain the action caused his swollen eye. “So she has informed me.”
“There you go, then. Nothing to worry about.”
“There’s everything to worry about. Harry, someone has been out to cause me trouble ever since I returned to town.”
Weston told him about the plea for help from his former mistress that had sent him out to the house she was to be vacating and ended with a description of how Gillian and Nick rescued him.
“If you are quite finished,” Noble said some time later, watching his friend wipe his eyes. “I wasn’t aware that it was an episode that would bring so much amusement to you.”
“Ah, Noble, if only I could have been there. In a bedsheet, you say? Yes, well—” Rosse saw he had pushed his friend to the limit of his tolerance and turned his attention to the matter at hand. “Has all the hallmarks of a jest of a grand nature.”
“I considered it but disregarded it as an explanation. No one I know would dare commit such a jest upon me, and—” He looked out of the window as the carriage rolled up St. James’s Street. “I do not believe the perpetrator knew Gillian was in town and prepared to go to outlandish lengths to rescue me from what she perceived as life-threatening danger.”
“You don’t think your life was in any danger?”
Weston studied the silver head of his walking stick. “I’m not sure, but I doubt it. If whoever arranged for the scene had wished me harm, he had ample opportunity to do so after knocking me out.”
Rosse thought this over for a minute. “I believe you are correct, Noble. That being the case, what is it you want me to do?”
Noble smiled as the door to the carriage was opened and, the steps lowered. “I want you to use those talents you showed an aptitude for during the war,” he said and nimbly leaping out of the carriage, turned back to face his friend. “I want you to become a spy again, Harry.”
***
“Lady Weston, how delightful it is to meet you.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Countess Lieven. Please excuse my hand. I was admiring the colored lamps you have concealed in the flowers, and I wasn’t aware the paint was still wet. Are you acquainted with my uncle, Lord Collins, and his wife, Lady Collins?”
Countess Lieven, a small, dark, vivacious woman with a gracious manner and a lively eye, looked with surprise at Gillian’s blue palms, noted the blue handprint on the left side of her gold gown, and gave a mental shudder. She would never, ever understand the English. She turned with a smile to greet her guests, then placed a hand on Gillian’s arm and guided her away from the receiving line. “My maid, Clothilde, will attend to your hands…and gown, my dear Lady Weston. But before she does, allow me to express my utmost sympathy for your unpleasant situation. My heart, it bleeds for you in your time of trouble.”
Gillian blinked and stared into the dancing black eyes before her. She very much doubted that Lady Lieven felt anything but a burning desire to gather and exchange gossip. “I appreciate your sympathy, Countess, but I am sure the paint will come off.”
The countess’s famed smile slipped a little as she glanced down quickly at Gillian’s hands. “No, my dear, it was not that unpleasant situation of which I speak. It is the other situation that rends my heart in two on your behalf.”
Gillian mentally reviewed her most recent unpleasant situations and flushed to the roots of her hair. “I beg your pardon, Countess. I will, of course, replace the
trellis. I had no idea that the paint would be so very flammable, you see, but after I accidentally tipped the lamp over, it set a bit of the trellis on fire. Just a small bit, really, and I doubt if you can see it without being very close to it, which of course I was in order to put the fire out, and you can be sure I will replace those lovely rosebushes as well.”
The countess stared at her as if she had suddenly grown a third eye in the middle of her forehead; then with a little shake of her head, she made a gesture of dismissal. “It matters not, dear Lady Weston. What are a few roses and a bit of trellis between friends, eh?”
“That’s very generous of you, Countess.”
The countess seemed to be having trouble gathering her thoughts, but she gave Gillian a brilliant smile and spoke in a most conspiratorial tone of voice.
“It is not these trivial matters of which I speak, my dear. I speak of that which a little bird has told me, and I wish to reassure you that you may always consider me a friend should you need a sanctuary.”
