Vision in Blue

by Nicole Byrd

  So Gemma pushed aside her guilt and picked up the first of the stack of ledgers, determined to examine carefully every listing of household purchase, every shilling and every penny, until she found some clue that would help them all.

  By the time Louisa had been measured by the mantilla- maker and had selected two delightful hats, although not at the shop where she had encountered Lady Jersey a few days before—she had no wish to meet the formidable countess yet again—even she was ready for a short respite.

  To Miss Pomshack’s obvious relief, Louisa suggested that they go into a tea shop for a cup of tea and a biscuit. While they sipped their tea, Louisa remembered that they had passed a bookseller a few doors back.

  “I think we shall retrace our steps and look into the book shop,” she suggested to her companion.

  “What a good notion,” Miss Pomshack agreed at once. “I overheard a lady in the last shop mention that she was reading a most edifying collection of sermons by Dr. Fulsap, full of morals and precepts, just the kind of volume with which a lady might instruct herself.”

  For a moment, Louisa eyed her companion with positive dislike. She had not had sermons in mind, but a delicious and distracting Gothic novel full of unlikely adventure and thrilling romance, such as was penned by the slightly scandalous Mrs. Radcliffe.

  “However, first I still have to find ribbon in the right shade to suit that new bonnet with the jonquil trim. There is a shop just down the street, which I remember from last season. I don’t suppose you would take my sample and see if you could match it? Then you could meet me at the bookseller?” Louisa asked, her tone sweet.

  “But of course, Miss Crookshank. I am only here to make your life easier, you know.” Miss Pomshack looked genuinely pleased to be able to be of help.

  Louisa felt a moment of guilt for her subterfuge, but she shook it away and dropped her gaze to her tea cup. “Thank you,” she said. “You’re too kind.”

  And Miss P’s errand should allow enough time for Louisa to find a juicy novel before the older lady returned and peered over Louisa’s shoulder, frowning in disapproval at her charge’s selection.

  They finished their tea in perfect harmony. Then, on the walkway outside the tea shop, they parted company briefly. Louisa made her way quickly to the bookseller and entered its door. She was pleased to see stacks of new books, some of them surely novels, arranged on tables near the entrance. She had just picked up the first volume of a handsomely bound set and opened the cover when she heard a distinctive voice just behind her.

  “Oh, you rascal. You should not say such things!”

  “Then who else will say them and make you laugh?”

  The peal of laughter made Louisa wince. Oh, heavens, it was—it had to be—the countess of Jersey. No one else had such a shrill voice and peculiar laugh, and if the male voice belonged to the sardonic lieutenant, who must be hanging on her sleeve again . . .

  Louisa risked a quick glance over her shoulder. Yes, just as she thought. The countess wore green today and long ostrich feathers rose from her turban as she lifted her face, her expression teasing, to her male companion. Louisa’s first impulse was to turn, dip a curtsy, and speak. Her second was to press her lips firmly together—had she not vowed to avoid the countess till Louisa could obtain a proper and more seemly introduction?—and flee before she was seen.

  And she did not even have Miss Pomshack here with her! What would the countess think of Louisa abroad in London all alone? No, no, this would not do.

  Louisa closed the book and put it quietly back upon the stack. Without turning and exposing her face to the other woman or her escort, she pulled her shawl about her shoulders and, as an elderly gentleman held open the door, took advantage of his civility and hastened out onto the pavement.

  Her only thought was to put distance between herself and the bookseller. She walked rapidly past several shop fronts, but, as if Fate were determined to taunt her, Louisa glanced over her shoulder and saw Lady Jersey, with her male companion at her side, emerging from the doorway. And of course, they turned in the same direction as Louisa.

  She would cross the street, Louisa thought wildly, anything to get away unnoticed. She would not look behind her again and risk showing her face, just in case the countess’s erratic memory should recognize her countenance. She was still some distance from a street crossing, but Louisa did not dare wait. She looked hastily up and down for a break in the traffic—being trampled beneath a coach or a team of horses would not aid her desire for anonymity—then she plunged off the walkway.

