Most Eagerly Yours

by Allison Chase

  As Aidan made his way toward his acquaintances, his thoughts turned to Laurel. Had she come tonight, or had she perhaps opted to spend a quiet evening with Melinda, or attend a different social affair? He searched for her amid the glittering finery, and a disappointment he should not have felt descended like a stale mist. He told himself it was because he wanted the chance to observe her interactions with the others.

  Then why the jolt to his pulse when he suddenly spotted her across the lobby? Her golden hair had been piled high, with a single, spiraling tendril falling to tease the curve of her shoulder. She wore cinnamon silk, low-cut, shoulder baring, and waist cinching to an impossibly tempting degree. Simple pearl earbobs and the jet mourning brooch she always wore completed a look that far outshone even Beatrice in elegance.

  How on earth had he missed her?

  He watched as she politely retreated from the group and made her way, smiling with obvious enjoyment, in his direction. Heads turned in admiration as she crossed the room, the men displaying glints of avarice, the women envy. Aidan’s chest alternately swelled and constricted as he watched her, as he traced the sway of her hips and the swing of her thighs beneath her shimmering gown.

  Her gaze met his, and with recognition came an abrupt change in her demeanor. Her smile vanishing, her displeasure bored into him like the bullet he had once taken in a London gambling hell. His shoulder ached with the memory; his loins throbbed with wanting her. He suddenly wished he hadn’t asked Micklebee to investigate her, that he had simply been able to trust her.

  Reaching him, she curtsied with arctic correctness. “Lord Barensforth.”

  “Mrs. Sanderson.” Never mind that they had been on a first- name basis only three days ago. Tonight they reverted to formal reserve, much like Beatrice and Devonlea. He did not reach for her hand, and neither did she offer it.

  The last time they had spoken, she had all but accused Dr. Bailey of lying about Melinda’s condition. Aidan had responded with incredulity first, then condescending denial. A respected physician would never offer false information about a patient, he had insisted. Dr. Bailey might withhold the facts at the behest of his patient, but he would never risk the integrity of his reputation with blatant dishonesty.

  But the truth was that he, too, suspected Dr. Bailey, not only of lying about Melinda’s health, but also of divulging more than he had meant to when he mentioned her involvement with the Bath Corporation. Aidan intended getting to the bottom of both matters, but he didn’t want Laurel Sanderson involved. Not unless he knew beyond a doubt that she could be trusted.

  “Mrs. Sanderson, there you are,” Beatrice called to her. “We are all about to go up to our seats.”

  “Yes, one moment,” she replied. Concern creased her brow as she stepped closer to Aidan, bringing her warm, sensual scent to scramble his senses.

  So near he saw, too, that she had worn the delicate chain again, the one he had noticed at the ball. It disappeared into the plunging V of her beribboned bodice, and he yearned to follow its glimmering length, to discover what secret charm might lie hidden between her breasts.

  He shook away the thought and raised an eyebrow. “What may I do for you, Mrs. Sanderson?”

  “Melinda seemed well when I visited her today,” she said after a moment’s hesitation. “But you know her far better than I. Does she seem . . . herself?”

  “Dr. Bailey assures me she is recovering nicely.”

  “That is not what I asked you.”

  “That is all I can tell you.”

  “No, it is all you will tell me,” she countered with sudden passion. “Whatever you may think of me, however much you believe you know about me, please do not ever doubt the sincerity of my affections for Melinda Radcliffe. To do so would be a grave injustice, sir, and one I do not deserve.”

  In a flurry of cinnamon silk, she whirled and hastened to the steps.

  Lady Devonlea and the others waited at the bottom of the grand staircase, but a crowd of people pressing to make their way to their seats cut Laurel off from them. As she tried to squeeze her way through, the sting of tears increased her frustration, forcing her to acknowledge that she did not so much wish to catch up to her new acquaintances as to flee—from Aidan, and from a powerful attraction she could no longer deny.

  Damn and double damn. She should not be entertaining romantic notions about the man even if he had once ridden to her rescue. That was precisely the illusion about which Victoria had warned her. She had told Laurel not to be fooled by genteel appearances.

