by Brenda Hiatt
"Of course," Lady Claridge said blandly. "And pray rest assured that I will not demand the same standard of behavior from Miss Peverill that I expect from my own daughter. I am prepared to make allowances for her upbringing."
"Too kind," murmured the Captain uncertainly, but Quinn seethed at the insult, which was directed as much at her parents as herself —and particularly at her mother.
The Marquess attempted to smooth over the awkwardness of the moment. "Now, my dear, I'm certain Quinn is fully versed in the proprieties and will fit in here famously."
Quinn took leave to doubt that very much. Judging by her pinched expression, that was one matter on which she and Lady Claridge were in complete agreement. Not trusting herself to speak civilly, Quinn remained silent, listening with resignation when the Marquess ordered their trunks carried up to their chambers.
"Now I'm certain you will both wish to settle in," Lord Claridge declared once the last of their possessions had been transferred. "William here will show you to your rooms. It will be famous having you here. Simply famous!"
As they mounted the stairs, Quinn wished she could share even a modicum of her uncle's enthusiasm. "Father, must we?" she asked once the footman left them in the upper hallway.
"Pish, tush, Quinnling, it will be perfect! Lady Claridge is a bit off-putting now, but she'll warm to you in no time, just as everyone does. Don't you be nervous about it."
His use of her old nickname mollified her only slightly. "I'm not nervous, precisely, but I begin to think I've experienced quite as much of England as I care to."
"Now, then." He patted her shoulder awkwardly. "You've barely seen anything of London yet, much less England. It's a change from home, I'll give you that, but everything is bound to be fair sailing from here on out."
Quinn opened the door to her new bedchamber —more elegant than any she had ever occupied —and sighed. She hoped her father was right, but felt the odds were against it.
* * *
The Trumball house was one of the grandest Quinn had yet seen in London —even more impressive than the Claridge house, and certainly finer than that gentleman's house yesterday. Looking around at the flowers and greenery decorating the large reception hall, she idly wondered whether that gentleman were married.
Not that it concerned her in any way, of course. Should she see him again, she had determined that she would pretend not to recognize him. That would spare them both embarrassment —something he would surely desire, with his obvious concern for propriety.
Still, it might be amusing to see his expression if he spotted her dressed like this. She glanced down at her new jonquil satin gown, embroidered with tiny green leaves. It was quite flattering—and a far cry from the breeches and shirt she'd worn yesterday. She was pulled from her musing by the sound of Lord Claridge introducing her to their hosts.
". . . and this is my niece, Miss Quinn Peverill."
Her mother had instructed her at a young age in all of the social forms, so she was able to drop a curtsey of the proper depth to Viscount and Lady Trumball, conscious of Lady Claridge's critical eye. "I am honored, my lord, my lady. So kind of you to welcome us, newcomers to Town as we are."
"I am delighted that you were able to attend, my dear," replied Lady Trumball. "Town is so thin of company at this season, I nearly despaired of having enough people in attendance to make my little party worthwhile."
Quinn murmured something about the lady's hospitality and followed the Claridge party into the hall. "This is a 'little party'?" she whispered to her father. "There must be close to a hundred people present!"
"I told you London Society operated on a larger scale than that of Baltimore, didn't I?" he responded.
Sensing a reference back to yesterday's lecture on her behavior, Quinn dropped the subject. She was about to comment on the music, provided by a small orchestra in one corner, when a green-turbaned matron who seemed vaguely familiar accosted them.
"Captain Peverill, as I live and breathe!" she exclaimed. "I was so delighted when I heard you were come to Town. I declare, it's been an age! Never say this is little Quinn?"
The Captain bowed. "I am delighted to see you, Mrs. Kennard. Is Captain Kennard here this evening?"
"He is indeed, and will love to talk over dull nautical topics with you, I doubt not. Come, he can make you known to some of the other naval captains, as well." She paused to pinch Quinn's cheek, which she bore stoically, now recalling a visit this woman had paid them in Baltimore six or seven years ago.
"I declare, you were but a child when I saw you last. You've become quite the little lady."
