Scandal on Half Moon Street

by Vivian Roycroft

  “So beautiful, Anne.” Silly and sentimental of her, but Lady Wotton’s throat threatened to close. Her last chick prepared to fly the coop, and higher than any of her nest-mates had done before her. “And what an artful arrangement Candace has created with your hair. But you must smile, my darling, if you wish to charm a duke.”

  Anne’s lips curved, secret and coy, and her gaze lowered. Yes, she understood her mother. Lady Wotton dipped and kissed her daughter’s forehead, leaving before she rearranged Abigail’s careful application of her own rouge and facial powder, or worse, spread it over Anne’s natural and perfect complexion.

  Now to see how His Grace played his hand.

  ****

  The vaulted ceiling’s scrollwork encircled three frescoes with scenes from classical Italian literature, pleasantly painted in a sort of overdone cherubic-demonic fashion but not anything His Grace cared to linger over. White marble fireplaces bracketed the room’s length; they and the cherry-wood double doors provided sharp contrasts with the deep goldenrod walls and darker gold draperies. The chandelier was sparkling crystal, the Baldwin ancestors’ portrait frames were gilt, and the carpet’s intriguing shades of pink and cherry and gold brought it all together nicely. If he thought for a moment Lady Baldwin had supervised the redecorating herself… but unfortunately no. Perhaps her lovely niece. Perhaps he’d better not ask.

  The program for Lady Baldwin’s concert, prepared in her own loopy, flowing script on heavy ivory cards, told His Grace all he needed to know regarding the evening ahead. Her newly-presented niece would sing two solos, sandwiched between performances by a hired quartet, and therefore it was intended as the debutante’s introduction to the ton via her pure sweet alto, which he'd heard and appreciated during previous family entertainments. Excellent; the music would at least be palatable, the solos would be performed by someone with skill and an on-key vibrato, and whilst enjoying himself, he could nevertheless give the better part of his attention to the game in hand.

  And speaking of the angel…

  She entered the golden drawing room as part of a larger group, the ladies of course leading the way. Lady Wotton spoke with animated gestures, and her lovely sister Mrs. Lethbridge nodded emphatically beside her, each jerk of her head punctuating a step, rather like the disciplined swings of a marching soldier’s arms. Treading on the two dear gossips’ hems trailed the Lethbridge daughters, the elder fair and willowy, the younger dark and curved, both with the same enthralled, aghast, and suspiciously, somewhat jealous expressions on their adorable faces. Mousy Mr. Lethbridge brought up the rear, and a few steps ahead of him, Anne glided in a sort of delighted misery. Her every feature reflected her mortified awareness of being the center of discussion and her eyes seemed unwilling to rise from the Lethbridge daughters’ embroidered demi-trains, even while her attention missed none of the delicious details being related. Ah, Ego, what fools you make of us all.

  The group paused near the first set of swags and draperies, still deep in conversation. His own position, by the splendid fire on the drawing room’s far side, placed the rows of elegant little chairs between them like an orderly wooden sea. Around them all, scattered groups melded, diverged, flowed in circulation, blocking the lovely view and then clearing. Anne never glanced his way, but the precision she displayed, in placing the entire of her party between her sweet self and what she clearly regarded as the looming form of her predator, proved that their sporting Regent would have been fully justified in laying a bet on her having spotted him.

  He so enjoyed the measured dance of this game. A guilty confession, perhaps, but the one best explaining why he indulged himself with such abandon.

  As the violinist and his fellows made their way to the empty space arranged as the stage, as the guests began drifting from their conversational flow toward the chairs, Lady Wotton’s volubility stumbled. The same consciousness her daughter displayed invaded her own sweet face, as delicate as Anne’s but admittedly no longer as natural in its elegance. Less discreet, she glanced around, a sharp yet unfocused searching expression drawing her eyebrows together, her raised chin guiding her attention about the company. This time, when their gazes crossed and meshed, Lady Wotton didn’t start; deep inside, in that predatory maternal manner, she’d known he was there and had sought mere confirmation.

  All the invitation his social calendar required.

