A View to a Kiss

by Caroline Linden

  They walked for over an hour, cheerfully greeting every gentleman they passed. Mariah smiled and chatted with all of them, listening carefully to every word they said. Some she had met the other night at her parents’ ball, and some knew Joan, who couldn’t keep from offering her thoughts on each gentleman as soon as he had gone on his way.

  “He’s a terrible rake, you know,” she would whisper. “Douglas says he’s gambled himself to ruin!” Douglas was Joan’s older brother. Mariah could only laugh and whisper back that Douglas knew a great many scandalous gentlemen. They even met Douglas himself at one point, and he introduced them to some of his friends, all of whom were deliciously wicked in Joan’s opinion. But otherwise they had no luck, and Mariah was beginning to grow discouraged when they reached the path around the lake.

  There they met Sir George Bellamy, a friend of Mariah’s father, who looked as pleased as punch to see them. “Good morning, young ladies, good morning,” he cried. The five dogs he was holding all began barking loudly at them. “Hush, there, hush, I say,” he said to the dogs. “Just some girls, don’t you know. They’re always on the lookout for a squirrel, or even better, a skunk,” he confided to them. Joan choked and began coughing into her handkerchief, but Mariah, accustomed to Sir George, smiled politely.

  “I hope we are neither,” she said.

  Sir George blinked at her, then cackled with laughter. “No, no, no, not at all! And never say I said so.” Something caught the dogs’ attention, and as a pack they swerved to the left, barking and baying at the shrubbery nearby. Joan’s fingers dug into Mariah’s arm as Sir George tried to haul them back out of the bushes.

  “Mariah,” Joan murmured, her voice rising in excitement. “Look.”

  Mariah had already seen him. He was standing farther down the path with some other gentlemen, just about the right height, with casually tousled dark hair and a very charming smile. She stared hard, wishing he would turn his head so she could see his profile. Could it possibly be? He was handsome, that was undeniable; not as she had pictured Harry, but she’d already told herself not to put any credence in the way she thought he looked.

  He saw them then. She could see the interest spring into his eyes. A pleased smile crossed his face. Her heart jumped. He looked happy to see her; Harry would know her by sight, wouldn’t he? He said something to his companions, his gaze drifting back to her. As eager as she had been to find him, Mariah found herself suddenly unprepared. She wet her dry lips and gulped in a deep breath. He was heading their way. Her stomach had stopped fluttering and twisted itself into a hard knot. She realized she had stopped dead in the middle of the path and was squeezing Joan’s hand in a vicious grip. Joan didn’t seem to notice.

  “Good heavens, such a handsome man,” her cousin was saying. “And he seems to know you! Mariah, he’s coming directly to us! He even ignored Lord Tilburton’s greeting. What shall you say to him? How shall we get an introduction? Good heavens, how on earth have I never met him in two entire seasons in London?”

  “Joan,” Mariah said in an unsteady voice. “Be quiet.”

  “If you want me to walk about with Janet,” Joan managed to say as he approached them, “squeeze my hand twice.”

  And then he was there. She tipped back her head to see him. Up close, he looked even less as she had imagined Harry, but his attention was fixed on her in a very flattering way. For a second they just looked at each other. Perhaps this was the moment, Mariah thought dazedly, that she would tell her children of, years from now: When I first met your father…

  Fortunately, Sir George was still at hand or there would have been a brutally awkward moment. “Ah, another young man wanting an introduction, I’ll wager!” he boomed cheerfully as he dragged his pack of dogs over. “Like bees to the lilies, these young men,” he teased Mariah. She tried to pretend she hadn’t heard him while her heart pounded, her palms grew damp, and her smile felt about a foot wide. “Lady Mariah, Miss Bennet, may I present to you Mr. Tobias Crane, nephew to Viscount Crane,” said Sir George. “Mr. Crane, Lady Mariah Dunmore and Miss Joan Bennet.”

  Tobias? thought Mariah in confusion. Who would call someone named Tobias Harry?

