by Anne Renwick
Had the young woman deliberately left her distinctive necklace in a forbidden man’s bed? She fought the upward curve of her lips. Colleen counted it as a distinct possibility. If Lady Sophia also possessed claws, there would be more trouble before her parents managed to shove her down the aisle. If they succeeded in forcing her to wed at all.
“Come along.” Isabella hooked her arm about Colleen’s, leaning close as they stepped into the ballroom. “This had best work. My husband made an unanticipated appearance in my dressing room in which I was instructed to begin planning your wedding to Mr. Glover.”
Colleen sucked a breath of air past her teeth. “Do not overexert yourself.”
Out of the coal scuttle and into the grate. Anger and annoyance clasped hands and began to whirl deep inside her chest. Of all the nights! The moment Mr. Glover had her in his sights, he would stick to her like taffy on teeth.
Isabella snorted. “If there’s another gentleman in your life, now would be a good time for him to present himself as an alternative.”
Anger ran down her spine like molten steel, then cooled, stiffening her resolve. “I’ll rescue myself from Mr. Glover.” Though Mr. Torrington might offer for her hand, she was still contemplating the merits of such a union. First, she needed to complete her new assignment. The task was simple, but she needed the money.
She scanned the ballroom. In one corner, a steam orchestra hidden behind a wall of potted rhododendrons played a waltz as guests whirled and swirled about the floor. Mr. Glover was not among them, but a refreshment room opened off the ballroom and bustled with activity. What with his sweet tooth, they were almost certain to find him within.
“Do you remember the plan?” Colleen steered them in the direction of the refreshment room.
“I do.”
It was a touch risky. She’d never caused a public scene before, but Mr. Glover’s persistent advances must be terminated and the package must be placed. Guests were still arriving, making their way up the grand staircase to the ballroom which meant now was the best time to put her plan into action. To the right of the entryway was Lord Aldridge’s library. If all went well, both tasks would be accomplished in quick succession. Her heart began to pound. Her uncle might well turn her out on the doorstep tomorrow morning, but if she accomplished her aim, there would be more than enough in her bank account to pay for a room at Claridge’s.
He was already irritated at his wife and niece’s impromptu “shopping trip,” one that had left the steam butler turning guests—and one Mr. Glover—away from the townhome during regularly scheduled calling hours. Though they’d later purchased silk stockings, their first stop had been at her employer’s door.
“Back so soon?” Mr. Witherspoon had looked up from his desk, amused, as she stepped into his office. Dark and wood-paneled, its walls were lined with hefty legal tomes. One might hire him to draft a will, but more often than not, gentlemen arrived with difficulties that required a more unofficial and delicate solution. “Only yesterday you informed me of your retirement.”
“An unanticipated situation arose.” Embarrassment heated her cheeks. She’d made much of returning to Scotland. “Fixing it requires—”
“Funds.” He set aside his fountain pen. “How much?”
The sum she named widened his eyes, and Mr. Witherspoon leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “How quickly, Lady Stewart, do you wish to amass your rewards?”
“Within five days.” She swallowed, hoping it wasn’t an impossibility. Fixing the roof of Craigieburn Castle before heavy rains could do yet more damage was a pressing matter. “I know I ask the impossible, but—”
“There is an assignment I intended for another associate, but given your exemplary performance over the past few years, I’m happy to place it in your hands. It involves an obfuscation chain that will require you to return to Lord Aldridge’s home this very evening. Might you be attending Lady Sophia’s debut ball?”
Excitement and relief filled her lungs, restoring her ability to breathe deeply. Was it possible she would not need to alter her plans? “I am.”
“There is only one small obstacle you need to overcome.” He’d pursed his lips. “Three years ago you declined to work on the more… gray cases.”
“Needs must.”
“Very well. Listen closely.”