  “Mr. Lethbridge, Mrs. Lethbridge, my dear Lady Wotton.” He accepted their formal bows. Best not to notice the slackened, astonished jaws. Instead, he eyed the Lethbridge daughters and allowed his smile to broaden, his voice to deepen. After all, they were hardly punishment for the eyes. “Ladies.” But he saved his broadest smile, his deepest voice, for his beautiful target. “Miss Kirkhoven.”

  Her lips pursed and her cheeks flushed the most perfect shade of rose. But unlike their previous not-accidental meeting in the coffee house, this time when she straightened from her curtsey, the beautiful hue remained in her face. Perhaps his attentions weren’t as unwelcome as she’d like him to believe.

  But even as his pulse quickened and warmed, His Grace spared no ruthlessness in cutting off any potentially tender emotions. Such things had their place, of course, but would only be a liability in this game.

  And it was past time to ascertain the state of his playing field.

  “Where is Baron Wotton? Surely he hasn’t withdrawn to Boughton Malherbe and left his family to suffer through a joyless Christmas season alone?”

  Lady Wotton turned pink in turn, exactly and delightfully like her daughter. “Well, some of the local landowners have filed to enclose the commons, and of course he couldn’t permit that.” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “And we couldn’t leave before the Holly Hall ball, you know.”

  Lethbridge sighed and shook his head. “And so you’re in town complaining of the damp when you could be settled around your own hearth. No single ball is that important, no matter who throws it.”

  The ladies hastened to correct his uninformed opinion, chirping over each other like a flock of musical songbirds. Lethbridge had the grace to accept defeat stoically, with no more than raised hands; every sign there of experience in accepting defeat. And under cover of their exclamations, His Grace eased sideways, closer to Anne’s side. Not close enough to touch, nor even enough to sense her youthful heat; just enough that she couldn’t mistake his attention. Her eyes cut toward him, met his for one tasty moment, then darted aside and down, her beautiful cheeks glowing even more brightly.

  “I’m afraid I must agree with your fair companions, my good sir. Lord and Lady Kringle’s Christmas Eve extravaganzas are envied by the Prince Regent himself and everyone who’s anyone would cheerfully slice off an appendage or two for an invitation.” His Grace smiled into Anne’s continuing, deepening, enticing blush. “Even such celebrated hosts couldn’t ignore a baron and his esteemed family. And perhaps, forward, obstreperous rogue that I am, I might avail myself of this opportunity to request the honor of Miss Kirkhoven’s hand for the first two?”

  Her gaze shot up and met his. No more soft, flushing modesty, but the first flash of fire, sudden, hot, and hard, almost resentful, even. Perhaps she’d had other plans for those dances. But he’d cornered her in public, worst yet in front of her dear mama, and she had no graceful means of escaping his unwanted invitation; if she’d promised those dances to someone else, Lady Wotton would be more than happy to handle that for her.

  “You’re too kind, your grace. I’m honored.” Even though she sounded strangled.

  Best of all, his game now had a target date. He’d have her ready by the Kringles’ ball.

  Chapter Four

  Wednesday, December 9, 1812 (continued)

  The blasted man insisted upon edging that little bit too close to her, enforcing her awareness of his presence. Bad enough she had to clasp her hands to keep their trembling from betraying her nervousness, but the heat in her face had to have given her confused response to his nearness dead away. And wor
st yet, when the violinist stroked out one long clear note and the other musicians responded, signaling the concert’s beginning, His Grace offered her his arm — her — and with Mama’s gimlet eye watching, Anne had no choice but to accept his escort to a row of seats near the front, which he claimed had the best acoustics in the formal drawing room.

  And once she was comfortably arranged, he turned, casually flipped his coattails, and settled beside her.

  Nowhere did they touch. The hem of her demi-train did not even overlap his shoe. And yet every inch of her skin knew he was there and tingled, enforcing that knowledge. It was as if something innate within her responded, with neither her agreement nor permission, to his insouciant masculinity. Every rustle, creak, whisper throughout the room sounded unnaturally loud to her heightened sensitivities, putting her teeth on edge. If one of the Lethbridges, sitting in breathless silence behind her, were to sneeze, she’d be completely undone.