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you," responded Quinn with a mechanical smile. Not until the woman turned away did she surreptitiously rub her assaulted cheek.
Her father had not motioned her to follow, so she remained where she was, having no desire for more of Mrs. Kennard's reminiscing. The Claridges had already moved on, so she found herself momentarily alone.
Though it was no doubt improper to stand about unchaperoned, Quinn welcomed the chance to take stock of her surroundings. She watched the shifting throng with interest, the ladies like butterflies in their summer gowns and the gentlemen providing a sober counterpoint in black, brown, or dark blue.
One more brightly clad gentleman caught her eye, not only for his lilac waistcoat, but because he rather reminded her of the man who had plucked her off the streets yesterday, though he was not so handsome. A relation, perhaps?
Glancing around just then, he caught her watching him and came toward her with a smile. "I know it's not at all the thing for me to speak to you without an introduction, but you seem rather at a loss, Miss—?"
"Peverill," she replied, touched by his kindness. "Quinn Peverill."
He swept her a bow. "Lord Peter Northrup, at your service. Quinn Peverill, eh? An unusual name, but familiar somehow. New to Town, are you?"
"Yes, we arrived just a few days ago. My father is Captain Palmer Peverill, out of Baltimore," she offered helpfully. "He's over there." She motioned toward a group of half a dozen gentlemen engaged in spirited conversation.
Lord Peter's brow furrowed for a moment, then cleared. "Ah! Now I have it. Your mother would be Lady Glynna Throckwaite, daughter to Lady Adela Quinn and the late Lord Claridge. That makes you niece to the current Marquess, does it not? I see the Claridges over there. Shall I restore you to them?"
"No, I thank you," Quinn said, amazed at his knowledge of her family history. "That is, I . . . I will rejoin them presently." Her aunt would doubtless make another nasty comment about her upbringing if a gentlemen to whom she had not been properly introduced were to escort her across the room.
"Certainly, certainly," he said, clearly perceiving her reluctance. "Meanwhile, there are others here who would be delighted to make your acquaintance, I'm sure. My brother Marcus, for one, as well as various of the younger ladies attending. London is a dull place without friends."
He extended an arm, and she gingerly took it, torn between gratitude and embarrassment. Did she appear a charity case, or did Lord Peter simply have a penchant for helping ladies in perceived distress?
"Marcus, ladies, I'd like to present Miss Quinn Peverill, but recently arrived in England. Miss Peverill, my brother, Lord Marcus Northrup." He went on to name the three ladies standing there, but Quinn barely heard him.
Instead she stared, speechless, at her sanctimonious "rescuer" from the day before.
* * *
Marcus turned with a smile at his brother's words, only to pause in astonishment upon facing again the pretty young hoyden he had plucked off the streets only yesterday. Quickly schooling his features, he bowed, hoping no one had noticed his hesitation.
"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Peverill." He tried to keep any trace of mockery from his voice, but the amusement in her eyes told him he did not succeed. He hoped the silly chit would not refer to their unorthodox meeting.
She did not. "Lord Marcus," she said coolly, inclining her he
ad quite properly, though her eyes now sparkled with mischief. She then turned to greet the others in his group. Miss Chalmers asked her about life in America, giving him a chance to rein in the conflicting emotions that assailed him at the sight of her.
After spending much of last evening puzzling about her, he had decided she must be the daughter of some American merchant —well-to-do, perhaps, but beyond the social pale. Clearly, he had guessed wrong if she was at a gathering like this one.
What startled him even more was the flash of pleasure he'd felt on facing her again. She was comely enough, to be sure, especially dressed as she was tonight, but far too young for his taste and clearly deficient in manners, judging by their encounter yesterday and her evident lack of remorse.
"So you have no Indian savages living near you?" Miss Chalmers was asking her, in evident disappointment.
"No, Baltimore is hardly a wilderness, but one of America's major port cities," Miss Peverill replied. "Far smaller than London, of course, but more than twenty thousand people live there, all told."