  “Miss Bennet. Lady Mariah.” The gentleman bowed. Although he spoke to both, his eyes remained on Mariah, filled with admiration. “What a very great pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  No. No, it was not Harry. For a moment the disappointment was crushing.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Joan when Mariah couldn’t make a sound. “How kind of you to say so.”

  He glanced at Joan, still beaming. “It is not a kindness at all, when it is the plain truth.” He turned to Mariah again. “And it is a lovely day for a stroll in the park. When it is nice out, I always try to walk outdoors.”

  “One can go so much farther than walking indoors,” trilled Joan, who seemed to understand Mariah’s problem at once. “Tell me, Mr. Crane, do you prefer London or the countryside for your walks? I adore London, but one must simply go round and round in circles in a park to get a good long walk, whereas in the country, one could walk all the way to Wales.”

  “Er…yes.” He looked sideways at Joan, then back at Mariah. “I prefer London as well. But outdoors, as much as possible.” He paused. “I like parks.”

  “Then we mustn’t detain you from your walk,” said Mariah, finally finding her tongue again. “We are bound for home.”

  “Of course!” He paused again, as if thinking over his words. “Might I have the honor of escorting you there?”

  “No!” Joan squeezed her hand in warning at her sharp tone, and Mariah gave herself a mental shake. “Thank you, but we are only a short distance away.” She smiled as sweetly as she could manage and bobbed a curtsey. He looked positively dumbstruck, his jaw sagging open. “Good day, sir. Good day, Sir George.” She turned on her heel, as Mr. Crane swept a grand bow, and started for home.

  Mariah began to recover herself as she walked. That had been a setback, no doubt. It was her own fault; she should have made sure of matters before she started staring at him like a half-wit. What did it matter if she hadn’t met the elusive Harry yet? She’d only been looking one day, barely an hour. The battle was not over, and she was not about to surrender. She must be more circumspect in the future, though. She didn’t want to let her hopes rise and then be crushed like that again.

  “Well,” Joan said through her laughter when they were safely away from Mr. Crane. “You’ve made another conquest! Not Harry, I assume, but still a handsome fellow. No doubt he would have told you so himself if given enough time.”

  “Nonsense.” Mariah kept up a steady, brisk pace. “Besides, he didn’t look at all the way I expected Harry to look.”

  “No, indeed not,” said Joan gravely. “You’ve never seen his face, of course, but when you see him, you’ll know him at once.”

  Mariah stopped. “Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t expect to know him at sight. I already told you I must speak to him to have any chance of identifying him. But there is something in his voice, something in his manner…I do feel I should be able to make a good guess if a stranger might be Harry.”

  Joan cocked her head. “And of course he’ll look like a handsome, charming, intelligent gentleman. Mariah, what if he is not handsome?”

  She pushed away that thought. “I’m not so shallow as that. I could like a plain gentleman as well as a handsome one.”

  “What if he is not even plain, but ugly? What if he is maimed or scarred or otherwise ill-favored? What if that’s the reason he doesn’t want you to see his face? Would you still patrol the whole park looking for your beastly suitor?”

  Mariah opened her mouth, then closed it without a word. She started walking again, not waiting for her cousin. How could Joan think that of her, that she would only be pleased if Harry were handsome? Was that what Joan thought of her? Naturally, her mind had filled in a handsome face to go with his voice. But still…What if he were—she swallowed hard—ugly? It was a terrible thou
ght, all the worse because she didn’t know if Joan mightn’t be right, that her interest in Harry would slip if he did turn out to be beastly.

  “Mariah!” She stopped at Joan’s cry. “Wait!” Her cousin hurried after her, face creased with remorse. “I’m sorry! I should not have said that. I’m sure your Harry is a handsome fellow—how could he not be, when he’s so romantic? I should never have teased you about it.”

  Mariah managed a smile. “It’s all right, Joan. You may be right; he may be a fright. I shall have to worry about that if it’s true. But…” She hesitated, lifting her hands helplessly. “I have to know. Does that make sense? I would rather discover him, and find him hideous, than never know.”

  “Hideous?”

