Romancing a Wallflower

by Anna St. Claire

  “In what way are you falling short, John?” Lilian watched his lips as he spoke to her. His lips were perfect, not too thin and not too full. She wanted to feel them again.

  “I have not wanted to get married because I have bad dreams.” He rushed the words forth, his eyes fixed on her.

  “What kinds of dreams?” she ventured cautiously, grasping her hands to her heart.

  “Ever since the war, I wake up sweating, sometimes screaming. I am sure I have no notion why I am telling you this. It seems most unseemly to be discussing such a thing, yet, I fear to mislead you. I feel I can trust you and tell you this about me, not knowing for sure where our…connection…will lead.”

  Lilian became quiet and folded her hands into her lap. “Thank you for sharing that. It could not have been easy. In fact, I cannot imagine my brother talking about such matters, even with my mother or father.” She looked up at him, carefully taking her hand and caressing the side of his face. “You can trust that I will never speak of this to anyone. I will not marry unless there is love or the chance of love. I would rather not marry if I have no feeling for a gentleman,” she spoke softly, almost whispering.

  “My parents were a love match, but Mother seems to have put that aside in her concern for an heir. She wants grandchildren, and I can understand that.”

  Lilian dipped her head slightly in acknowledgement. She had no idea how else to respond. Her doctor had not indicated any concerns with having children, and until now, she had given no thought to courtship in the past year.

  “So, are we agreed? We will seek to become better acquainted and see what may develop, both agreeing to tell the other if we find it too difficult or that we do not suit after all? He fixed his eyes on her face.

  Her throat suddenly felt parched. All she could do was nod.

  “It is time we returned to the house. Clara has twice risen to her feet, I think perhaps she is giving us a hint.” He stood up and looked down at her. “I will call upon you when we are arrived in Cornwall. I leave tomorrow morning with Lord Worsley.” He leaned down to kiss her head and she looked up, catching his lips on her nose. He leaned in and brushed her lips. “To brand you mine until we see each other in Tintagel.”

  Footfalls on loose gravel sounded beyond the gazebo. Stepping behind her chair, Harlow quickly began pushing it back toward the house.

  “Clara, I will escort Lady Lilian into the house and then I shall take my leave before I offend all the tenets of propriety.”

  “M’lord. Lord and Lady Avalon are returned. We will be leaving shortly.” Clara stopped and gasped. “M’lord, a man moved from behind the pink rosebushes.” She pointed to the rosebush-covered fence line that stood in front of the alley that led to the mews.

  Harlow ran to the fence and looked, then came back with a dismissive look on his face. “I only saw a groom carrying a bucket of oats to the carriage horses, Clara,” he said, gripping the back of Lilian’s chair.

  Lilian was propelled into the house with her hands in her lap but her head in the clouds. She was unsure what had just happened, except that she had agreed to put her heart at risk. Her heart was bursting with more hope than she had felt in a year.

  A few minutes later, a short, moustached man stepped out from behind the mews of Avalon House and walked back towards the road where his dappled grey horse waited.

  Chapter 10

  Guilt assailed him as he rode home. Harlow suspected Lilian could be in danger, but it was only an instinctive sense. He had no evidence. There had been no threats, but he trusted his gut. Staying near her was not an obligation; he wanted to stay near her. She made him laugh and she challenged him with her wit and interest in any topic, and her willingness to listen and hear past the spoken word. Then there was that kiss… Harlow touched his lips and could have sworn the feel of her still lingered on his lips. Her lips were soft, and her rose-water scent had imprinted itself in his mind.

  Aware he could not share his commission with anyone, Harlow tried to think of every way he could keep his activities secret and still protect Lady Lilian and her family. He thought of her father. Lord Avalon should be informed of any progress. He would provide that when they arrived in Tintagel. Harlow wanted to believe that Tintagel was a safe distance, but the smugglers he was after had proven their hearts to be black and he would not leave Lilian’s safety to chance.