  Making her foolishness so much more pitiable, he did not return her feelings. Good heavens, such a gross understatement, that. He apparently found her company so odious he continually took great pains to avoid her. And now this glaring show of mistrust.

  Mistrust she deserved, despite her self- righteous claim to the contrary. Only, not where Melinda was concerned. Despite her necessary and often regrettable deceptions, Laurel would never do anything to harm that amiable lady.

  A mutinous tear splashed hot on her cheek. She swiped it away on the back of her satin glove and circled an elderly couple, rather rudely, she must admit, but it couldn’t be helped. Just to regain the ability to breathe freely, she needed to put distance between herself and Aidan’s devastating good looks and his quelling lack of regard.

  She must not let it hurt, could not let it. She had a job to do, and by the time she reached Lady Devonlea and the others, she had regained her composure, or at least a semblance of it.

  “Goodness, are your seats in the heavens?” she jested as they mounted the stairs.

  “The view from our box is well worth the climb,” the viscountess assured her.

  Reaching a landing, they followed the curve of a carpeted hallway until Laurel became quite lost and overwhelmed by the rich damask wall coverings, the glittering, gas-fed lights, and the crimson velvet draperies tied in fringed swags in the entrances of the box seats.

  She soon found herself clutching the arms of her seat as she took in the theater’s towering heights, the dizzying sweep of the orchestra seats below her, the impossible length of the stage. Other than the Christmas pageants at church in Thorn Grove, she had never attended a play there, and of course the London theaters lay far beyond her limited finances.

  Lord and Lady Devonlea sat to her left. Behind them, Captain Taft, Mrs. Whitfield, and Lord and Lady Harcourt settled in. Raising the lorgnette an usher had handed her, Laurel perused the mosaic of boxes on either side of her. She saw no sign of Claude Rousseau.

  And no sign of Aidan, either.

  The Earl of Munster took the empty seat to her right. “I apologize for the p-provincial n-nature of the Theatre Royal, madam. One can only hope the performance exceeds expectations.”

  Laurel’s mouth dropped open. Had this man no appreciation for the wonders around him? Yet before she expressed her incredulity, another thought occurred to her. She was here to assess his behavior and ascertain whether he posed any threat to Victoria, and he had just provided her with the perfect opening to pry into his life.

  “You must remember, sir, that my experiences have been limited,” she said. “This theater far exceeds in grandeur any of those near my home in Hampshire.”

  He sniffed. “That, m-madam, is m-most regrettable.”

  “Perhaps, but that is why I find such excitement here in Bath. I feel like a child at a sweetshop window, filled with admiration for all I see and everyone I meet.”

  “Everyone?”

  She did not mistake the innuendo in his question. “Oh, indeed, sir. For instance, one can only imagine the notable places your lordship has been, and the illustrious individuals with whom you are acquainted.”

  “You allude, of course, to m-my relations.” His peevish shrug acted as a warning that she trod on sensitive ground. Well enough did she appreciate the turbulent nature of Hanover family relations.

  “Not at all, my lord. Oh, certainly His Majesty, your dear departed father, left you with an invaluable le
gacy.” She paused to gauge his reaction, and wondered if his pensive smile meant he was thinking about the documents he had stolen from among his father’s possessions. Now if only she could coax him to talk about those papers and what they held . . .

  “My m-mother was an actress, you know,” he said unexpectedly.

  Disappointed, for she had no wish to discuss this aspect of the man’s past, she nodded. “Yes, Dorothea Jordan. I am afraid I never had the pleasure of enjoying any of her performances.”

  “You would have been f-far too young. She was one of the best of her day. A p-pity Papa had to set her aside. His royal d-duty dictated that he attempt to m-make suitable heirs with a suitable wife. For all the g-good it did him.”

  His quiet words dripped with bitterness, reminding Laurel that his grievances were not entirely without cause. It could not be easy being the firstborn son of a king while knowing that, as an illegitimate child, he could never claim his birthright.

