My Fair Lord

by Wilma Counts

  “I must say,” Retta said, catching her breath, “you perform these dances very well. Surely, they are not new to you?”

  “Not exactly,” he responded with a grin. “Even in the wilds of Yorkshire we have village assemblies. I learnt most of the traditional country dances early on. Never done ’em this way with just two people, though.” He flashed another grin. I do ’preciate your teachin’ ’em to me again.”

  She tried to ignore her susceptibility to that grin. “Well. Perhaps we need not be too concerned about these more common dances. A bit of refreshing might be in order before a ball.”

  “That’s true. Been a while since I went to a real assembly.”

  “What about the waltz?”

  “The waltz?”

  “Yes. Surely you have heard of it, though it was introduced in England only last year.” She sang the rhythm of a waltz tune in nonsense syllables and then Aunt Georgiana picked up the tune with a few bars on the piano.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am, I’ve heard of it, but it’s still considered rather risqué in Yorkshire, you know. But there’s a dance hall here in London where workers goes to on Saturday nights, so I has—have—done it a time or two.”

  “Good. Let’s see if we need to practice that one,” Retta said. She proceeded to demonstrate the steps and her aunt immediately played the tune Retta had sung earlier. Retta closed her eyes, losing herself in the music and the flow of waltz steps.

  Suddenly she was startled as Mr. Bolton grasped her right hand and slipped an arm about her waist, his hand splayed across the small of her back. With a mastery never shown by any of her previous waltz partners, he guided her in the elegant steps. Without a single thought to the contrary, she put her left hand on his shoulder, closed her eyes, and not only gave herself up to the music again, but she positively reveled in the fluid movements of the dance. She was keenly aware of the strength and grace with which he controlled their gliding about the room. Once again, she was also aware of the warmth of his very masculine body and the faint, but now familiar smell of sandalwood soap blended with his own essence. She was scarcely aware when her aunt stopped playing.

  Mr. Bolton stopped moving and leaned close to murmur in her ear, “I think we are done now.”

  She held his gaze for a long, mesmerizing moment, then gave herself a mental shake and tried to retrieve control of the situation by saying, “Yes, I can see that we are.” But she was not at all sure she had hidden a slight quaver in her voice.

  She glanced toward her aunt who gave her a questioning look, but said in a brisk tone, “You both acquitted yourselves very well with that one. It was beautiful. In a proper ball gown and evening attire, you would command the attention of an entire ballroom.”

  “Yes. Well. Uh . . .” Retta tried to organize her words to fit the thought she should be expressing rather the raw feelings that were making this difficult. “I . . . uh . . . I think we have little cause to worry about Mr. Bolton’s performance in a ballroom.” She turned to him. “Do you not agree, sir?”

  His eyes twinkled as he held her gaze again. “Well, now, mebbe another lesson or two wouldn’t hurt.”

  She glared at him. “Perhaps. We shall discuss it later.” Dratted man. He knew exactly how that dance had affected her. How he affected her.

  Later, in the solitude of her own bedchamber, she took herself to task for even allowing him to affect her so. No. She could not be falling in love someone from the London docks! And where had that ridiculous thought come from anyway?

  * * * *

  Retta would have been interested to know that Jake, too, had been profoundly affected by that dance. Actually, by these weeks in the Blakemoor household and his daily interaction with its members, especially one Lady Henrietta. Jake had known many women in his past, women from all walks of life: debutantes he had known before his army days, wives and daughters of army officers, sophisticated women of the upper classes in Portugal, and less sophisticated women in working with partisans in Spain. His relationships with them had run the gamut from casual friendships to sparkling, enjoyable flirtations and, occasionally, something deeper.

