“I would rather hear how you were privy to a discussion taking place twelve, even fifteen feet away from you. The card room was buzzing, the orchestra sawing away, and you could not have heard us.”
“I didn’t hear you. Eat something, Mr. Portmaine, or people will suspect we’re quarreling.” She served up a section of orange, along with a saucy, naughty smile.
He whipped off his gloves and set them down next to hers. “Thank you.” His mind raced over dire possibilities as he took a bite of the orange. Nobody had overheard them—nobody. He’d been sure of it.
“I do not hear well,” Miss James said.
He paused mid-chew. “I beg your pardon?”
“I do not hear well.” She looked right at him and spoke slowly, as if he didn’t hear well.
“I’m sorry to—” Hear that. He accepted another section of orange from her. “That’s too bad, though given what goes on in the typical Mayfair ballroom, you might consider yourself lucky.”
“You’re an idiot if you think deafness is a blessing.” Her voice was a low hiss, making it plain the subject was sensitive. Archer liked that the momentum of the conversation was in his hands; he did not at all like that she was upset.
“Tell me.”
She passed him some ham rolled up around a nibble of pineapple, suggesting the lady shared Archer’s penchant for fresh fruit. “Tell you what?”
“Tell me what it’s like when your hearing troubles you.”
She hadn’t expected that question—her expression was positively flummoxed. He chewed the tidbit and realized on the two occasions when he’d had substantial conversations with her, she’d chosen quiet locations.
“Hearing trouble is a constant frustration,” she said, holding up another bite of ham. “If you’re blind, people will help you. They can close their eyes and get a taste of what you deal with. It scares them, but they know it isn’t catching. If you’re deaf…”
She trailed off, staring at the food in her fingers. Archer plucked it from her grasp and held it to her lips. “Eat, Miss James. If you’re to interrogate me properly, you must keep up your strength. You were telling me what it’s like to be deaf.”
She nibbled the food from his fingers, a delectable, delicate sensation with erotic overtones Archer suspected Miss James was oblivious to.
“If you are deaf,” she said slowly, “people think you’re stupid. They shout at you—you can see when a voice is raised at you—they use little words and use them loudly. They give up trying to speak with you, and don’t think to write down their words instead. You let them give up, because the shouting causes others to stare, and the pity is worse even than the disgust.”
Archer had an image of an intelligent young woman bombarded with shouting she couldn’t hear, and jeering glances she couldn’t avoid. “I’m sorry, Miss James.” To underscore the sincerity of his sentiment, he reached across the table and wrapped her bare fingers in his own. “I’m sorry it hurt.”
“Everybody has hurts and burdens.” She said this wearily, like an aphorism passed down from exhausted, burdened mother to exhausted, burdened daughter.
“We do. Lady Braithwaite was my burden for a few moments. My thanks for waving off his lordship.”
Miss James brightened. “I considered letting him have at you, then I recalled His Grace’s comments.”
Drat the damned luck. Morgan James’s interest in a very private conversation could well be that of a woman plotting mischief against the Crown.
“How and why were you privy to that comment?” Archer still grasped her wrist, and she made no move to withdraw. Either she had the steady composure and regular pulse of a practiced spy, or she had nothing about which to be anxious.
“I saw what His Grace said. He is well known to me, so I can make out most of his words. I could not follow you as easily.”
“You saw what he said?”
“Watch my mouth.” She sat back and slipped her hand from his grasp. “How are you, Mr. Portmaine?” She did not speak audibly, and yet he knew what words she’d formed.
“I’m well enough for a man who must consider his every private word has not been private at all. The ramifications are… daunting.”
Worse than daunting, considering the safety of the Crown was at stake.
She patted his knuckles. “You needn’t worry. The ability to read lips is hard won and rare, also an imperfect skill. Every person I’ve known who had the ability was deaf. In my case, I manage much better with people I know, like His Grace.”
“What did you see him say?” Archer held out a slender hope that the lady might be able to see others’ speech, but that her recall would be significantly imperfect.
She knit her brows. “He mentioned relying on the Frogs for intelligence, said the Crown was worried—very worried. He offered to support you in a bid for a pocket borough and suggested you resort to flirting and courting. I could not see the entire exchange, because he raised his glass twice and obscured my view of his mouth.”
“And what of my words, Miss James?”
“Your back was to me for much of the conversation. I saw the word perilous though, and when Lady Braithwaite followed you from the room, I thought I’d best go along in case you needed assistance.”
“You went along to protect me?” The notion offended his dignity almost as much as it warmed his heart.
Her chin came up half an inch. “And was successful in this regard.”
“You were. My thanks.” He fed her more ham, mostly to keep her quiet while he tried not to dwell on what might have occurred if Miss James hadn’t come along. When much of the food had been consumed, Archer sat back and indulged in a curiosity lively enough to get him into trouble.
“Tell me more about being deaf.”
Miss James’s mouth quirked, and not with humor. “Deafness isn’t something one often discusses.”
“So you have a rare opportunity to enlighten a curious mind. Was it lonely?”
Her gaze shuttered. She put back the strawberry she’d just picked up.
