by Wilma Counts
Peter laughed. “I shall be my haughty best that evening.”
Jake returned one book to a shelf and retrieved another, making a show of leafing through it as he said softly, “Ralston could be a problem, though. I can hardly ask her to uninvite him and Lady Ralston. Nor can I suddenly develop a case of the plague.”
“Perhaps Ralston is not as much of a threat as you think. He was, after all, two years behind us in school, and you know how school boys stick to their own age groups. He went to Cambridge later when we were already at Oxford. Also, his eyesight is not what it should be. He wears a glass on a gold chain and squints through it like a veritable dandy, but for Ralston it is not merely an affectation.”
“Well, in that case—”
“Besides,” Peter added, “I will do my best to deflect any untoward curiosity, though you and I must be as strangers at this soiree.”
“Of course. Now, have you had any luck with Morrow?”
“None. The man does his secretarial duties and goes home to his rented rooms. His landlady provides his meals, but he occasionally dines with friends or attends an entertainment of some sort. He is not a recluse. Not much of a gambler, either. He does not have a mistress, but goes to a certain brothel now and then. His needs seem rather modest. Whatever he is doing, it does not appear that money is his motivation.”
“His companions?”
“Unexceptional.” With a sigh, Peter turned to shelve the book he had been pretending to peruse. “We are following up on a couple of them, but, frankly, I still think the key lies in Blakemoor House. Or maybe Trentham’s. Morrow is a friend of Trentham’s butler, Talbot—yet another French émigré.”
Chapter 12
Retta lay in her bed, once again robbed of sleep as she wrestled with her inappropriate attraction to Mr. Bolton; she could not deny the qualities of the man that were at the core of that attraction. Nor could she ignore the contradictions: a farmer’s son, a sailor on a cargo vessel, a London dockworker. But he played the piano with a degree of expertise that was simply inconsistent with the level of training to which he admitted. Had he lied? Dissembled? If so, why?
He claimed a local vicar had allowed him to join lessons the churchman had conducted for paid pupils. Retta knew this was not an uncommon practice, nor did she discount a person’s ability to educate himself beyond any level of formal education he might have had. And then there was the vicar’s incredibly talented wife who had taught him music.
Retta was sure that casual reference to Shakespeare’s famous line about music came from something other than seeing a single performance of a play performed by traveling players in a country village. Come to think of it, Mr. Bolton had let other such references slip in their conversations. She recalled their once discussing the self-indulgent behavior of the Prince Regent. She had said something about how the Prince and his royal siblings had been reared. Mr. Bolton had replied, “Well there is some truth in that line that ‘the child is father of the man.’” She had been impressed by his cleverness at the time, but now she wondered how much more of Wordsworth’s work he had committed to memory?
And, finally, there was that display of incredible horsemanship. Such skill had not come from working with draft animals on a tenant farm! She recalled other details he had shared of his life in their prolonged lessons. Details about the make-up of his family, for instance. How much of it was even remotely true? And how could she possibly challenge him at this stage when so much depended on his winning that infernal wager for her?
Concerned that he might be uncomfortable in such exalted company, she had been nervous when he came into the drawing room to receive the accolades of Lord and Lady Davenport—parents of the child he had saved. She need not have worried. He carried on as though he had been born to such company.
He rarely lapsed into the country dialect anymore. She was proud of his progress in that area. He had learned proper speaking very easily. Too easily? She dismissed this idea when she recalled the ease with which she herself had learned German. When she was thirteen, Retta had taken it into her head to learn the native language of England’s Hanoverian king and queen. Her father had indulged her in this and hired a tutor for her. The countess had dismissed the whole thing as a waste of time; when, pray tell, was Henrietta likely to hold a dinner table conversation with the royal family? It had taken Retta a mere three months to become reasonably fluent. She could have put that skill to use in Vienna! She gave herself a mental shake and returned to the issue of Jake Bolton’s language skills. After all, she noted, he was merely refining on his own language, was he not?
Still . . .
She pounded the pillow in frustration and willed herself to some semblance of sleep.
As the holiday season picked up momentum, she cut back on her protégé’s lessons. There would be time for a serious review after the New Year had been ushered in. And there would be time after that for any serious consideration of her own future and the liberation her grandmother’s legacy would give her. Besides helping her aunt prepare for their own party to occur only three days before Christmas, Retta accepted any number of invitations from others. She knew very well she was doing this in part to avoid thinking about the possible loss of her beloved Moonstar. Also, in moments of unguarded honesty with herself, she welcomed the fever of activity that kept her from dwelling on Jake Bolton’s eventual departure from her life.
Just why had he become so important to her sense of well-being anyway? Then she would remember that kiss, the comfort of being in his arms, and dozens of not-quite-accidental touches and shared glances of mutual understanding. She was behaving—if only in her own imaginings—like some bird-witted schoolgirl. This would simply not do.