  There had been two mistresses in the last decade, each of whom had lasted for a period of a few months. The first liaison, with a Portuguese widow slightly older than he, had ended amicably. The second had been with a Spanish aristocrat, Inez, whose father sided with those loyal to the king Napoleon had placed on the Spanish throne. Their affair had ended tragically when the father discovered that his daughter was giving information to those “other” Spanish—those deeply opposed to the puppet king—and to the despicable English who aided them. Jake knew, but had never been able to prove, that the accident in which Inez had died had been ordered by her own father. At the time, Jake had grieved profoundly over Inez and blamed himself at least in part for her death. But as time had healed that wound, he realized that there was little that he could have done to save her, and that in fact the affair might not have survived the war at all. Still he had vowed he would never again cause any friction between a woman he loved and her family.

  A woman he loved? Well, that was pretty dramatic, wasn’t it? He was not ready to face that idea head on, but he did find himself admiring the Lady Henrietta more and more. He even admired her determination in pursuit of winning that ridiculous bet. Actually, it was sheer stubbornness, he thought, but her genuine affection for the mare, Moonstar, was not unlike his own attachment to Pegasus. Moonstar had not seen her mistress wounded on a battlefield and stood over her protectively until help came as Pegasus had, but Jake recognized the strength of her ladyship’s loyalty to the animal. He also admired her ties to her brothers, to her aunt, and to her uncle. He knew—mostly from what others had let drop here and there—that she showed patient toleration of, but was not close to her sisters and her father, and certainly not to her stepmother. However, to the other members of her family, he had sensed only fierce loyalty. Such loyalty extended to king and country, he thought, in ruling her out of his on-going search.

  At first he had supposed this whole situation would be uncomfortable for him as he tried to keep up with his disguises—as a country yokel from Yorkshire, a London dockworker, a Bow Street Runner, and as a Blakemoor footman on occasion. But he had also approached the situation with a degree of amusement. Lately, however, he had allowed himself a deeper sense of involvement with the people of Blakemoor House, especially with Lady Henrietta.

  He enjoyed their “lessons” and the way they often led to verbal sparring and sharing of views on various matters. Because they spent so much time in each other’s company—and often more or less alone together—he became more and more aware of her as a damned attractive woman, and he became attuned to her little idiosyncrasies: she always wore the same woodsy-flowery perfume; she favored muted colors from nature in her clothing; she had a hearty laugh when she was truly amused; she toyed with a strand of hair when giving serious thought to an idea. She was usually frank and practical in her approach to ideas and people.

  So how on earth had she allowed herself to become embroiled in this patently silly bet?

  “Well? Have you bedded her yet?” Peter Fenton had asked at their next meeting—in yet another dark pub.

  “Of course not. And if I had, I would hardly be sharing such information with you.” Jake knew he sounded a bit huffy, but he could not shake his silent addendum: not that I haven’t wanted to. “She is teaching me to waltz,” he said by way of changing the subject.

  “The waltz.” Fenton grinned. “That must be interesting, given that the King’s German Legions brought that dance to the Peninsula long before it was introduced here in England.”

  “It . . . uh . . . has its moments,” Jake said.

  “Ah, Bodwyn,” Peter went on in mock sympathy, “you are letting down the male half of the species. Are you not aware that we are supposed to be lusting after anything in skirts?”

 
“I do not deny ‘lusting,’ but that is the sum of information you get on that score. So—what news have you for me on the spy front?”

  Peter’s expression turned grim. “Bad news, I’m afraid. Richter has been found.”

  “And—”

  “He’s dead. His body washed up in the Thames against a bridge abutment. The body was naked and in bad shape from exposure and God knows how long it was in the river, but he’d been tortured and stabbed.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Whoever did it probably intended the body to be washed out to sea, but that bridge just got in their way. He was a good man. Young and enthusiastic, but a good man.”

  “And no one at Trentham House knows anything?”

  “They still aren’t talking at all. But obviously Richter was onto something. And he paid dearly for it.” Fenton’s tone became even more serious. “So, you be careful, my friend. These people are worried about something. Worried enough to kill to protect their sources.”