“Forgive me, Miss James. I did not mean to presume. The line of work I’m in frequently isolates one, particularly when one no longer has a partner.” While she considered her strawberry, he forged on. “I hadn’t made that realization until this very moment. Carrying secrets makes one into a type of mute, I suppose, though nothing like… I’m babbling.”
The smile that rose in her eyes was breathtaking. “You’re also quite correct. I expect any disability leaves one lonely, deafness especially, because it’s so hard to connect your mind and heart to another’s when you dwell in silence.”
She was an emotionally fearless young lady, and perhaps deafness had bequeathed that to her as well. “You are not deaf now.”
The smile died, and Archer grieved its passing.
“A little, I still am, particularly when violent weather changes are in the offing. My physician has warned me my hearing might get worse with age.”
This possibility haunted her. Archer perceived as much by the way she popped the strawberry in her mouth and chewed it to bits. “We all lose ground as we age, and you are far from old, Miss James. May I escort you back to the ballroom?”
“You may not—yet. What were you and His Grace discussing?”
She deserved an answer, but he tried yet again to avoid giving one. “Will you desist with this inquiry if I tell it had to do with the security of the realm?”
The lady managed to contain her amusement, though Archer suspected it was a near thing. “And that interlude with Lady Braithwaite was a matter of delicate diplomacy?”
“That was an occupational hazard.” One he increasingly resented.
“You liken yourself to a chambermaid? Accosted in the course of your duties through no fault of your own?”
She was finding her balance with this exchange, so Archer rose to the spirit of mild antagonism. “What would you know about the vicissitudes of being a chambermaid? You hobnob with dukes and turn down t
he ballroom with their sons—when you aren’t spying on the Regent’s loyal minion.”
“I was not spying on you, Mr. Portmaine, and for your information, I was a chambermaid for three years. I know a great deal more about presuming footmen, unscrupulous gentlemen, and having to defend my virtue on the back stairs than you could possibly comprehend.”
Miss Morgan James, favorite of the Windhams, friend to their virtuoso, and potential disaster to Archer’s objectives, blinked and looked around her as if someone else had spoken.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Portmaine. That is a disclosure I’ve not made in Polite circles since before my come-out.”
Every woman who’d ever captured Archer’s heart had been in service. This explained his attraction to her, or explained part of it, and put to rest any notion he had of disentangling himself from this extraordinary lady in the next half hour.
“You will explain yourself nonetheless, and—if I might presume on both your good nature and a family connection—I would be most pleased if you called me Archer when you did.”
***
“You should expect a visit from me at your town house tomorrow, Your Grace.”
Moreland paused on the steps of a gentlemen’s club to which he’d probably belonged since adolescence, one Archer was unlikely to ever see the inside of. To appearances, they were striking up a casual conversation between passing acquaintances, nothing more.
“Is that wise, Portmaine? To fraternize openly when such delicate matters are in train? It’s one thing to cross paths in the social crush, but a morning call to my home?”
“I will not be fraternizing with you, Your Grace. I heeded your advice the other night and undertook some flirting.”
Except it hadn’t been flirting. Talking with Morgan James had been… delightful.
“Flirting? With one of my ladies?” The old fellow looked torn between curiosity and surprise.
“I would not reach so far above myself, not that your daughters aren’t lovely women.”
Moreland tipped his hat to a trio of dowagers waving from a passing landau. “My daughters are lovely handfuls, every one of ’em.”
“And you are as proud of this as if it were exclusively the result of your paternity.” Which it well might be.
Moreland positively preened. “Before all save my duchess, I maintain that the girls take after their papa. Her Grace can take credit for the boys, but the girls are my treasures. If you’re not calling on me, and you’re not calling on an unmarried daughter of the house, then what business have you bestowing your presence on us?”
“I’ll be taking Miss Morgan James driving, weather permitting.”
His Grace gave the pink rose on Archer’s lapel a nudge. “Morgan’s brother was an earl, and her sister is married to my heir, Portmaine. Some would say Morgan is entitled to be called lady, the same as my girls are.”
Morgan apparently was not so inclined. “Are you warning me off, Your Grace?”
“Perhaps I am.”
The reply hurt a bit, but it did not surprise—nor did it deter Archer in the least. “I did not take Your Grace for a snob.”
“I am an aristocrat, though others will consider me a snob.” Rather than proceed into the building, His Grace gestured toward the fenced square across the street. “My duchess requires certain standards of me, and I am her slave in all things. Let’s enjoy a pretty day a while longer, shall we?”
In other words, there was more to be said, provided they had privacy.
Archer crossed the street with His Grace, and when they’d passed through the wrought iron fence encircling the wooded square, he waited for the older man to explain himself.
“Morgan is a pretty little thing,” His Grace observed mildly.
“What has that to do with anything?”
“In the opinion of some men, a great deal.”
Archer felt an urge to kick something—something resembling a duke. “Beautiful women are a deal of work, Your Grace, in the typical case. My tastes run to ladies with backbone, a good sense of humor, and a lively mind.” A lusty nature was an asset Archer was not about to mention to an “aristocratic” duke.
“Pragmatic of you. Many thought my duchess was plain, though none regarded her as such by our wedding day.”
