by Allison Lane
“I doubt she means to ignore either of you,” said Elizabeth.
“And she has enough candidates to keep you both busy,” added Randolph. “But count your blessings. Her antics may occasionally make Bedlam seem inviting, but at least she cares for you.”
The reminder dampened everyone’s spirits.
Why had Elizabeth raised the subject of families at her wedding breakfast? It was a depressing topic all around. Poor health had kept Randolph’s family in the country, though they had insisted that he follow tradition by marrying in London. Elizabeth’s father hated her, and her mother wasn’t much better. They had ignored her nuptials, despite Elizabeth’s hope that the occasion might lead to an eventual rapprochement. Her sister had also stayed away, which cut far more deeply. Cecilia had wed Sir Lewis two months ago, but they had promised to be here.
“Pardon, my lord. A letter forwarded from Glendale House.” The butler’s silver tray held a missive directed to Elizabeth.
Sedge exchanged a puzzled glance with Randolph. Her luggage had been transferred that morning, but late-arriving mail did not warrant interrupting a celebration.
“It’s from Cecilia.” Elizabeth scanned the contents and gasped. “He’s—” She swayed as all color drained from her face.
“Has something happened to Lewis?” demanded Randolph, easing her into a chair.
She handed him the letter.
“Good God!” Randolph gestured for wine.
“What is wrong?” Sedge kept his voice low. Elizabeth was clearly in shock.
“Fosdale is dead.”
“Her father?” The news raised intense satisfaction. Sedge had never actively hated anyone before meeting Fosdale, but the man had cruelly tossed Elizabeth out into a raging storm, nearly killing her. And when Cecilia accepted a baronet of modest means instead of forcing Sedge to the altar, Fosdale had tossed her out as well.
“You needn’t whisper,” said Elizabeth. She had regained most of her color. “I was merely surprised.” She shook her head. “But how typical of him. And how appropriate. Refusing to repair the dairy after that last storm killed him.”
“What happened?”
Randolph finished reading. “He was dismissing the dairymaid, blaming her for a decline in cheese production – not that she was at fault, of course; those spring floods decimated the herd.” Disgust filled his voice. “A gust of wind collapsed the building, crushing him. The maid escaped with only a few bruises.”
Poetic justice. Or perhaps divine retribution. Fosdale had been a thorough scoundrel, though Sedge kept the sentiment to himself. Despite the estrangement, the man had been Elizabeth’s father. Shocked eyes belied her composed face. But comforting her was now Randolph’s problem. At least the letter had not arrived before the wedding.
Bidding his friends farewell, he watched Randolph escort Elizabeth upstairs, then encouraged the few remaining guests to leave. The newlyweds would retire to the country in the morning.
Randolph had found a wife who suited him perfectly, Sedge admitted as he headed for his chambers at Albany – he had dismissed his coach on arrival, expecting to remain through dinner, but he liked walking.
In Society’s eyes, Randolph was his oddest friend, for they seemed to have nothing in common beyond growing up on neighboring estates. Randolph was a renowned expert on medieval manuscripts, who cared little for appearance and less for Society. Sedge had replaced Brummell as the quintessential dandy, reveling in gossip and the London Season. Few knew he cared for anything beyond manners and the cut of his coats. Green cubs slavishly copied his style, and even the older bucks looked to him for sartorial leadership.
Yet the bond he shared with Randolph included a plethora of similar interests. Both cared deeply for people, working to better the lives of others. Both kept a close eye on business and estate matters, unwilling to blindly place their fortunes in other hands. And both possessed adventuresome spirits, though expressing them had taken different paths in recent years.
But Sedge kept his serious interests out of the public eye, for Society was suspicious of anyone it could not easily understand. One-word labels were comfortable, imparting the order and structure that made thinking unnecessary. Lady Beatrice was a gossip, feared because she knew everything. Lady Warburton was a hostess, her balls the highlight of any Season. Lord Devereaux was a rake, unprincipled enough that parents kept daughters out of his path. Lord Shelford was a Corinthian, determined to best his own numerous speed records. Lord Sedgewick was a dandy, caring only for clothes and on-dits.