  And felt her shoe sink deep into a soft, clinging mound.

  Oh, dear Lord. She had not looked down at the street itself, where some passing steed had left its mark—a large, still steaming horse pie. She had stepped squarely into it. Had anyone noticed? She lifted her chin and tried to maintain a dignified expression.

  But she thought a man driving a cart of grain smirked as his wagon rolled past. It was hard to appear dignified with one’s foot in a pile of dung!

  Louisa lifted her skirt and tried to pull her foot out of the odorous mess. She found to her dismay that her foot came away, but the clinging manure had effectively captured her shoe.

  Wavering on her other foot, she almost lost her balance. Swaying, she struggled not to fall. She succeeded, but only at the cost of being forced to step down on her stockinged foot, which now was also stained from the muck of the street. And her shoe was still trapped. She considered reaching down for it, but she was aware of more stares from passers-by. Going by in the other direction, a driver on a wagon full of onions guffawed and pointed. Louisa flushed in mortification.

  Oh, she would never go out alone again! Where was Miss Pomshack when she needed her? In this moment of imminent need, the fact that Louisa had herself sent her companion away seemed immaterial.

  The thud of horses’ hooves alerted her to even deeper danger. Rolling along at a smart pace, a coach and its team approached her position. The coachman was waving his whip at her. “Hie, there! Make way!”

  Gasping, Louisa scrambled back onto the walkway and out of the street, just in time. In her panic, she dropped her shawl into the mud. The wheels of the vehicle ran squarely over the pile of manure, as well as her hapless shoe, squashing it deeper and rendering it now forever lost to her. Her shawl had been ripped as well, in addition to being so fouled that she had no wish to reclaim it. And in one last passing insult, the coach splattered the dung, hitting her skirt and stockings with foul bits of the soft muck.

  Louisa realized she was still holding her skirt several inches higher than it should be, and she hastily let her hem fall back into place, shaking her skirt to try to dislodge the filthy splatters. What else could happen? She was in one piece, but now she was abroad in London’s most fashionable shopping area with a dirty gown, only one shoe and one nastily stained stocking. Oh, Lord, if the gossips got hold of this, she would be the laughingstock of the Ton! So much for her hopes for a successful Season.

  Louisa blinked back tears. Had the countess noticed Louisa’s ridiculous and humiliating plight? She glanced behind her, but Lady Jersey seemed to have disappeared from view. Thank heavens for one small boon, Louisa told herself. But now, what was she to do?

  She seemed to have little choice. She would not—could not—go into a shop in such a condition. And people on the street were still staring. Louisa prayed Miss P would hurry back and could be sent to hail a hackney, which could take them quickly home. If only her carriage were not still awaiting the repair of one of its wheels.

  The moments seemed to stretch into an eternity. Miss Pomshack did not appear; she seemed to be taking her ribbon search all too seriously.

  “May I be of assistance?”

  Louisa stiffened. She knew that deep masculine voice with its faintest suggestion of Scottish burr. If he still had Lady Jersey at his side, she would simply die, here and now, of pure embarrassment.

  But when she dared to look around, she saw the lieutenant, his e
xpression suitably grave, his bright hazel eyes sparkling with repressed laughter, standing on the pavement with no lady at his side.

  She wavered between the urge to lash out at him and an intense need to know where her nemesis had vanished to.

  “Lady Jersey is having a lengthy fitting for a new ball gown,” the irritatingly perceptive man explained. “And you do seem to be in a quandary. I am reminded of the nursery rhyme, one shoe off, one shoe on—”

  “Do not jest!” Louisa snapped. “I did not do it on purpose.”

  “I would never suggest such a thing. But you cannot loiter on the street like this; you are gathering a crowd of gawkers. So the question is, how are we to get you home?”

  “Can you hail a cab for me?” Louisa suggested, hope stirring again. “It is true, people are staring.”