  Harlow arrived at his town house and handed his horse’s reins to his groom. Intent on getting to his study, he ran to the front door, nearly knocking down Fitz, his butler.

  “My lord,” Fitz pronounced in stringent tones as he stepped aside, “I trust your afternoon was tolerable.”

  “It was pleasant enough.” Fitz must be losing his hearing. His tone was more like a bellow than a calm remark. The corpulent retainer had been with the family as long as Harlow could remember.

  “Very good, my lord. Lord Worsley awaits you in the study,” the stout, balding man piercingly declared to his back.

  “Thank you, Fitz.” Harlow handed his hat, gloves and cane to the butler and headed down the dark-panelled hall to the open doorway of his study, which was still filled with the early morning sunshine.

  The servant accompanied Harlow to his sanctum. “That will be all, Fitz.”

  “Of course, my lord.” The older man bowed and closed the doors to the study behind him.

  “I had just gotten in the door when I heard you arrive, riding like the hounds of hell were upon you.” Max discarded his waistcoat to the chair beside him and made himself more comfortable. “You still seem out of sorts. I took the liberty of pouring you a whisky. Your cook waited upon me soon after I arrived and said she has orders to serve a nuncheon in here. It seems convenient because I believe we have a great deal to discuss.”

  “I need do nothing; my household functions without me,” Harlow mused aloud. “You make an exceeding efficient housekeeper, my friend.” He downed the brandy in a single gulp and threw himself into a chair. “In case you are wondering, I did it,” he said, putting down the glass which, by some miracle, had survived intact.

  “Did it? I do not understand the significance of ‘it’.” Max emphasized the last word. “You would rather I not have a brandy awaiting your arrival?” He gave a sardonic smile and took another sip from his own glass.

  “Of course, I want a brandy waiting for me.” Harlow laughed nervously. “I told her about my dreams.” He rose and poured himself another brandy.

  “Did she leave the room and hide?” Max chuckled caustically.

  “It is hard to comprehend. However, she did not leave. I almost ran. I have feelings for her, yet I am not sure I can marry. The worst about all of this, is I believe our initial inquiries made in her community may have accidentally rendered her the target for a bullet meant for one of us. Her whole life was destroyed that day.” Harlow choked on the pain and fear that flooded his being as he spoke.

  “That is something I had not considered before. It is a lot of guilt you are carrying on your shoulders, my friend,” Max remarked soberly.

  Harlow nodded and walked to the fireplace, which stood between two ceiling-high spans of shelving and dominated the wall. Leaning his head against the wooden mantel, he looked down at his feet.

  “It has weighed on me all year. Now, to see her confined to a wheel-chair…it renewed the burden—brought back all that happened.”

  “Are you seeing her because of the guilt?” Max’s tone was harsh.

  “No! Of course not.” A flash of temper hit his eyes. “There is something special about her. She has no guile. Lilian ushers light into what is a very dark world, especially given the amount of death we have seen.” He kept his head down this time and nursed his whisky, unwilling to allow Max to read his face again—because he had lied…a little. The truth was, at least at first, he had wanted to meet her out of guilt. The rest, however, was honest. I have feelings. I just did not understand them. It is like nothing I have experienced before; a lightness of the heart.

&nb
sp; “Do you feel Lord Avalon holds you responsible? He knows of our commission.” Max’s tone was critical.

  “No. I doubt it.” Harlow walked to his window and stared at the small veranda his mother had built years ago. “Max, you have known me for a long time. Give me a little credit.” His voice strained. He turned and glared at his friend, no longer concerned about being questioned. “And no, I have said nothing to Lord Avalon of my suspicions. Do but consider, Max,” he implored. “The gunshot. Recall we had just come from nosing about the town. We could have been discovered. That was all there was until the day of the ball. The widow made her appearance—no one on her arm, and no real purpose…but she noticed my attention towards Lady Lilian. Add that to what we discussed yesterday—her connections to the alehouses and…”

  “We suspect her, but we do not have direct evidence. Only questions.”