Gillian covertly glanced around her. There was quite a crowd surrounding them, and despite the low drone of chatter, they all seemed to be quite interested in what the countess was saying to her. The countess evidently realized that as well, for although she leaned in closer to Gillian, she raised her voice. “I refer primarily, of course, to your husband’s unpleasant situation. You may be assured that whatever anyone else says about him, he will always be welcome at Ashburnham House.”
Several people sniffed, and one man gave a bark of harsh laughter. “Thank you,” Gillian said, confused by the innuendoes. Had she done something to make Noble an outcast? She snuck a glance down at her blue palms and was horrified to see a blue smear on the countess’s lovely pale apricot and gold gauze gown. She tried to edge backwards, but a cluster of people waiting to greet their hostess kept her captive.
“Your support will mean a great deal to Lord Weston, Countess. And to me, of course.”
“And with regards to that other unpleasant situation of which the little bird spoke”—the countess tipped her head to the side, her ostrich plume swaying gently in the breeze from the open windows—“you must always think of me should you need respite from your…troubles.”
Gillian smiled and tried to turn her face away from the sweep of the long ostrich feather. “That’s most generous of you. I shall remember your kindness always.”
The countess smiled again and, with one last pat to Gillian’s arm, she moved off to greet the new arrivals.
Gillian gave in to the eye-watering itch the feather had started and rubbed her nose quickly before turning around to face Charlotte.
“What the devil was all that about?” Gillian asked her cousin.
Charlotte took one look at her and rolled her eyes. “For heaven’s sake, Gilly,” she said as she grabbed her cousin’s arm in a grip that never failed to command respect, pushing her to a small room at the back of the long hall. “You’ve got a blue nose! I’ve never seen anyone who has the propensity you have for getting into trouble at a ball. If you’d only kept your gloves on, none of this would have happened.”
“I don’t like wearing gloves,” Gillian complained; she tried to explain about her desire to see the colored lamps but was summarily hushed and turned over to the waiting, if less than enthusiastic, hands of the ladies’ maids.
Half an hour later she reappeared, minus a blue nose, but with a blue handprint on her left flank and wearing a pair of gloves that were too small for her. She picked nervously at them and peered around the ballroom, looking for a friendly face.
“Lady Weston, you look…ah…charming as ever.”
Gillian smiled at the man in front of her. “Thank you, Sir Hugh. That is quite gallant of you, considering I have a blue handprint on my gown and am wearing borrowed gloves.”
“My dear Lady Weston, no one will notice the slightest thing once they have beheld your radiant smile.”
Gillian laughed at the dandy. “’Tis the truth, Sir Hugh, you do raise my spirits so with your words. That’s a particularly lovely shade of plum, by the way. It sets off the royal blue very nicely.”
The baronet preened a bit as he smoothed out his waistcoat and checked quickly to make sure his watch fobs weren’t tangled in the ribbon to his quizzing glass.
“You always wear the loveliest colors,” she continued, hoping to return the kindness by paying a compliment to his vanity. “You quite remind me of a peacock with all the lovely shades of blues and greens and purp…why Sir Hugh, is something amiss?”
“A peacock?” he sputtered, his face flushed and perspiring.
Gillian was quite concerned that he might have an apoplectic fit on the spot. She hastened to soothe his ruffled feathers. “Why, yes, but I meant it in the nicest way, of course. I quite like peacocks, Sir Hugh. Oh, Sir Hugh, please do forgive me, I didn’t mean to…oh, blast.”
“It’s a waste of your time talking to the popinjays like that, gel.”
Gillian glanced over at the settee to see who was addressing her. An extremely elderly man was seated on the green cushions. So wizened and frail that he looks more like a shriveled-up child than a grown man.
“Well, I daresay I am more of a shriveled-up child than a grown man, now. I’ve seen a hundred and one summers, gel.”
Gillian blushed at her rudeness and sat down carefully next to the man. “I do apologize, sir. I meant you no disrespect. I have this Unfortunate Habit, you see, and sometimes I speak without knowing it. You most certainly do not look like a shriveled-up child. You just look…mature.”