  Tap, tap, tap, from the violinist’s toe, then all four bows rose in unison and the quartet dashed away into… something fluid, hauntingly sweet, striving and stretching, determined and rhythmic. That modern German composer? Bay-something? Not one of her favorites, unfortunately, when she could have used a good distraction from this social ordeal.

  On her other side, Letitia’s amused, excited glow and Alicia’s appalled lip-chewing proved distracting but not encouraging; best if she ignored them for now. And while the ceiling frescoes were amazingly detailed — in the center Dante’s Nine Circles of Hades arranged vertically, in a sort of endless spiral of tightening despair, the hordes following that track crowding ever more closely as they descended into the pit’s depths, an image horrifying and fascinating — it seemed no one in the netherworld wore clothing, and some of the more amazing details had no place in a public drawing room. Besides, with the influence of the Second Circle’s Master sitting beside her, she herself would be one of the number following that spiral down and down all too soon.

  And yet she could not deny he was handsome. Dark hair in crisp curls atop his black leather collar. A strong face with a Grecian nose and broad cheekbones, relaxed but with his attention arrested upon the quartet, a small smile lifting his lips, and pale blue eyes alight in the chandeliers’ sparkle, as if he enjoyed following the music’s intricacies. One could never mistake him for anything other than a peer of the realm, even if he’d fallen face-first into a pigsty or traded his elegant attire for the sartorial negligence of the salacious artist’s imagination.

  And then his eye cut aside and it was too late to glance away; she’d been caught examining him without shame. Heart suddenly racing in time to the sweeping, soaring violin, Anne turned back to the front.

  But he did not look away and instead leaned toward her. “Do you not care for the music?” His murmur couldn’t reach Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge, one row away.

  Her first instinct was to gush. But she had no reason to pretend, to impress or placate this man. “It’s very modern.”

  In consideration of the nearby listeners, she too closed the distance between them, then realized her mistake.

  Her shoulder brushed his. And his face hovered inches from hers.

  Warmth soaked into her from the gentle touch, down her arm and up to her neck, not to mention across to an area of her anatomy best left undisturbed. Pleasing. Intriguing. Carrying even more of those tingles that were so mesmerizing, so responsive to his proximity.

  She shivered and withdrew. An inch; surely that was enough for propriety. After all, the sensations he caused within her deserved further exploration; they were so very different from those Frederick imparted during their stolen minutes together.

  Within His Grace’s shadowed eyes, his enjoyment deepened. His full attention had shifted from the quartet to her and bored into her as if to read her soul like an ancient scroll. Her breaths came quicker, more shallow, a delicious, somehow powerful relaxation spreading through her limbs. He seemed to consider her the only person of importance within the room, the only subject worthy of scrutiny; and she had to admit, when His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland, paid his attention to a lady, she knew she had it undivided, complete to the last full stop.

  “Yes,” he said. “Beethoven’s string quartets are full of Romantic sensibilities, are they not? Emotion soaring above storm and stress, a strong eagle flying. Stronger than one would imagine.” His smile softened, gentled, and impishness gleamed in the deepest depths of his eyes. “And yet exquisitely tender, all at once. Not rational, but there it is.”

  Her head swam. The weight of his interest tasted like strong wine and its effect sang through her. Not a vintage of which she should partake too freely. But not one to be easily laid aside, either.

  For some reason, her fear of him had quite vanished.

  But then he straightened, returned his attention to the musicians, and Anne suddenly needed a deep breath. Along with the release, confusion crowded in. There had been no flirtation in his voice, his words, his conversational topic. And yet the sensations he’d aroused within her had borne no direct relationship to those, either. She’d responded not to his chitchat, but to him.

  In a way, that was somewhat disappointing. One expected more from an attempted seduction, after all. Or, if this wasn’t an attempted seduction, what on earth was the man’s intention?

  He couldn’t be serious. Could he?

  No. Not a chance.

  Then what?

  She couldn’t resist sneaking another glance at him, this time from her eye’s corner. When again his smile deepened — he knew, somehow he knew — she looked away and refused to indulge her prurient curiosity any further.