  “And yet as the new queen’s aide-de-camp, you do hold an esteemed place in Her Majesty’s court,” she gently pointed out.

  His snort suggested that he derived little satisfaction from the post. Laurel decided she needed a change in tactic; speaking of his family only increased the man’s melancholy.

  “Still and all, a man in your position must enjoy connections to all sorts of fascinating individuals. Lawmakers and intellectuals, men of vision and”—she searched for the right word—“innovation . . . of the sort that could so benefit our society.”

  His head instantly swiveled. His features alight with enthusiasm, he half turned in his chair to face her more fully. “You, madam, strike me as a woman of r- rare perception.”

  “Why, thank you, sir. That is singularly the most welcome compliment I have received in quite the longest while. I do happen to pride myself on my powers of discernment.”

  “And you see the necessity for ch-change in this country.”

  “I believe one would term it progress, yes?”

  His palm slapped the arm of his chair. “Precisely, Mrs. Sanderson. P-progress is the key to England’s future. That is something my young c-cousin fails to comprehend.”

  That unfair assessment raised a prickly ire in Laurel, yet she managed to nod in feigned agreement and produce a fawning look of encouragement. “What sorts of progress do you feel would lend the most modernizing advantages?”

  “Political change, my d-dear Mrs. Sanderson.” He thrust a finger in the air, and Laurel’s eyes widened. Was he about to reveal his involvement with the Radical Reformers? His next words brought disappointment. “Coupled, m-most importantly, with scientific discovery.”

  “I see. Then would you consider yourself more a man of science, or of politics?” She hoped he would choose the latter and expound upon his views.

  He declared without hesitation, “The two go h-hand in h-hand.” Crossing one plump leg over the other, he angled his torso closer to Laurel, and she had to remind herself not to lean away. “With the advent of science comes a p-purity of rational thought and the b-banishment of pointless traditions. That is why I seek to surround myself with individuals like Claude Rousseau, m-men intent on leading the way into the m-modern age.”

  At the sound of the Frenchman’s name, Laurel went utterly still, remembering how, at the Pump Room three days before, George Fitzclarence had professed not to know Rousseau at all well.

  “Oh?” was all she said, and waited for him to fill the silence.

  “Humble though he m-may seem,” the earl continued, “the man is fearless, a veritable p-pioneer of scientific advancement. His elixir will revolutionize m-medicine. And I, madam, shall be at his s-side when he does.”

  “How exhilarating.” She decided to gamble all. “Then you and Monsieur Rousseau might be termed Collaborators of the New Age.”

  “A c-capital way of phrasing it, my dear.”

  “Are—” Her throat hitched with excitement. She coughed, then plowed on. “Are there others? I would be most delighted to meet them and . . . and learn more.”

  She wondered if she would discover Aidan Phillips to be among those collaborators. The thought filled her with dismay.

  But what of Claude Rousseau? Did his aspirations extend beyond the scientific into the political? She found it hard to believe that of the unassuming, bespectacled man. For the first time, she wondered if the old king’s documents had anything to do with the elixir. If they did, then perhaps she could ease Victoria’s fears of Lord Munster using them to undermine her reign.

  “Tell me,” she said, “does this New Age allow for the participation of women?”

  “Indeed, when the w-women are as astute as you, Mrs. Sanderson . . . or”—he leaned closer still, face bright with an eager hope that caused her to flinch a little away from him—“m-may I call you Laurel?”

  The drawn-out whisper of her first name raised gooseflesh down her back. In his lingering gaze she saw a disconcerting jumble of wistfulness, fear, expectation, while in the accompanying puff of air she received a cloying whiff of brandy.

  That might explain the loosening of his tongue and his contradiction concerning his acquaintance with Rousseau.

  Before she could answer him, the gaslit sconces throughout the theater began to dim. Behind them, an usher released drapery cords and the velvet curtains fell closed.

  “D-damn.” Fitzclarence rubbed a hand across his chin. “I find myself f-far more interested in the present company than in the c-coming performance. I should certainly enjoy continuing our c-conversation at a later time . . . Laurel.”