The man wheezed a few times, worrying Gillian until she realized he was laughing. “’Tis of no worry, gel,” he cackled and spent a few minutes catching his breath. “I’ve been called many a name in my day, and if shriveled and wizened is the worst, then I’ve naught to complain of.”
“You’re very sweet,” Gillian said with a gentle smile. “Who are you?”
“Palmerston’s the name.”
“Lord or Mister?”
“Just Palmerston’ll do. Faugh, did you ever see such a sight?” One of the old man’s gnarled hands rose, and a crooked finger stabbed into the air. “Gels in naught more than their chemises. In my day, a gel would have been whipped for appearing in nothing but their folderol!”
Gillian looked at the parade of fashionables as they strolled past her. “I’m sure it must look that way to you, but I can assure you that fashion has at last taken a step forward. My mother used to complain something terrible about all her corsets and panniers and hoops and such. Don’t you think these gowns are much simpler and more elegant?”
“Damn sight more pleasing to the eye, but I’ll not be admitting that to a chit like you. You’re Weston’s bride, ain’t you?”
“Yes, I am. My name is Gillian.”
Two sapphire blue eyes, still brilliant in color despite the age of their owner, turned their gaze on her and considered her from beneath two mammoth bushy white eyebrows. The shaking, gnarled hand made another appearance and poked at her arm. “You’ve taken up quite a challenge, gel. Are you up to it?”
Gillian stared back into the old man’s eyes. “I believe so.”
“It won’t be easy; he’s a long road to travel. There’s bound to be highwaymen about, trying to drive you from your path.”
Gillian found herself drawn into the deep, deep blue of his eyes. They were so clear, so pure, it was like looking into the eyes of a child. What was his connection to Noble? How did he know that Noble had a long journey ahead of him? “I know there will be; we’ve already met with one. I hope, however, that we will make the journey together.”
The old man nodded, and gave her arm another poke.
“Tell me, sir, if you would—you must be acquainted with Noble if you know of his troubles.”
“Aye, that I do.”
“Then perhaps you would tell me—do
you think I will be successful in my quest?”
The sapphire eyes slowly turned away from her and gazed out into the crush of people meandering by. “You’ll need to uncover secrets, gel.”
“Secrets?”
“Aye, secrets and lies, each begetting the other, one ending where the other begins. If you can figure out that puzzle, you will be successful.”
She pondered his answer for a moment, decided it was, on the whole, optimistic, and smiled and gave his hand a little squeeze. She was about to ask him how he knew Noble when Charlotte found her.
“Dearest cousin, you’ll never guess what Mama…for heaven’s sake, Gilly, can’t you keep those gloves on for five minutes? Oh, never mind them, come with me. I have the most shocking news to tell you!”
Gillian was appalled by her cousin’s rudeness to the old man, but before she could protest, Charlotte dragged her off to a relatively quiet corner near an alcove containing a bust of Paris.
“What is it, Char? I was having a fascinating conversation…”
Charlotte’s face screwed up suddenly as she whipped around to face the wall while she bit back the beginning of tears. Gillian put her arm around her shoulders and gave her a reassuring little squeeze. “Oh, blast, I’m sorry, Char, it’s so warm in here, my hands must be perspiring…I’m sure that will come out.”
Charlotte stared as her cousin tried to wipe the blue fingerprints off the silver tulle on her shoulder. “Gilly! This goes beyond your normal ineptitude and lack of social graces! What are we going to do? Papa just told Mama not to have you present me to anyone. Gillian—”
Charlotte turned and started to take her cousin’s hands in hers, then remembered the paint. She made a quick check of Gillian’s arms, then clutched her by the elbows instead. “Gillian, you don’t seem to recognize how serious things are for Weston. He’s been cut by just about everyone, Papa says, and soon won’t be recognized by anyone nice.”
“Countess Lieven said he’d always be welcome.”
“Countess Lieven says one thing one day and another the next. Gillian, you don’t seem to understand the gravity of this situation—if Lord Weston continues to be persona non grata, I won’t be able to be seen with you.”
Noble Intentions Page 14