So she welcomed distractions, especially those offered by David Manning, Viscount Willitson. In recent weeks, having allowed him to renew his suit, she was at least half aware that she was using one man to avoid facing the obstacles of loving another. She accepted Willitson’s invitations to go driving whenever the weather permitted; she urged him to prolong his visits when he called. He often appeared in her box at the theater or sat beside her at a concert. She liked David; he was comfortable. Viscountess Willitson. There was a certain ring to that, was there not? So what if his conversation sometimes lacked depth, or if she did not experience intensely physical responses to his touch, or if an idea or play on words went right over his head? He was kind, attentive, and sought to please.
It was in this frame of mind that she attended a ball given by the Duke and Duchess of Sutherlin. She suspected that David might this night press his suit more forcefully, though she had no idea how she would respond. Nevertheless, she thought a woman about to receive a marriage proposal should dress to suit the occasion. Having discarded two other choices Annie laid out before her, Retta finally chose a light orange silk gown with a bronze lace overskirt. The colors, Annie insisted, perfectly complemented the bronze streaks in Retta’s light brown hair. A necklace of small topaz stones with a larger teardrop-shaped stone that nestled at the top of her cleavage, along with matching earbobs and a soft paisley shawl of the same colors, completed the outfit.
Gerald had agreed to escort his sister and their aunt to this ball, and as the three of them met in the entrance hall to don outer garments before taking on the winter weather, Retta noticed that the door to the library was ajar allowing a soft stream of lamplight to escape. Assuming Uncle Alfred was working late or just reading, she popped in to tell him good night and was surprised to find he was not alone. Jake Bolton sat in a winged chair opposite the one her uncle occupied. A small table between the chairs held a chess game. Retta, having not seen him since the early morning, had thought Mr. Bolton to be away doing whatever it was he did on his days off. The two men seemed to be quietly enjoying snifters of cognac as they lost themselves in their game. Both rose at her entrance.
“Oh! I thought you were alone, Uncle,” she said, feeling a l
ittle foolish. “I just wanted to wish you a good night.”
Uncle Alfred extended his hand to clasp hers. “Here. Let me see you.” He turned her around. “Hmm. Well done, my dear. You will be the belle of the ball.”
“Oh, you have been telling me that since my very first ball a hundred years ago,” she said. “And it has not happened yet!”
“Well, it should,” he said, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
But it was a gleam of appreciation in Jake Bolton’s eyes and a silent nod of approval that made her body sing. She held his gaze for a moment, then quickly dropped her eyes, bade the two of them good evening, and rejoined her brother and her aunt in the foyer. Jake Bolton had not said a word, but it was his approval that she hugged to herself all the way to the ball.
As she climbed the stairs to the Sutherlin ballroom, she had a stern conversation with herself and firmly put a certain dockworker out of her mind. Having greeted her host and hostess and seen her brother stroll off with a group of his particular friends, she took a seat beside her aunt in what she thought of as the wallflower section of the room. She knew this was not quite fair as she was regularly sought out for a sufficient number of dances at any affair such as this. Sure enough, David materialized in front of her to claim the dance he had bespoke during a morning call two days earlier.
“You are looking especially lovely this evening, my dear. You quite put all the other ladies to shame,” he murmured as they took their places in the dance that was forming.
“Thank you,” she said, wondering why this effusive compliment seemed so weak against the approval she had seen in a pair of blue eyes earlier. They chatted amiably as the twists and turns of the dance permitted. When it ended, David sought to secure her hand for an additional two dances.
She laughed at him. “David, you know that would never do. Three dances? With the same man? Tongues would be wagging over every breakfast table. That would be tantamount to a declaration and you know it.”
He gazed at her, warm friendliness replaced with something more serious, more intense in his usually laughing brown eyes. “Would that be so very bad, Retta? I think you know how I feel about you.”
She looked away, but her tone was gentle. “You will have to be content with the waltz later. All right?”
He sighed. “If that is your wish.” He leaned close as he returned her to her aunt. “I shall look forward to that waltz.”
“Willitson seems especially attentive of late,” Aunt Georgiana remarked as Retta sat down and the gentleman departed.
“He is a dear friend,” Retta said.
“A friend? Nothing more?” Aunt Georgiana plucked at an invisible bit of lint on her dress. Her voice took on the quality of an indifferent afterthought, but Retta was not fooled for an instant. “A viscount. Heir to an earldom. You could do worse, my dear. Much worse.”
Retta refused to get involved this discussion. She was relieved when Sir Michael Hamilton came to claim her for the supper dance. Immensely rich, Hamilton had earned his knighthood—as he was quick to point out—because he had rescued George, the Prince Regent, from his creditors on more than one occasion. Hamilton’s remarkable sense of humor extended to himself. Retta loved the fact that he did not take himself overly seriously, that she could go driving with him or dance with him and know that he would joke with her, pointing out the more entertaining foibles of their companions. And so it was this evening as he entertained her and others at their table throughout their supper. It occurred to her that she could do worse than Sir Michael Hamilton too, should he seek to enter the non-existent competition for her hand.
As Retta came out of the supper room on Sir Michael’s arm, David was waiting for her.
“Unhand that beautiful woman, Hamilton,” David said with a mock growl. “She is mine, now.”