"Goodness! I had no idea," exclaimed Miss Chalmers. The other ladies agreed, and continued to pelt her with questions.
"You seem rather struck by Miss Peverill," Peter murmured to Marcus while the ladies were thus engaged. "A taking little thing, I admit, and with impeccable connections on her mother's side."
Marcus frowned, then belatedly attempted to look bored. "Oh?"
Peter nodded. "Granddaughter to the fourth Lord Claridge and cousin to the beauteous Lady Constance."
Though surprised, Marcus merely said, "A new face is always a novelty, of course, especially so late in the Season. But that can scarcely compensate for a lack of sensibility."
Peter blinked at him. "You find Miss Peverill lacking in sensibility? In what way?"
But Marcus had no intention of relating yesterday's events to his brother. Miss Peverill's reputation didn't concern him unduly, as she had been clearly in the wrong, but he preferred not to explain his encounter with the street urchins —or his plans to help them, to which Peter would certainly object.
"American girls have always struck me as rather hoydenish," he finally responded. "I doubt Miss Peverill is any different. It comes of being raised without regard for the proprieties our English ladies take for granted."
He realized belatedly that he had spoken a shade too loudly, and that the conversation of the ladies had ceased. A quick glance showed that Miss Peverill, at least, had heard him. Her unusual green-gold eyes flashed with resentment, though she said nothing. Hastily, he turned back to Peter, who was now frowning.
"There certainly seems to be one person present with an incomplete grasp of the proprieties," Peter said severely, and at the same volume, that Miss Peverill might hear his rebuke.
Then he lowered his voice. "You're a fine one to preach propriety, in any event, Marcus. I'd like to think this indicates a desire to mend your ways, but I suspect it is merely evidence of the hypocrisy all too common to rakes and wastrels."
Peter moved away then to greet some other acquaintances, and Marcus was just as glad to see him go. He was no schoolboy, to be scolded by his older brothers for his shortcomings.
His relief was short-lived, however, for across the room he spotted Lady Mountheath and one of the other matrons who had seen Miss Peverill leaving his house yesterday. Would they recognize her in her current guise? Surely not.
Still, he cudgeled his brain for a plausible explanation for her presence there, just in case. Nothing came to mind.
"Lord Marcus, did not you say that you intended to visit the Americas someday?" Miss Augusta Melks asked then, drawing him into the ladies' renewed conversation. Clearly, she had not heard him earlier. "You must hear what Miss Peverill says of it!"
"Yes, I suppose I must," he replied, trying to appear both polite and disinterested at once. "Baltimore, you were saying, Miss Peverill? That is in Maryland, is it not?"
She nodded, regarding him warily. No doubt she feared he meant to reveal her foolish escapade, after his earlier comment. "Yes, just north of Washington —you know, the city the English tried to burn down a few years ago," she added with a raised brow. "There is much worth seeing in that part of the world, as I have been telling the others."
"So I have heard," he replied, trying to reassure her with his smile. He thought she relaxed marginally, though her eyes were still unforgiving. Then, looking past him, she stiffened again.
"I see you are making friends, Quinn," came a booming voice from behind Marcus. "Excellent! Excellent!"
Turning, he found the voice to belong to a tall, broad-shouldered, older man whose weathered face bespoke years at sea. Though impeccably dressed, he seemed out of place at such a tame gathering, like an eagle in a cage full of canaries.
"Papa, let me introduce you to my new acquaintances." Marcus thought Miss Peverill spoke hastily, as though to prevent her father making further comments. "Miss Chalmers, Miss Melks, and Miss Augusta Melks. And Lord Marcus Northrup," she added, almost as an afterthought. "My father, Captain Peverill."
Marcus looked sharply at her, wondering if the almost-insult had been deliberate, but she returned his glance blandly.
"Charmed, ladies," responded the Captain with a sweeping bow that set them all simpering. Then he turned to Marcus. "Northrup. That would make you a connection of the Duke of Marland, would it not, my lord?"
"Yes, sir. The Duke is my father."