  Lieutenant McGregor looked up and down the street, but no vehicle for hire presented itself. “At this time of day, we may wait for some time before a hackney appears. I fear I have no carriage at hand to offer you. And I do think you need to get off the street and away from the peering crowd.”

  Louisa felt herself in complete agreement with his last statement, but—“How?” she blurted.

  “As it happens, I have rooms on the next street. Perhaps we could make you more presentable—or at least less noticeable—and then you are much less likely to be remarked upon and remembered.”

  “Go to your rooms? Alone with a strange man?” Louisa stared at him in horror at such an improper suggestion.

  He raised his slashing brows. “I make no claim to be a perfect gentleman, but even I have my limits. I would not take advantage of a lady in such dire straits.”

  Was he laughing at her again, or was he serious? The way his eyes twinkled so often, it was hard to tell.

  Louisa swallowed. Only the thought of being an object of gossip and ill-natured laughter would make her consider such a thing.

  While she hesitated, a passing child clutched at its mother’s skirts and said loudly, “Ow, Mum, look at the lady all covered in poo!”

  The woman glanced at Louisa and, frowning in disapproval, pulled her child closer as if to escape contagion.

  Louisa made a decision. “Get me there quickly!”

  He offered her his arm, and she took it, hoping to somehow thus divert attention from her shoeless foot. She hobbled a bit, with one shoe off and one shoe on—she thought of the nursery verse he had quoted with a new loathing—but he kept a firm grip on her elbow and steadied her as they strode quickly along the pavement.

  He guided her past three shops, through a dark alley, which made her shiver, and back onto a more respectable but narrower street.

  Sure enough, his rooms were quickly reached, and Louisa hurried up the cramped staircase to the second landing, then, looking about her with unease, waited while he unlocked his door. By the look of the building, Lieutenant McGregor was not well endowed with funds. If only no one witnessed her illicit visit!

  The front room into which he led her was neat but sparsely furnished. His flat seemed quite empty, and the air was cool.

  Louisa felt awkward again, but he merely gestured to a straight wooden chair. “Sit down, please. And give me your stocking.”

  She had just touched the chair, but now she jerked back to her feet. “What?”

  “I shall wash it out—the smell is rather strong, you know—and we’ll hang it in front of the fire. Your stocking is light of weight; it should dry quickly.”

  Made by Miss Pomshack, it would have been a sensible suggestion. Offered by a man whom she barely knew, while she sat alone and unchaperoned in his rooms, it was almost indecent.

  He waited patiently while Louisa stared at him.

  “Sometimes it is better to be practical than proper, Miss—?”

  “Miss Crookshank, of Bath,” she told him, reluctantly.

  “Miss Crookshank of Bath, you may trust me in this, I promise you.”

  Slowly, she sat down again, but she eyed him with continued suspicion. “Turn your back, if you please.”

  “Ah, yes. I seem to be a bit rusty in the role of proper gentleman.” He wheeled and went to the hearth, moving aside the fire guard and bending to stir the banked coals to try and coax some small amount of heat from the tiny fire.

  While he was safely occupied, his face turned away from her, Louisa pulled up her gown and shift and unrolled her stocking. By the time he turned, she had pushed her skirts back down in a seemly fashion and she held the stained, and, yes, smelly, piece of apparel.

  He reached for it. She bit her lip. She hated to release such a personal item to a man, and a gentleman—more or less—to boot.

  “Surely, your servant—”

  “Is out, I fear.”

  Was more likely nonexistent, Louisa thought. “I could do it myself. It is an imposition to expect you to wash my clothing!”

  “Ah, a modest maidenly sentiment. However, the only water in the flat is in the washbowl in my bedroom. That would be even more improper, I think.”

  Louisa blushed once more. Without further protest, she handed over the stocking and waited as he vanished into an inner room.

  Shivering, she looked about her. The room was strangely impersonal. She saw a few books on a round table next to the only upholstered chair in the room, which was pulled up to the small fire. Otherwise, there was hardly any sign that someone lived here.

  Oh, what was she doing in a man’s rooms? She must be mad!