  “I think we probably should talk to Avalon,” Harlow muttered.

  “That is risking a great deal, Harlow.” Max’s tone was no longer tinged with misgivings. “I say we go to the coast with all speed, take a look around and then decide. Let us give ourselves two days to formulate a plan of action…”

  “With one caveat,” Harlow interjected. “If we see anything that indicates that the two sisters could be in danger, we let their father know.”

  “Agreed.”

  “What news do you have of the missing boat of Revenue men?” Harlow moved to sit behind his desk and leaned forward, hands clasped.

  “They found the riding officers…all six of them…dead. The boat was floating off the coast of Cornwall. A British man of war spotted it. The Home Office wants the person or persons responsible to hang for this. They need us to get this situation under control. We have been investigating it for almost a year, with only small successes. I do not feel I am ready to name the chief suspect—yet.” Max’s tone was sober. “Prinny is sending an agent, someone who has experience inside the smuggling trade, to meet with us. The only name they provided was John Cressey. We are to meet him at the Anchor’s Away Public House on Boswell Street at four of the clock. He will approach us and ask to share our table.”

  “Sounds cryptic. However, the name is familiar to me.” Harlow was pouring himself another whisky when the door opened, and a footman brought in a tray full of soup and sandwiches. “This should help us think. I cannot conjecture where I have heard that name before, but I recognize it.” He motioned for the footman to put the food on the game table near the fireplace.

  “Of course, my lord. Will there be anything else?” the footman inquired.

  “No, thank you, Wells.” Harlow nodded appreciation.

  The two men took their glasses and seated themselves at the table as the footman left the room, pulling the study’s heavy wooden door closed behind him.

  “Someone has to be operating from the inside. No one could be as auspicious as they have been without help. They know when the big shipments are coming—which ships have prime cargo. Those are the ships picked off by whoever this is.” Harlow drained his glass. “Pass me that decanter, friend. I believe I need more.”

  “You are besotted,” Max quietly observed. “The Harlow I know is much calmer than this. I know you for your coolness under pressure. You are like to become foxed if you keep swilling the juice in this fashion.”

  “Yes. I am noted for my self-possession. I am afraid I walked into this association with my eyes wide open. It was as if I could not control myself. She draws me to her like a moth to a flame.” Harlow smiled to himself and swirled the last vestiges of his drink around in the glass before swallowing it. He glanced at the silver tray still sitting on a small stand next to the table. “Excellent! Wells brought a pot of tea. So, you see, I will not succumb to my potations.”

  “Your cook is excellent,” Max said, pouring himself a cup of hot tea. “I will have tea for now.” He toasted Harlow. “I have not had turtle soup this good in many a year.”

  “Would you mind if we again turn our attention to the smuggling?” Harlow put down his glass.

  “Apparently, Cressey is already immersed into the smuggling trade and was key to taking down, a few months ago, that major gun and ammunitions organization which was trading to the French. He will send us a message with a meeting place. We are to meet him this afternoon before we leave for Cornwall.” Max wiped his mouth. “I notice you have not touched your soup. If you do not want it, I will eat it. I slept late this morning and am just now breaking my fast,” he offered.

  “It would be unusual if either of us left a single snack.” Harlow laughed, reaching for a warm roll and smearing butter on it. “We know several of those involved in the Tintagel smuggling ring, just not the leader, and we need to determine who on the inside is providing their information. As you are aware, they only attack certain boats and seem to know exactly the ones to take. Thus, they must have an informant,” he added, shifting back to the subject at hand.

  “The Prince Regent is most interested in this matter since the murder of the six tax assessors. While he has been known to enjoy smuggled French brandy, himself, one of the men was a particular friend of Prinny’s, if you get my meaning,” Max put in as he finished the soup.