Hamilton “protected” her by gripping her hand that lay on his forearm, and took a step toward his “adversary.”
“The lady may choose otherwise, Willitson. In that case, I shall defend to the death her right to do so. What say you, oh lady fair?”
Retta laughed. “Do stop, both of you! Surely you were taught better manners in the school room.” She looked up at Hamilton. “Thank you for charging into the fray for me, though. When next I need a champion, I shall call upon you, Sir Michael.”
“Alas. I must be content with that promise.” He grinned and bowed as she moved into David’s arms with the first strains of a waltz tune from the orchestra.
“Did you miss me?” David asked.
“Oh, of course. We were separated such a long while. Why it must have been all of thirty minutes!”
Without missing a step, he pulled her closer and said in a tone only slightly more serious, “But I would have you near me always, my dear.”
“Lord Willitson. Really. You must behave.”
“If you insist, my lady. If you insist.”
They gave themselves up to the music and the elegance of the dance for a few moments. Not only was David an accomplished dancer, but he had often been her partner and they danced well together, almost unconsciously. Which was not entirely good, for it allowed her to recall another waltz partner, one in her father’s music room with only a single piano to supply the music. As the dance continued, Retta was scarcely aware that her partner had maneuvered them near and then through the open doors leading to the balcony.
“Too warm in there,” he said, still moving in tune with the music.
“Yes, I think you are right.” She noted that they were not exactly alone on the spacious balcony. Three or four other couples stood close and chatted quietly. The outer walls here were covered with ivy and there were several large potted plants strategically placed to allow guests a sense of privacy.
“This is better, eh?” he said as he danced her into a darker corner. Light from the ballroom and lanterns hung in the garden below provided a cheerful atmosphere and the strains of the music helped to carry one away from the everyday world.
“For the moment,” she answered. “But it is December, and it is likely to become quite chilly, you know.”
“I shall keep you warm.” Pulling her close, he wrapped both his arms tightly around her and lowered his mouth to hers.
She had anticipated that at some point in the evening this might happen. Perhaps she had even willed it. She returned his kiss with a degree of enthusiasm that seemed to surprise him, for he broke the contact to look into her eyes. “My love,” he murmured, pulling her even closer and kissing her even harder. She felt her breasts pressed against his chest. But instead of losing herself in the moment, she found herself taking an objective view of it—almost as though she stood outside her body as an impersonal observer. She pushed against him to separate the connection slightly, but she remained in the circle of his arms.
He drew a deep breath. “Retta, I know you are not one to tease and lead a man on. Please do say you will marry me. My feelings have not changed since I asked you before. We can make the announcement at your Christmas party.”
She had seen this coming. Perhaps she had even willed this too. So why was her immediate reaction panic? “No! I mean—that is, I cannot—I need time . . . Please, David. . . ”
He removed his arms from around her and took a step back as he held her gaze with his own. “How much? How much time do you think you need? My God, Retta, we have known each other for years.”
“I know.” Then she grasped at the first thought that floated into her mind. “My father is not here to give permission.”
“I will write him tomorrow, if that is all that is causing your hesitation. I can send a letter by special courier. But, Retta, you know very well that he was agreeable to a match before he left England. And you are of age, my dear.” There was a slight edge to his voice with the last sentence.
“I know. I am so sorry, David. I . . . I—” She grasped at another straw. “I c
annot make such a decision until February.”
“February?”
“It is only a few weeks.”
“Why? Why February?”
“My birthday.” She could not tell him of the wager. Not only was it imperative that as few people as possible know, but she was not at all sure how David would react if—when—he found out about it. Viscount Willitson sometimes showed himself to be rather strait-laced and conscious of his position in the world. “I will come into full possession of my fortune then,” she added lamely.
“Retta, hear me clearly: I. Am. Not. Interested. In. Your. Fortune. Good God, woman. My father is the third or fourth richest man in all of Britain. It may have escaped your notice, but it just so happens that I am his heir.”
“I know. It is just—well, it is important to me. Please do try to understand.” She was genuinely sorry that she could not be more forthright with him. He deserved better of her than this. My God! How many more people are likely to be hurt by that infernal bet and the secrecy surrounding it?
“Easter.”
“Easter?” She was perplexed.
“I give you until Easter to make up your mind. In the meantime, we just carry on. I shall not press you again.”
She looked up at him. “Thank you, David. You are—you are more than generous.”
“Men in love are fools,” he said flatly. He pulled her close again and kissed her on the forehead. “Come. Let’s go inside. It is getting cold out here.”
* * * *
When Lady Henrietta left the library, Jake and Lord Alfred had gone back to their chess game. In the days following the rescue of the Davenport child and his confrontation with Lord Alfred, Jake had achieved a degree of rapport he had not had previously with the somewhat austere Lord Alfred. Jake suspected Lord Alfred’s overtures of friendship stemmed from the man’s desire to keep an eye on a person he viewed as an imposter. But the new relationship suited Jake very well, for he often shared the library with Lord Alfred and the secretary—and with any chance visitors.