  Although the now awestruck expression on Letitia’s face, sitting in stunned silence on her other side, made her sit up even straighter in her chair.

  She’d missed something. It was the only explanation. There had been some meaning, some intention, within his conversation, his eyes, his smile — somewhere, she’d lost the thread stitching together their discussion.

  And at that notion, any potential interest held by the modern composer’s efforts evaporated from the gilt and golden drawing room.

  ****

  Thursday, December 10, 1812

  Well. And she’d worried that a duke could not possibly be interested in her youngest daughter.

  A carriage rattled along Half Moon Street, below Lady Wotton’s sitting room window. The cacophony of clops and rattles drifting in through the pomona green draperies brought forth a mental image of three or even four teams, coupled to some monstrous engine capable of bringing down the City itself. But a glance up from her writing desk showed a coach and four, the sound amplified, bouncing and echoing from the unbroken lines of imposing townhomes facing across the narrow bit of pavement. They’d been caught short on Lady Day, in their search for a year’s rental in town, and had been forced to settle. While the location couldn’t be bested and the house fulfilled her every yearning, a carriage on the street could rouse the dead.

  Perhaps she’d finally conveyed to Anne the primacy of position in this modern age; her dress and comportment last night could not have been improved. His Grace had been clearly charmed, his fascination obvious to less interested observers than herself, and she’d detected no hint of impropriety in his behavior toward the girl.

  No reason presented itself for discouraging his suit. And yet her heart pounded a breathless rhythm when she considered encouraging it.

  But if she wanted the prize, she had to venture forth.

  With her most elegant penmanship, Lady Wotton wrote a last-minute invitation for her card party next evening. She directed it to His Grace, the Duke of Cumberland, K.G., St. James’s Square, and set it aside for the butler’s attention.

  Of course, it was unlikely he’d be disengaged for the evening, especially on such short notice, and chances were he would not attend. But extending the invitation displayed her family’s welcome to this most eligible of bachelors. And it would keep her options open while she more c
autiously explored his.

  ****

  A glance through the window; but no fair-haired elegance, neither mature nor in the bloom of youth, graced the coffee house’s interior. The Kirkhoven ladies almost always stopped in at this hour when making calls or shopping, so it seemed they’d stayed in to receive visitors of their own. But in the back corner he preferred, where the paneling deepened the shadows, Frederick spied a dark-haired lass, head lowered and pursed lips breathing across a steaming cup, and when she glanced up, he met Alicia Lethbridge’s worried gaze.

  “Tell me about the concert,” he said, sliding into the chair across from her.

  Alicia paused, eyebrows furrowed, while the proprietor’s daughter, the heavy one, slid his usual order of coffee and biscuits in front of him. Only when the conversational coast was clear did she settle her own cup back into its saucer.

  “He approached almost the moment we entered the door and didn’t leave Anne’s side until the party broke up.”

  The ginger biscuit Frederick chewed turned to sawdust in his mouth. The shameless lout had thrust his odious self into the circle unasked? “He received no encouragement?”

  Alicia sniffed. “Lady Wotton seemed remarkably inclined for his company.”

  Well, that was a given, and not even the lingering molasses flavor could sweeten that blow. He loved Anne, but that had never been enough for her mother. Frederick sipped his coffee, washing down the sawdust and giving himself time to think. Somewhere behind him, a woman laughed, rich and full, carefree as he hadn’t been since childhood. Anne laughed in that same manner during those rare private moments they managed to steal. Such bliss was what she deserved, what he yearned to give her. They were close, not much more than a year to her twenty-first birthday and her majority, when she could marry whomever she pleased; why had Cumberland chosen now to assault her honor?

  “She gave him no help, none at all?”

  Dark curls swished from side to side as Alicia shook her head. “No, none. She seemed mortified, as if she’d have preferred staying home to being seen in the man’s company. Do you think she might not attend the Kringles’ ball on Christmas Eve? I mean, if her alternative is—” Her words died away and her lower lip vanished beneath an edge of white teeth.