  Mariah bit her lip. “I cannot believe he is, but…even so, Joan, I must find him. It’s not an idle fancy on my part, it’s…Well, it’s something more than that.”

  Joan searched her face for a moment, then the crease between her brows faded. She linked her arm through Mariah’s. “Then we shall find him, even if we have to summon every man in London, handsome or hideous, for an interview in the drawing room. For I want to know, too.”

  Mariah smiled gratefully. “Thank you. It’s ever so much better to have an accomplice.”

  Joan flipped one hand modestly, though she was grinning now. “Of course I couldn’t let you have all the fun! Even if we have to walk around the entire park a hundred times to find him.”

  “No,” she said slowly. “We needn’t do that. I don’t think we’ll meet him in the park.”

  “Why not?”

  She thought again of a man who leaped—climbed—from a balcony when someone approached, who refused to tell her his name, who said he couldn’t come calling during the day but instead scaled the wall into her bedroom at midnight. Would a fellow like that be standing around the park, like Douglas’s scandalous, no-account friends? She was silly not to have realized that sooner. “I just know we won’t.”

  Joan was staring at her. “Then what?”

  Mariah did another survey of the park. She’d been so impatient to find him, but it was too much to think they would succeed so easily. She wouldn’t give up, but needed a better plan. “I don’t know.”

  Chapter 7

  Harry bounded up the stairs of the Fenton Lane house two at a time, pulling off Towne’s jacket. Crane had kept him late annotating drawings of the planned hothouse expansion at Brimstow, and now he had only an hour to dress in Wroth’s costume and get across town to the Avery affair, which the Earl of Doncaster was scheduled to attend.

  Angelique Martand met him at the top of the stairs. She wore a gown of blue satin that appeared to have been sewn on her body, but just barely. With a garish blond wig on her head and her face heavily painted with cosmetics, she looked nothing like a secret British agent and every bit like a cheap courtesan. “Harry,” she said with a smile. “I hoped to meet you tonight.”

  “Oh?” Harry stuffed his spectacles into his waistcoat pocket and began undoing the buttons.

  “I know you are late; I want but a moment.” She didn’t blink an eye as he continued to strip off Towne’s clothing. “Ian says it is wearing on you, being three people.”

  Harry scowled. Angelique’s maid, Lisette, hurried past with a pitcher of water and plucked his discarded clothing from his arms. Harry handed it over without looking away from Angelique. “Ian should mind his own responsibilities and let me mind mine.”

  She sighed. “I am not scolding. I know what you feel, and I know you are not a normal man if it does not tax you.”

  Angelique would know how it felt. Not only was she posing as Mrs. Smythe, private nurse to the Marquis of Bethwell, she went out on the town in this costume almost as often as Harry went out as Lord Wroth. Of course, she had done this for years and was more accustomed to the demands, but Harry was not about to admit he wasn’t up to it. He gave a careless shrug and said nothing as he untied his neck cloth.

  “Do you need a night free?” she went on. “I can pull Alec from his post and send him after Doncaster tonight.”

  “Why? I’m fine, just a bit tired.”

  Her gaze turned sharp and probing. “Ian said he nearly had to throw cold water on you to wake you this morning, and now you will be out past midnight again. I do not wish to push you too hard. I shall tell Alec he must find a way to accompany Doncaster’s carriage in the future. We must have a plan in case you find yourself mortal once more and require a night free.” She said the last with a perfectly straight face, but Harry heard the dry humor in her tone.

  So he just rolled his eyes. More protest was useless; Angelique was the leader of their group, and however much she liked him personally, he knew she would do what was necessary to complete their mission—including report him to Stafford if she even suspected what he’d done the previous night.

  A call from below saved him. Ian had the carriage ready for her. “You’re off to the theater, I presume?”

  She gave him a twinkling smile and held out her arms, turning slightly from side to side and setting her skirts swirling around her. “The opera. Bethwell favors the dancers there. How do I look?”