The task involved an obfuscation chain. She would be but one link of many and wouldn’t know what she was passing along—or why. There was little to no risk involved, beyond being caught with the item in hand. In which case, no one would step forward to protect her. That the compensation for this single job was enough to cover the cost of roof repairs was telling. Someone was skirting the law, and she would need to bend her morals.
She ignored the queasy flutter in her stomach. “I’ll take it.”
Though she’d not asked, it was unlikely Lord Aldridge knew his home was the platform for yet another operation carried out by Witherspoon and Associates. Not that he’d be surprised. Ballrooms were always filled with undercurrents of activity.
“Ready?” Her aunt snapped her attention back to the task at hand.
She nodded. “Ready.” Better to finish this soon, before there was any chance of Mr. Torrington’s arrival. She did not wish for him to intervene.
“Mrs. Wilson!” Isabella hailed an acquaintance, abandoning Colleen’s side as she began to make her way across the polished floor.
“Miss Stewart,” a gentleman whose name she could not recall greeted her. Always “miss” never “lady”. How the English hated to acknowledge that an unmarried woman might hold a title, even one that was little more than a courtesy. “Fine, dry weather we’ve had these past few days.”
“Quite lovely,” she answered, not meeting his eyes. Indeed, it made the rooftops far less treacherous.
Isabella disappeared into the refreshment room.
A few more acquaintances nodded, some making a weak effort to engage her in polite conversation. Long minutes passed, but her dull answers failed to inspire further comment, and awareness of her existence begin to fade until her silent presence was no more than decorative, much like the wallpaper.
Her pale, yellow ballgown was unremarkable. Its neckline did not plunge. Its sleeves did not bare her shoulders. And the swags that fell from her hips to gather in a generous bustle upon her backside did nothing to accentuate her figure. The only adornment was an overabundance of fabric flowers clustered at one shoulder and upon her opposite hip. When the moment arrived, her sudden change in behavior would draw sharp attention.
It was time. Isabella hadn’t reappeared, which meant Mr. Glover was within.
Touching her fingers to the red, tartan rosette she’d tucked in among the other blooms, Colleen stepped into the crush of guests, wending her way toward the refreshment room.
The box suspended beneath her bustle and within its wire cage resumed its soft bumping against the backside of her knees. It was a simple rosewood box inlaid with Mother of Pearl, hinged, and fitted with an ornate lock to which she had not been given a key. Despite its small size, the carriage ride here had been most uncomfortable, and she longed to be rid of her package. Not to mention Mr. Glover’s unflagging courtship.
The refreshment table groaned beneath all manner of delicacies. A tall centerpiece lifted a much-embellished pineapple aloft. Towering artistic cakes that rose at intervals were surrounded by lower arrangements of ices, biscuits and iced cakes. Champagne and lemonade were among the many offerings.
Isabella stood beside Mr. Glover, who was collecting an assortment of treats upon a plate. Powdered sugar dusted his mustache. A gentle touch to his sleeve and a murmured word from her aunt shifted his attention toward the door. His gaze caught hers. An ingratiating smile stretched across his face, and he quickly abandoned his plate to snatch up two glasses of champagne.
As she’d suspected. Unable to wring assent from her in private, he would now attempt a more public venue.
The chase was on.
“Miss Stewart!” Irritation twisted through Mr. Glover’s voice as she exited the ballroom. Gleeful at his consternation, Colleen bit down on her lip, fighting an entirely unprofessional urge to laugh as she grabbed at the doorframe and rounded the corner into the upper hall. Clutching at her skirts, she rushed down the stairs past the new arrivals—whose eyes widened to stare—and into the empty library.
Thrusting a hand beneath her bustle, her fingers found the clasps that held the package within. Click. Click. The rosewood box fell free. Drawing it from beneath the silk swags, Colleen placed it on the table beside the globe—as instructed—then hurried across the room to stand before a window overlooking the street. Across the street stretched Hyde Park, cultivated and clipped for the pleasures of London’s populace. Nature, tamed and domesticated. But at least outside a cool breeze could ruffle the leaves upon branches and moonlight reached the ground unfiltered by thick panes of wavy glass.