He derived considerable amusement from Society’s antics, much of it rooted in this willful blindness. Few people acknowledged that Lady Warburton was as obsessed with gossip as Lady Beatrice. No one admitted that Devereaux knew as much about horses as Shelford did. And as for himself, not only did people ignore his intelligence, the pleasure he derived from helping others, and even his love of history and literature, but disclosing these interests would actually reduce his credit.
Not everyone adored him, of course. Some even held him in contempt. Like Lord Peter Barnhard, whose vast wealth had failed to dispossess Sedge of the most lavish suite in Albany or of London’s most desirable courtesan. Or young Lord Braxton, who craved wealth and the power to ostracize those he didn’t like. Or any number of sprigs who dreamed of leading fashion rather than following it.
Did any of these aspiring arbiters understand the responsibility attached to the position? Bestowing his favor on the wrong person could expose Society to predation. Yet withholding his favor could harm innocents. Every day he had to assess others, often with little information at his disposal. Questioning his judgment kept him awake more nights than he cared to count.
Perhaps that was why his assumed ennui had become all too real. The shallow concerns of a jaded society now seemed trite rather than diverting. Even wielding his enormous credit to deter greenlings from trouble no longer brought satisfaction.
“Stop that!”
The command cut through the usual street sounds, pulling him from his reverie. A woman dashed in front of a carriage, oblivious to its approach.
“Look out!” he shouted, sprinting forward. Stupid wench! Didn’t anyone think before acting these days? Only two months ago, Randolph and Elizabeth had each courted death by refusing to consider the consequences of their actions.
As did you, reminded his conscience.
“Move out of the street!” She had frozen at his first warning and now stiffened, turning his way rather than toward the carriage. He lunged, jerking her to safety and slamming her against his chest hard enough to drive the air from their lungs.
Nice body, noted his mind even as his eyes took in her appearance. Well-worn half-boots. A threadbare cloak over a serviceable gown. Spectacles perched on the tip of a pert nose. Plain bonnet hugging her head. Obviously a servant, for she lacked an escort. But her features were refined, so she was probably a governess or companion.
“Not at all the thing to walk about in a fog,” he drawled once he managed to inhale. His heart pounded from the aftermath of fear. Pain stabbed his left arm, which remained weak from a break suffered during his own recent lapse in judgment.
“Tha … dog … boys … I don’t—”
He’d overestimated her position. Her voice was cultured, but shock had reduced her to incoherence. Such a woman would make a poor governess. Too bad. Lack-wits had never attracted him.
Nor would they now, he decided, setting her firmly aside. The unflattering garments hid a wealth of curves that were stirring interest in his nether regions.
“Are you blind or merely stupid?” he snapped to cover his reaction.
“What—”
“Pay attention! You could have been killed.”
“D-dog.” A finger directed his attention across the street.
Two boys shifted their eyes from the departing carriage to the woman who had nearly died. Discerning their sport was easy. Hands pinned a whimpering dog to the ground.
&n
bsp; Raising his quizzing glass, he adopted his most disapproving frown. “Well, well, if it isn’t Tom Pratchard. Up to no good again?” This son of a Jermyn Street tobacconist had a penchant for mischief. He must speak to Pratchard himself this time. The lad’s mother had done nothing to curb his tendencies. He didn’t recognize Tom’s redheaded companion, though learning the boy’s identity would not be difficult. But that was for later. The moment he stepped off the curb, they fled. He turned his gaze to the dog.
“And Maximillian. I might have known you would be here. What have you done now?” Squatting at the animal’s side, he checked him for injuries. Max licked weakly at his gloves. But aside from one shallow cut, he seemed intact.
By following him, the woman had successfully traversed the street. She crouched in the gutter, making incoherent noises. Either she was more addled than he’d thought or fright had affected her wits.