  She looked like a Covent Garden whore with airs. Harry grinned, knowing there was likely a knife or two inside her low-cut bodice and a pistol under her skirt. “Well worth a few shillings.”

  She laughed, swatting at his shoulder as she moved past him to go downstairs. Harry turned into his room, pulling his shirt over his head and kicking off his shoes. Lisette came in again, laying Wroth’s coat on the bed and pushing a slice of cold meat pie into his hand. To call her a maid was an extreme understatement. Whenever something needed doing, Lisette was usually already doing it, calmly and efficiently. Harry made an indistinct noise of thanks as he bit into the pie, his first bite to eat in hours. With Lisette’s help, he was dressed in record time, and polished off the pie while she rubbed the gray powder into his hair.

  “There, so handsome again,” she said with satisfaction, fluffing up Wroth’s wild mane.

  “Mind your hands, impertinent wench,” he said in Wroth’s creaky voice as he pulled on the padded woolen coat and slumped into it. “Be gentle on my old bones.”

  Lisette, who was old enough to be his mother, snorted with laughter. “Alons, you scoundrel! Off with you. Ian has arranged for a hackney; it should be waiting.”

  Harry took the walking stick she held out and winked at her over Wroth’s half-moon spectacles, then clattered down the stairs. In the hall he slowed, letting her open the door for him like a proper servant before shuffling out into the street to the waiting carriage.

  He kept a close eye on Doncaster that night at the Avery soiree, trying to get a better feel for the man and his habits on a night when he had only the one man to watch. He had to learn to predict the earl’s actions and judge his moods. He had to pay attention to whom the earl spoke with and the manner of their conversation. And he must be ever mindful of his duty and not watch the earl’s daughter as much as he could.

  When the earl and his family left, Harry followed. He hailed a hackney and gave a direction near Doncaster House, alighting quickly and doubling back to see the family reach the safety of their home. Doncaster appeared an attentive father and husband, giving an arm to both his wife and daughter to help them up the steps. Mariah lifted her face to him and laughed, the sound drifting across the street to where Harry lurked in the gloomy night, watching in silence until a footman closed the door behind them.

  Harry let out his breath quietly. He was done, his duty fulfilled for another night. It was not quite midnight, still early. He could get a full night’s sleep for a change, and not fall asleep on his feet tomorrow.

  He took one more searching look up and down the quiet street, then turned and walked into the wispy fog.

  Mariah bade her parents good-night and went to her room in a pensive mood. Lady Avery’s soiree had been entertaining, but not enough to divert her from her thoughts. When Sally had gone, she sat
in bed with her knees drawn up under her chin and frowned at her toes. How was she to discover more about Harry?

  She had hoped against hope that she might meet him again this evening. She had pinned a bright smile on her face and sallied forth at her mother’s side, determined to make the acquaintance of every unfamiliar gentleman in the room. She lingered on the terrace until it began to drizzle, then spent a great deal of time strolling slowly around the ballroom and any halfway private alcove where he might approach her, all to no avail. She danced every dance with a different partner without hearing half of what any said to her. But there was no sign—or sound—of him anywhere.

  Perhaps I imagined him, she thought. A man with no name and no face who only appears in the dead of night. Surely if someone else had told her this story, she wouldn’t believe him real. She sighed and rested her cheek on her knees, turning her gaze toward the window.

  “Good evening,” said the figure sitting on the sill.

  Mariah started so violently she almost toppled to the floor. “You startled me!”

  He dropped to the floor with barely a sound. How could a man his size move so quietly? “I apologize. It seems to be a failing of mine.”

  Mariah took a deep breath to calm her thundering pulse, and then another. Just his voice could make her heart jump, let alone the shock of his appearance out of nowhere at the very moment she was wondering if he mightn’t be a figment of her imagination after all. “You must try to improve yourself in that,” she said, trying to be poised and serene, outwardly at least.

  He laughed. “Must I? Or perhaps, mustn’t we all?”

  “What do you mean?” She sat up straighter and discreetly tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear. She must look a fright with her hair down.

  “You startled me.”

  Her lips parted in surprise. “How on earth—”