  “I had heard something of that. From what I understand, Cressey operated as an intelligencer, and Prinny has asked that he lend his services from within the thieves’ network.” Harlow put down his napkin. “The meeting is set for this afternoon, we need to stir ourselves.”

  An hour later, they were approaching the public house where Harlow had seen the black coach when the heavy, blackened oak door opened and a tall, burly man tossed a drunkard into the street.

  “’Oi don’t want to see yer scrawny arse back in ’ere again,” the owner shouted after the man landed in the gutter. Max and Harlow stepped around the sprawled man and entered the tavern. The room was dank and dark. It took a moment for Harlow’s eyes to adjust to the light.

  “I see an empty table at the very back, away from the window and the bar. We will take that, two mugs of beer, and a small plate of cheese and salted meats,” Harlow directed the sparsely dressed barmaid who met them at the door. Max sat against the back wall and Harlow took a seat to his right, giving both men a good view of the alehouse’s door.

  “’Ave anything else, your lordships?” she asked, brazenly staring at Harlow’s lap before turning and sashaying towards the kitchen with their order.

  “I think the convenient fancies you, bully-boy!” Max remarked when her back was to them.

  “I would not fancy her or her added incentives, even if I were ape-drunk,” countered Harlow. “Hush.” He gave a slight nod towards the kitchen. “She is returning with our repast.”

  The slattern duly dumped two foaming tankards and a plate of viands on the table in front of them and sniffed, pointedly swinging her hips as she walked away.

  “I think, mayhap, she heard you,” Max remarked. Harlow ignored him and lifted one of the tankards.

  A few minutes later, a man dressed in black entered the tavern. He quickly scanned the room and then moved towards Harlow’s table.

  “Friends, would you mind if I shared your table?” he asked, looking both of them in the eye.

  “Certainly.” Harlow signalled to the barmaid to bring beer for their guest.

  “’Ere you go, guvnor,” she returned, setting the glass of ale on the table and leaning down as low as she could, barely keeping her breasts in her blouse as she set the glass on the table.

  Harlow flipped her a shilling and thanked her, hoping she would take her wares to the other side of the room.

  “There is no telling what other…attractions come with those wares she offers,” he said in a low voice, involuntarily shivering at the thought. “We are finally alone.” He turned to the bearded man. “You are…” he began to say but was brought up short when the bearded man quietly put up his hand. “…arrogant,” he finished under his breath.

  “I realize my beard fools neither of you. When we leave h
ere tonight, and until this commission is over, you know me only as John Cressey.” Laughter erupted from behind him at that moment and DeLacey turned his head defensively.

  “Did you think they were laughing at your beard?” Max quipped, leaning back in his seat and eyeing the man. “They were laughing because the barmaid serving the ape-drunk man near the door lost her tit into his glass of ale, and he tried to claim it.”

  Harlow nearly choked on his beer. Jonathan DeLacey enjoyed banter as much as anyone. However, he nurtured a larger measure of himself than most and found being the object of ridicule difficult. His ego made him an easy target and had evoked much hilarity at school. The problem was, school was ten years ago. This was dangerous business they ventured into today, and his ego could get them all killed.

  “Damn, I thought…never mind.” DeLacey took a deep breath.

  Harlow leaned forward. “Stubble it, Cressey. You thought they were laughing at you. If they were, we would have taken measure of it and perhaps joined in, if it served our purpose. Put your ego away and there will be less risk to all our lives.”

  DeLacey stared at Harlow. For a long moment, no one spoke. Finally, he nodded. “I will endeavour not to react when being the butt of someone’s wit. I realise my appearance surprised you. I grow a beard when I am operating as Cressey.”

  “Your father, does he know?” Harlow followed his own query with a statement, putting forth the question that had been burning in his mind. “He is part of it, too.” It was common for the Home Office to keep secret the identity of those working for them, even within the ranks.

  “We respect that… and the beard is not too dreadful.” Max smirked. “We need to protect ourselves, and it helps that we know each other,” he spoke softly, and all three nodded.