  Oh dear. Had she encouraged him too far? She had only meant to further his confidence, but too late did she realize that what others would take for simple cordiality, George Fitzclarence perceived as flirtation.

  Still, she now had an invitation of sorts, and she must not let him forget the offer he had extended.

  Was she about to enter into the political intrigues of the Radical Reformers? Butterflies filled her stomach as she continued to tempt fate. “I should like that very much as well, my lord.”

  Lady Devonlea leaned around her husband to shush them both. “The curtain is opening.”

  From the orchestra pit, the first chromatic chords of the overture burst through the theater, sending a vibration through the very walls. Laurel shuddered, but not in response to the ominous music. Having raised her opera glass again, she glanced across the open expanse above the orchestra seats to discover Aidan Phillips leaning on his balcony rail, staring straight at her.

  Just before the lights went down, Aidan learned something that left his senses abuzz.

  His box sat mostly empty, for much to the disappointment of several marriageable young ladies and their mamas, he had invited only two guests: Henri de Vere and Julian Stoddard.

  Stoddard seemed all too eager to discuss the particulars of Roger Babcock’s death. The gorier the details, the greater the pleasure Stoddard seemed to derive from them.

  But Aidan most wished to question de Vere. Knowing the former spy would recognize even the subtlest interrogation techniques, he proceeded with the utmost care. Aidan must appear to have no interest in the matter other than an appetite for lurid gossip.

  He put Stoddard to good use, manipulating the conversation until the young bounder raised the subject of Babcock’s death himself. So far Aidan had little to go on, only hearsay that the MP had owed Devonlea money, and Lord Harcourt’s own inflammatory condemnation: I shall waste no energy mourning a rapscallion like Babcock.

  As Aidan had done with Major Bradford at the Pump Room, he again raised the possibility of Babcock having been indebted to Lord Harcourt, or perhaps vice versa.

  “I heard Babcock died owing considerable sums his widow refuses to acknowledge,” he improvised. “Even old Harcourt has cause for grievance.”

  “Harcourt?” Stoddard gave a laugh. “That old miser?”

  Looking thoughtful, de Vere leaned back in his chair. “If anything,” he said in a French accent that
was noticeably lighter than Claude Rousseau’s, “it was that property by the river that came between them.”

  “Property?” Aidan raised his brows and feigned mild interest when in fact his pulse points rapped with the thrill of finally uncovering a worthwhile morsel.

  “A warehouse on Broad Quay.” De Vere twitched an eyebrow. “Falling to ruin. I cannot comprehend why either of them wanted the place.”

  “Which of them ended up with it?”

  “Couldn’t say. Perhaps neither. Supposedly a third party intervened with a higher bid.”

  “Whoever the bloke is, he’ll more than likely lose his knickers in the bargain,” Stoddard put in brightly, his mood apparently much improved since he had stood brooding in the lobby.

  A warehouse on Broad Quay . . . Aidan would look into it tomorrow. Satisfied for the time being, he relaxed into his seat as the lights began dimming, only to snap back to attention just before the theater plunged into darkness.

  Across the way in the Fitzclarences’ box, Laurel sat next to Fitz, their heads close together. Aidan pushed forward, leaning his arms on the railing in front of him and wishing he could steal close enough to hear what appeared to be an animated conversation.

  Happening to raise her lorgnette and peer in his direction, she saw him and went still. Then her hand fell away from her face, leaving her eyes uncovered. Their gazes connected in the instant before the theater fell dark, and as the first dramatic, D minor notes rose from the orchestra, a strange but pervasive foreboding filled him. He sat back again, his hands tightening around the padded velvet arms of his chair even as his stomach clenched around an irrational fear of impending danger.

  Perhaps Mozart had simply done his job too well. Don Giovanni had never been one of Aidan’s favorites. Its theme of the Commendatore avenging his own murder by dragging Don Giovanni down into hell hit far too close to home for his comfort. Neither of his parents had been murdered, but they might as well have been: his mother by a ravaging illness and his father by a villain who had all but pressed the pistol into his hand and squeezed the trigger.