Captain Peverill's brows rose, and he shot a quick grin at his daughter. "Then I am particularly pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord. I trust my daughter has been behaving herself?"
Marcus blinked. Had she told him about—?
But Miss Peverill's anguished whisper of "Papa!" implied she had not. However, yesterday's escapade was apparently in character, for her father to ask such a question.
"Perfectly, sir," he felt obliged to say. The grateful glance the girl shot him was further evidence her father did not know.
Marcus couldn't help questioning Captain Peverill's fitness as a parent. Surely he had allowed his daughter's release from the schoolroom at far too young an age. She could not be more than sixteen or seventeen, which explained her impulsiveness and lack of judgement. What was the Captain's excuse?
Before he could wonder why any of this should matter to him, a voice he had been particularly dreading broke into the conversation.
"My dear Lord Marcus," exclaimed Lady Mountheath, fairly oozing insincere affability. Her substantial form swathed in amethyst silk, she inserted herself into their growing circle as though by right. "What a delight to see you again so soon."
His heart sank at this oblique reference to the day before, but he merely smiled and bowed. "A pleasure indeed, my lady." Unable to think of any way to politely avoid it, he reluctantly turned to make introductions. "Lady Mountheath, let me present to you two newcomers to London, Captain and Miss Peverill."
She returned the Captain's bow with a regal inclination of her head, then turned to his daughter, only to give an exaggerated start of obviously feigned surprise. As Marcus had feared, this had clearly been her purpose in joining them.
"Why, Miss Peverill!" she exclaimed. "I had hoped I was mistaken, but I see now that I was not. I confess myself amazed that you have the courage to show your face at a respectable gathering such as this one."
A murmur of protests broke out among the ladies at the blatant insult, and Captain Peverill's heavy brows drew down ominously. "I beg your pardon, my lady! What can you mean, to speak to my daughter like that?"
Lady Mountheath turned pitying eyes upon him, though her mouth twitched with triumph. Marcus stood rooted to the spot, wishing he were anywhere else.
"My dear sir, I regret to inform you that your daughter has so far overstepped the bounds of propriety as to . . ."
She hesitated, as though reluctant to continue, though Marcus knew it was merely for dramatic effect.
". . . to visit a gentleman's residence alone, without so much
as a maid in attendance. I saw her leaving his house myself."
A collective gasp greeted her words, and the Captain's frown was now turned on his daughter.
Compelled to do something, Marcus spoke, even though he had no idea what he was going to say. "There is a perfectly reasonable explanation, my lady," he began. "You see, the truth is that Miss Peverill —that she and I—"
"Are betrothed," finished Captain Peverill smoothly.
Marcus gaped, as did Miss Peverill.
"Betrothed?" Lady Mountheath looked extremely skeptical.
The Captain nodded vigorously. "We intended to wait to make the announcement until her brother in Baltimore could be informed, but given the impetuosity of youth, the delay was perhaps unwise."
Lady Mountheath rounded on Marcus. "My lord, is this true?"
From the corner of his eye he could see Miss Peverill shaking her head and mouthing something at him, and while he shared her horror at this turn of events, that mattered not a whit. Squarely meeting Lady Mountheath's eye, Marcus said the only thing he could, in honor, say.
"Of course it is true, my lady. Why else would she have been visiting me yesterday?"
CHAPTER 3
Momentarily speechless from outrage, Quinn found her voice at last. "Betrothed!" The word came out as a strangled whisper. Before she could say anything further —or more audibly —her father seized her arm in a iron grip that was unexpected enough to startle her back to silence.
"Yes, we are all delighted," he said rather too loudly. "It was a bit sudden, of course, but you know how these things go with young people. Love at first sight and all that."
"But—" Her father's grip tightened to the point of pain, and she stopped again to stare at him, tears starting to her eyes. He had never hurt her before in her life. What—?
He met her look with one that held both a warning and a plea —but it was the plea that finally penetrated. Swallowing, she turned to look at Lord Marcus, but his face seemed chiseled in stone, completely expressionless. Finally, she faced Lady Mountheath with the brightest smile she could muster.