The duke was a canny old veteran of more parliamentary plots and skirmishes than Archer could count, and he was circling around to something now. Rather than try to draw the old boy out, Archer ambled along in silence.
“Morgan is dear to my family, Portmaine. Very dear. The boys would fight duels for her, the girls gather for hours over the teapot when she’s with us. She is an aunt to my oldest grandson.”
Archer understood that in His Grace’s order of precedence, an aunt to his grandson stood only slightly lower than the angels and well above any pettifogging old archbishops.
“Your Grace, I mean no disrespect when I say, for all your family dotes on her, Miss James is lonely. She has few friends outside of your family circle and regards the young men slobbering at her heels as so many nuisances. The social Season is a trial for her, and if you had any understanding of her at all, you’d realize a noisy, dimly lit ballroom is torture for her.”
His Grace used his walking stick to whisk a cluster of dead leaves from their path. “Why is a ballroom, of all places, torture?”
“She can’t hear, Your Grace. With all the background noise, the chatter, the orchestra, the stomping of the dancers’ feet, she can’t hear well at all. In the dim lighting, she has a hard time reading people’s lips, and so she must always have vague, pretty replies on hand, though she knows half the time they aren’t spot on.”
His Grace’s expression turned thoughtful. “If she is so uncomfortable, then why does she attend?”
“She attends because she doesn’t want anyone to think she’s ungrateful, and please don’t ask me any more questions, because I’ve come as close as I dare to betraying her confidences.”
Which was perhaps understandable, when a man had more practice dealing in secrets than confidences.
His Grace paused to spear Archer with a glower. “You also come close to being insubordinate, young man, though if you’re going to risk such a thing, the interests of a young lady are as good a justification as any.”
While they resumed walking, Archer decided he’d just been scolded—and forgiven—in short order.
“Take Morgan driving, then, but keep a sharp eye out.”
“I always keep a sharp eye out.”
“No, my dear young man, you do not. Sometimes you sit for almost two hours among the ferns and portraits with a pretty young lady who is known to avoid lengthy conversations, and you do it in such a location that anybody might remark upon it.”
“What is Your Grace implying?” And who else had seen Archer whiling away an evening with Miss James?
“Your line of work has become dangerous, Portmaine. You need not fear much from the wives whose husbands hire you to catch the ladies at their folly, but you’ve been drawn into a game where you will make enemies. Your present task is to do nothing less than save the Regent’s life. The caliber of foe you’re facing is commensurate with that task, and so is the danger.”
His Grace sounded more like a general now than a duke, a general with a lot of battlefield experience. “You are saying any lady with whom I’m seen to associate might be in danger as well?”
“I’m suggesting it. Morgan is well dowered, attached to a prominent family, and well known in Polite Society. She’d make a fine victim of a kidnapping, wouldn’t she?”
His Grace paused to sniff an odd, blooming spray of honeysuckle, such was his sangfroid when discussing plots on the sovereign’s life.
One didn’t argue with dukes, though one might ask a question. “And absconding with Miss James would threaten the Regent’s life, how?”
The duke spoke gently. “Kidnapping Morgan James would sure as hell distract the only person close to discovering the details of this damned plot
, wouldn’t it?”
His Grace wasn’t wrong. The duke’s fear was far-fetched to the point of paranoia, but it wasn’t completely wrong.
“Take her driving,” His Grace said, resuming their walk. “Just don’t favor her. Flirt with every debutante the hostesses let you get near, leer down a few of the matrons’ bodices. Take some other young lady out for the church parade this weekend. You know how the game is played.”
“I do.” Goddamn it all to hell, Archer did know how the game was played.
The duke departed, strolling briskly across the green and leaving Archer to address the surrounding maples. “I know how the damned game is played, and I’m getting bloody sick of playing it.”
***
“By now, I should know better than to get involved in such a stupid game.” Morgan stroked her hand over an enormous, smoky-gray, long-haired cat, more to quiet her nerves than to please the beast. “I felt like an idiot. It’s one thing to be unable to hear or speak, but that dratted man treated me as if I were invisible.”
Aquinas began to rumble with contentment on her lap.
“He expects me to call him Archer, and then he flirts with every girl, lady, and woman—he was smiling at the governesses and dairymaids, too—in the park. I do not understand it, Aquinas. He’s no better than you.”
“For a moment there, I thought I had a genuine rival.”
Shock and pleasure coursed through Morgan—quickly followed by pique—at the sound of the male voice behind her. Here in the privacy of her bedroom, it seemed as if…
“Greetings, Miss James, from the scoundrel who made such a poor showing in the park earlier today.”
She picked up the cat and rose to see Archer Portmaine standing just inside her balcony doors—wet, unsmiling, and as starkly handsome as ever.
“You will please leave, Mr. Portmaine.” She could pitch the cat at him if she had to, and that would feel good, though such an impulse would likely put Aquinas out of charity with her permanently.
“I owe you an explanation, and if you don’t mind, I’d prefer not to shout it up to you from the garden.” Gone was the flirting idiot who’d taken her driving, and in his place was a grim, damp, unhappy man.
Morgan and Archer: A Novella Page 3