“Colleen!” Mr. Glover boomed as he strode into the library, his hands—now empty of celebratory champagne—spread wide. Annoyance and confusion twisted his face. Had he even noticed that he had addressed her in a most improper and informal manner?
Arms crossed, she drew herself up straight as she turned to face him, peering down her nose through her gray lenses. “Lady Stewart.”
A few guests appeared at the doorway with unabashed curiosity written across their faces. She fought back any hint of satisfaction from her face. The perfect audience.
Mr. Glover came to a halt before her and swept a bow. “My apologies, The Much Honored Lady Stewart of Craigieburn.” Though his movements and words gave every impression of a courtly greeting, his voice was tight. “I spoke with your uncle and explained that we must marry. He’s given us his blessing and has begun the paperwork.”
How dare they? The impudence! “I don’t wish to—” A thought struck her like a blow to the stomach. “You…” She couldn’t force the words past her lips. If he’d detailed their—incredibly brief and disappointing—affair, that would explain her uncle’s sudden insistence that she marry. Fire ignited inside her chest. If Mr. Glover had indeed besmirched her honor, she would see him suffer.
He took a step forward. “I’ve been to Scotland.”
“To Craigieburn Castle?” Was that where he had disappeared to these last few weeks? A cold trickle of fear ran through her body at such an excessive act of devotion. She took a small step sideways, shifting away.
He nodded, his eyes feverish. “Your dowry is beautiful. It’s a tall and stately tower house, a castle in its own right. We’ll make it our home.”
“No, Mr. Glover, we will not.” Keeping her voice civil was a struggle. In three days Craigieburn and its lands would be under her control, and she wouldn’t be signing it over to anyone. Ever. “I’ve declined your offer and asked you to cease pressing your attentions upon me.”
“This ridiculousness must end.” His eyes narrowed, and he blew out an exasperated huff. “We’ve been intimate. We must marry.”
“I disagree.” Why was he so insistent? Why her? She wasn’t an heiress. She brought him no social connections. And this certainly wasn’t a love match. Save a brief fumble in the dark, they shared nothing. Nothing. “There were no consequences,” she informed him in a soft voice. Her precautions had been effective, thank goodness.
“Miss Stewart?” Her voice trembling with the effort to oppose ingrained instincts that private conversations were not to be interrupted, a young woman stepped into the library. “Do you require assistance?”
Mr. Glover called over his shoulder, “Miss Stewart has made me the happiest of men by agreeing to become my fiancée.”
“I’ve done no such thing!” Colleen cried, raising her voice for the benefit of their audience. Her anger was tempered by the thought that no one would link her presence in the library with anything save this argument. The obfuscation chain—her part in it—had been executed perfectly. “I’ve given you my answer, and it’s my consent, not my uncle’s, that you require. Do stop. You’re making a scene.”
“Stop being so difficult,” he hissed. From his pocket, he withdrew a ring. “Now slip this on, and let us return to the ball. We’ll share the next waltz.” He reached for her, and she jumped back.
“How dare you take such liberties!” She raised a hand to slap his face, but he caught her wrist midair.
The audience gasped. A gentleman broke free from the gaping crowd at the doorway. One Mr. Nicholas Torrington. “Sir, this is unseemly.”
Colleen’s stomach sank. Not only had she wished to rescue herself, she didn’t want him to see her playing the role of a woman teetering on the edge of hysteria. But, alas, he was present. And if they were to work as partners, she might as well test his mettle. Would he see through her charade? Step onstage and carve himself a role in this dramatic production?
Mr. Glover ignored him and spoke through clenched teeth. “Come now, be reasonable. You permitted my attentions. I did not drag you into that room. It was you who misled me. Such behavior comes with an implicit agreement.”
“I agreed to a brief liaison,” she said. “Not a lifetime!”