  Presently, he returned with her damp stocking in hand. He took it to the fireplace and hung it carefully over the brass fireguard.

  “You have no need to sit so far from the fire. The air is cool, and you are trembling, Miss Crookshank.”

  Unable to deny it, Louisa stood. No rug covered the plain wooden floorboards, and they were cold beneath her unclad foot. She crossed to the more comfortable chair and sat, holding herself very erect and striving to look as dignified as a lady with a bare foot could, alone with a strange man.

  He looked at her, and then left the room again, returning soon with a basin holding a few inches of clean water, and a soapy sponge.

  “We must finish the job,” he said. Before she could realize his intent, he knelt and began to wash her foot.

  Louisa shivered. The tepid water rolled over her bare skin, and he held her calf lightly as he sponged away the offending spots left by her stained stocking. A man touching her leg—good heavens, it was the most improper thing she had ever heard of!

  And even more than the chilly air, barely warmed by the minute blaze on the hearth, his touch made her tremble. Yet it was not cold that washed over her, but a strange and unfamiliar warmth. He bent close to her, and he gripped her ankle lightly but firmly. Inside her, a flame jumped much more eagerly than any amid the pitiful fire. She felt stirrings she had not dreamed her body might possess.

  “Th-that is not necessary. I mean, I should not ask you to perform such a personal task,” Louisa stammered as she leaned forward to motion him away.

  He looked up at her, his face only a few inches from hers, and this time, his eyes seemed to mirror the flames. Something leaped between them, something even warmer and more urgent than the dawning spark inside her. She wanted him to move his hand higher, to press his face closer, to touch her lips with—

  Gasping, Louisa lifted her head.

  The lieutenant stood abruptly. “I think that will do. I will bring you a dry cloth.”

  He took the basin away while Louisa struggled to make her expression bland and unrevealing. By the time he returned with a thin strip of towel, she thought she had hidden her unexpected response to his touch, his nearness. And for nothing on earth would she reveal that some part of her still hungered for more.

  She almost snatched it from him, afraid he would dry her foot himself. But he made no move to touch her again, instead lifting the stocking and handing it to her. “I think it is dry enough. We must slip away before anyone sees you in a gentleman’s rooms.”

  The
stocking was, in fact, still damp, but she didn’t care. “Yes, if you please,” she commanded.

  The lieutenant stepped to the window. Glancing to make sure he was watching the street and not her movements, Louisa ran the cloth over her wet foot and then pulled on the stocking so quickly that she pulled a thread. But as she had every intention of burning the thing when she got home, she didn’t care.

  Of course, she still had no shoe. Louisa looked down at her foot and felt an absurd desire to burst into tears.

  “I fear I have no spare lady’s slipper to offer you,” he told her without turning from the window.

  “Of course not.” Louisa tried to calm herself. She could not reveal how disturbing she had found their enforced contact. He surely thought nothing of it.

  “But perhaps we can better disguise its lack,” he said suddenly. He came back and held out his hand.

  She was still so unsettled that it was a moment before she realized that he wanted the strip of cloth back. She handed him the towel and was startled when he ripped it neatly into several lengths.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Something I learned all too well on the battlefields in Europe,” he told her, kneeling again in front of her.

  Before she could protest, he wrapped her foot and ankle into a neat-looking bandage. And was it her imagination, or did he touch her foot and ankle as lightly as possible? Did he sense her distress?

  Despite his care, her body was betraying her yet again. She wanted his touch, wanted to feel the firm warmth of his hand, and she privately lamented the thin stocking that kept his fingers from touching her bare skin. Louisa knew her cheeks were afire; she tried to be calm. He would think her ridiculous. . . .

  He glanced up, and this time, she saw that his eyes did not laugh. Whatever he was feeling, it was not amusement.

  “Are you rich, Miss Crookshank?”

  It was a most inappropriate question, but in the present circumstance, she had no sense of outrage left to spare. “Only a little,” she admitted.

  “Are you betrothed?”

  “Yes.” Louisa thought of Sir Lucas with sudden guilt.