  “I’m all right,” Jake assured him, “but unfortunately, I have little to report other than the fact that Colonel Lord Alfred Parker takes his work home with him—but we knew that.”

  “The message—or part of one—that Richter found?”

  “Nothing yet. Anyone else working on it?”

  “Yes. But no one has worked it out yet.”

  “I’ll keep at it.”

  “Right. And keep digging too.” Fenton rose and give Jake an especially firm handshake. “But be careful! I certainly don’t want to be fishing your body out of the Thames.”

  Chapter 9

  As November rolled into December, Retta began to accept her current situation as routine, knowing full well it was temporary. Her father and stepmother would eventually come home, and so would Melinda and Richard. Aunt Georgiana and Madame Laurent would return to the house in Bloomsbury. Rebecca and Lenninger would be removing to his newly renovated town house.

  And Jake Bolton would leave.

  The sense of desolation she felt at this last thought surprised her. But, really, what had she expected?

  Be honest, she told herself.

  Her sense of loss was surprising, but it was also something of a revelation. What kind of life did she really want for herself?

  Once upon a time she had shared the romantic dreams of all young girls: a home and family of her very own—the fairy tale happily-ever-after with a loving Prince Charming as the center of her universe. Gradually, those dreams had been quashed as she came to realize that she was pursued more for the fortune she would one day have than for herself alone. She had never been wholly comfortable in the role that society—and her stepmother—demanded of “proper young ladies.” Early on, her effort to conform had brought more frustration than satisfaction. Assuming that role was rather like wearing a garment that did not quite fit, forcing one constantly to pull at it or smooth imaginary wrinkles.

  Finding kindred spirits in Hero and Harriet at school had been liberating, especially as Miss Pringle had recognized the worth of “her girls” as individuals. The “Three Hs” had not repudiated society; they had simply pursued their own interests—and earned the pejorative label “bluestockings” in the process. They ignored the name-calling; in fact, all three took perverse pride in that and other aspersions tossed at them.

  Thrust into the marriage mart, Lady Henrietta had thought to find a life partner with whom she could share ideas and goals just as she shared them with Hero and Harriet. She was quickly disabused of that foolish notion when she overheard one of her would-be suitors talking with one of his cronies.

  “Don’t know what you see in the Blakemoor chit,” the crony had said. “She’ll bore you to death with all that talk of child labor and the starving poor.”

  “One can tolerate a good deal of boredom if it comes with an income of several thousand pounds per annum,” said the man who had professed to admire her compassion and her ever-so-delightful person.

  Her disillusionment had been fortified as she saw certain of her friends and acquaintances virtually forced into marriages that usually offered sufficient social or financial status, but little in the way of real happiness—at least not the kind Lady Henrietta Georgiana Parker dreamed of.

  Perhaps when she came into full control of her fortune, she would establish her own household. A paid companion, such as Aunt Georgiana had in Madame Laurent, would afford her some protection from scurrilous gossip, and she would have more freedom than she felt in her stepmother’s domain.

  Meanwhile, she had to deal with her growing awareness of Jake Bolton, the man. That was another thing: in her private musings, she had begun to think of him as Jake. And there were all those not-quite-accidental touches, shared glances of amusement in the midst of conversations with others, just knowing when he was or was not in a room. She needed to keep her distance! But she also needed be very sure that he could carry off a whole evening in the company of the most critical members of the ton.

  Then what she thought of as her private “Jake dilemma” took on a new dimension.

  One evening when Madame Laurent, pleading a headache, had retired early to her bedchamber, Retta and her aunt sat quietly enjoying glasses of sherry before retiring themselves.

  Aunt Georgiana set her glass on the table between their chairs and cleared her throat. “Retta, my dear, you know that I am not one to interfere in others’ private business, but there is a matter I would discuss with you.”

  “You think Madame Laurent’s headache stems from worry about her son? I know he runs with a very fast crowd.”