Max took in her concern, wiggling with pleasure when she scratched his ears. He always groveled to females, treating them to none of the questionable temper he inflicted on males. Thus they all adored him.
“Sweet little dog,” she crooned, finding her voice under the influence of Max’s charm. “You are having a miserable day, aren’t you. That nasty nurse tried to beat you with her umbrella. And a horse nearly stepped on you. You really must be more careful, you know. If that cat had been less of a coward, it would be dining on you at this very minute. And how did you run afoul of those horrid boys? Wicked monsters! Are you all right?”
Max squirmed with pleasure, licking her fingers.
“He will be fine,” Sedge assured her, adopting a stern tone to hide his relief.
She ignored him, prattling as inanely as his aunt and her dotty friends, her focus wholly on the dog, who was now pressed close to her side. She seemed unaware of his own presence, which made his fight to regain control of an unruly body even more irritating.
“He will be fine,” he repeated sharply, furious at being ignored. “But I can hardly say the same for you. What sort of idiot steps into the street without checking for traffic?”
That gained her attention. “I didn’t … that’s not…” She inhaled deeply several times, lowering her gaze to his cravat. “Are you sure he is all right?”
“Of course.” How dare she question his judgment? The woman was more addled than he’d thought. “He merely escaped Lady Barkley’s garden again. As for you, this is London, not a country village. If you wish to survive, think before you act – or stay at home.”
“Of all the presumptuous—”
“Thus speaks the woman who threw herself in front of a carriage,” he scoffed, interrupting. “Hen-witted fool. Are you even aware that I just saved your miserable life?” Giving her no chance to respond, he batted her hand aside and scooped Max into his arms. “Come along, Maximillian. Your taste in friends grows worse each day.”
Max growled, snapping at his chin.
He tightened his grip, glaring at the scruffy animal.
“I can carry him,” the woman offered. “He seems to like me.”
“Which proves his lack of intelligence. Why would I trust an animal to someone incapable of crossing a street unescorted?” he demanded, stifling an urge to wring her neck. He hardly expected instant adulation, but couldn’t she at least thank him for risking his life?
He nearly grimaced as his body recalled her curves. Even his façade was slipping out of his control. Never had he met anyone who elicited such a debilitating range of emotions.
Ignoring her reversion to stammered gibberish, he collected his walking stick, noting the chipped head where it had hit the cobbles. Turning his back on the woman, he headed for Barkley House, even more annoyed than before. This was not how he wanted to pass the afternoon.
“Don’t turn that innocent look on me,” he grumbled at the dog. “Your mistress may fall for that trick, but I know you better. That was a nauseating performance just now. How can you lower yourself to grovel? And to a brainless idiot.”
Now that he had no female to wheedle, Maximillian squirmed around to lay a paw on Sedge’s chest.
“No, I won’t forgive you, you beastly little rat. It is bad enough that you’ve ruined my walking stick, my coat, and my newest pantaloons. Must you also destroy my waistcoat and shirt? Turrett will weep,” he added, naming his valet. “He truly loved this outfit.”
Maximillian yelped in delight.
“Proud of yourself, aren’t you. Stupid dog. This escapade was not one of your brighter ideas. Adventures are all very well in the country, but sneaking about in London will be the death of you. I cannot be forever available to rescue you from these antics.”
Maximillian hung his head.
“As well you should. I must now summon my coach, for I dare not resume my walk. Appearing on the street in so disheveled a state would destroy my reputation.”
It was true. Even if none of Maximillian’s blood smeared his coat, dusty paw prints would never escape notice. Every eye turned his way whenever he ventured out. And though he was noted for poking fun at current on-dits, how could he describe this encounter without appearing ridiculous? Not only had the woman ignored him, but his own reactions did him no credit.
“But summoning my carriage will not be the worst penalty I must pay,” he continued. A commotion in the square was attracting attention, so if he reached Barkley House unseen, he could avoid any questions. “Your mistress is undoubtedly at home.”
He cursed, then cursed again when he reached his destination, for his fears proved prescient. His aunt insisted on serving tea, then demanded to know when he planned to wed. She’d been his mother’s bosom bow since childhood, and the two remained close. He wasn’t sure which of them was more adamant about setting up his nursery. Why wouldn’t they leave him alone? He would eventually wed, but in his own time and for his own pleasure.
By the time his carriage finally arrived, he felt like striking something.
CHAPTER TWO
Joanna swore under her breath as her rescuer left, carrying the dog. Mortification heated her cheeks. After only a week in town, she had already made a cake of herself. Would she never learn to think before acting?
Heedlessness had been her bane for years. When something caught her attention, she forgot all else. Her penchant for walking into trouble was well-known around Cavuscul Hill, her frequent trances spawning countless jokes. So far she had injured only herself – a broken arm at age fifteen, cracked ribs at eighteen, concussion at twenty-four – but eventually she would harm someone else.
She shivered.
The concussion wasn’t heedlessness, insisted a voice in her head. Don’t be so critical.
True. That incident had been deliberate. She had known the bull was there, but leaving the Watkins boy sprawled in the pasture had been impossible. Cuts, scrapes, and a concussion were a small price to pay for a child’s life.
Yet today’s incident could have cost her much more, and this time there was no excuse for her carelessness. Waiting for the carriage to pass would have made no difference, but she hadn’t even noticed it. Thank heaven her anonymous rescuer had come along. She could have been badly hurt – or worse.
His scold was well deserved. Even minor injuries could have consigned her to bed, ruining Harriet’s Season and leaving Wicksfield in the lurch. She should have mentioned her problem during that interview, but she had been sure that her concentration would remain on Harriet, who would thus benefit from her single-mindedness.
Her cheeks heated. Wicksfield had asked if she could handle the job, and she had said yes. Despite knowing her history, she had agreed. The bitter truth was that she had wanted to visit London so badly that she had lied by omission. If she had told him, he would have hired someone else.
Guilt gnawed at her conscience. She had set the stage for disaster with her lie. What if she fell into an abstraction when she was with Harriet? What if she approved the wrong suitor because she had missed evidence that he had a venal nature? What if she
walked into a wall or knocked over a punch bowl, drawing ridicule onto Wicksfield’s family. It wasn’t an idle fear. She had already been guilty of those offenses and more. Her clumsiness attracted as much ridicule as her heedlessness.
So far, she had managed well. Except for treading on a dowager’s foot last night… And jostling the butler’s arm so he spilled soup in her lap… And that little problem at the inn last week … but that had been the maid’s fault; people carrying loaded trays should not rush around corners.
Are you blind or merely stupid?
She was not managing well at all, now that she considered it. Her cheeks heated. Her rescuer was undoubtedly one of the gentlemen Harriet would meet over the next few days. Would this encounter hurt the girl’s chances?
Grimacing, she headed home, grateful that everyone she met was hurrying toward the escalating battle in the square. The foolishness of an impoverished chaperon could never compare to such drama, thank God. She was embarrassed enough as it was.
Her gentleman had actually been quite chivalrous, she admitted as she passed the house into which he had disappeared. Most men would have ignored her in their rush to watch the fight. And even those who might have pulled her out of harm’s way would never have seen after the dog.
In fact, rescuing her had been more than remarkable. She was wearing an ancient cloak over one of her older gowns, for she donned her new clothes only when escorting Harriet. He must have known that she was a person of no consequence, yet he had risked his life to drag her out of danger, jerking her with such force that her spectacles had slid down to cling precariously to the tip of her nose.
She frowned.
The longer she thought about it, the more incongruous his actions appeared. He’d made no pretense of approving her and had actually sneered at her appearance. His own had been very elegant, his clothing unusually formal for afternoon wear. Which made his behavior incomprehensible.