  “No, my dear. Frankly, I am speaking of you and Mr. Bolton.”

  “Me? And Mr. Bolton?” Retta felt embarrassed and tried to dissemble. “I am sure I have no idea what you are talking about.” She raised her own glass to her lips for the last sip of sherry.

  “Cut line, my girl. You know that will not work with me. I have seen the way you look at each other. And that waltz the other day was a clear demonstration of something between you.”

  “At each other?” Retta repeated the phrase that had popped out at her, and rather clumsily set her glass on the table.

  “Yes. At each other. You must be very careful, my dear, that you not let him get ideas above his station.”

  Retta decided a good defense would be an effective offense. “Just as you once did with Uncle Mickelson?”

  Her aunt looked chagrined, but only momentarily. “My William did come from a family of tradesmen, but he was educated at the very best schools and he possessed a private fortune that, frankly, exceeded my father’s.”

  “I know that,” Retta said contritely. “I am sorry, Auntie Georgie. I should not have said that. It’s just that—”

  “That you needed to deflect the discussion.” Her aunt was silent for a moment, then asked gently, “So what is happening, Retta? You know that I will always support you in whatever you do—short of your engaging in antics like those of Caroline Lamb in her pursuit of that scapegrace, Byron.”

  Retta gave a nervous laugh. “You need not worry on that score. Actually, I am simply not sure that—that anything is ‘happening.’ I find Mr. Bolton attractive, and I think he does not view me as an antidote, but rest assured, my dear Auntie Georgie, that despite the contretemps that could result from this bet with Rebecca, I will never—never—do anything to truly endanger the reputation of my family.”

  “That was not my worry,” her aunt replied. “I simply do not want you to be hurt. You have been fending off fortune hunters ever since your come-out. But in the past, your own affections never seemed to be engaged.”

  “Nor are they now,” Retta assured her, even as she wondered just how true that was.

  Her aunt looked doubtful, but stood to signal an end to the discussion. “Hmm. Well, should they become so, your circumstances will allow you to follow your heart, but do be very car
eful, my dear.”

  Retta, too, stood and kissed her aunt on the cheek. “I will. Truly I will. And thank you.”

  “Good night, my dear.”

  Retta sat back down and remained there, thinking, long after the older woman had retired. She scarcely noticed the familiar sounds of an evening: horses’ hooves and carriage wheels on cobblestones outside and quiet good-nights and closing doors within. If Aunt Georgiana had seen something untoward in her behavior with Mr. Bolton, how long might it be before others did? And how long before something did happen? A kiss, perhaps. A kiss. What would that be like with Jake? She shook her head.

  No. It simply could not—must not—happen.

  But then it did. The very next day.

  As was her custom even on mornings when she did not ride, Retta had gone to the stable, her pockets and a basket loaded with treats for her equine friends. Entering Moonstar’s stall, she was struck by her sheer thoughtlessness in risking the loss of this treasured friend. She fed the mare an apple, stroked her velvety nose, then pressed her face to the horse’s neck.

  “Oh, my precious, how could I have been so stupid?” she murmured. Moonstar shifted to nudge Retta’s shoulder as though to respond, “Hmm?”

  “But Jake—Mr. Bolton—will save you for me. I know he will.” She patted the horse’s neck again. “I hope. Oh, how I hope,” she whispered.

  Later, Retta had thought herself alone in the house—except for the servants who all seemed occupied somewhere out of her immediate presence. Aunt Georgiana and Madame Laurent had gone out to make calls. Uncle Alfred intended to report to the office of the Commander-in-Chief, and Gerald had accompanied him, though Gerald’s destination was the Foreign Office. She thought Mr. Bolton, too, had left for his half-day off. She reveled in having the house to herself and being able to spend the afternoon just as she pleased. And what she pleased was to snuggle into one of those big overstuffed couches in the library with that new novel, Pride and Prejudice, reportedly by the author of Sense and Sensibility.