“I believe Lady Stewart has made her position clear.” Mr. Torrington’s hand landed on Mr. Glover’s shoulder, wheeling him about so that he stood face to face with Mr. Glover, his broad back and wide shoulders blocking her humiliation from onlookers.
Aether! He’d been close enough to overhear their last exchange. Blood rushed to her face, and she closed her eyes for a moment, reminding herself that she’d wanted a public scene. If not this particular one. Not one in which Mr. Glover refused to concede defeat. Her last days in London would be a misery. And if he followed her to Scotland, what then?
Colleen forced her eyes open, bracing herself for more ugliness. Mr. Torrington’s right hand had moved to the small of his back. Pinched between his thumb and forefinger was a silver filigree ring set with an amber stone.
“Your behavior is presumptuous, sir,” Mr. Torrington chided. “I too have been courting Lady Stewart.” He waggled the ring.
He’d planned to propose tonight? Her stomach twisted. She still wasn’t certain marriage was something she wanted. Did he truly expect her to place his ring on her finger?
While accepting an offer of marriage was not at all the end to the public commotion she had planned, it would serve nicely. And, with her latest task complete, she was free to take on new employment. She drew in a deep breath. A betrothal would allow them to spend time together without inviting too much censure. Perhaps if she viewed it as a trial engagement while she assisted him with his endeavors? Might they also find time to trial their… physical compatibility?
“Moreover,” he continued, waggling the ring again, insistently. She plucked the silver band from his fingers and slid it over her glove and onto her finger. It wasn’t as if she’d be required to follow through with an actual wedding. A young lady was entitled to change her mind, though the gratification that swelled his next words hinted that his actions might not at all be a performance. “She has accepted me and wears my ring.”
Chapter Five
Clasping his fiancée’s hand, Nick drew her forward, displaying the ring upon her finger to the audience before them. Hushed whispers erupted as speculation spread through the crowd. For years, he’d managed to steer clear of the marriage mart. It helped that two brothers stood between him and the eventual inheritance of a viscount’s title. Still, irritation would curdle the features of a number of mothers and daughters once the news reached the guests upstairs.
Though he forced a pleasant smile onto his face, inwardly he cringed. What should have been a shared private moment following an impassioned proposal involving actual words had been turned into a spectacle played out befo
re a roomful of gossip-inclined ton. Not ideal. He never would have dared attempt such a stunt had he not known how adverse she was to societal attention.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Glover.” Lady Stewart lifted her voice, and he had the decided impression she carefully chose the words that would appear on tomorrow’s scandal sheets. A niggling suspicion that she’d staged this altercation warned him that there was more at play here than a lover’s spat. “My heart belongs to another.”
“Impossible,” Glover barked. Fury set his mustache quivering like a hairy caterpillar having heart palpitations. “I would have been informed. Your uncle—”
“Perhaps you’d best take that up with him.” Nick’s tone would have warned off a normal man, but Lady Stewart’s admirer had a fervent look about his eyes that suggested—no, promised—he would be trouble.
“You may count on it.”
Glaring, Glover turned on his heel and stormed from the room, off to lodge a loud and vociferous complaint to her uncle. Trouble would come next from that direction. Her guardian, Lord Maynard, was known for his uncharitable business ventures. Whatever arrangements he and Glover had arrived at, Nick’s sudden intervention wouldn’t be welcome. Not that he cared.
Would that he could toss Lady Stewart in a waiting steam carriage and take to the streets to settle things between them privately. Alas, that would only inflame the situation. As their time together here could now be measured in mere minutes, he cupped her elbow and drew her toward a service door fitted into the room’s paneling. “Come,” he said, “let’s find you a quiet corner to regain your composure.”
She sniffed, but held her tongue and allowed him to lead her down the hall, past a servant’s staircase—sidestepping a clockwork hoist that carried stacks of empty plates and fingerprint smudged crystal along a downward track toward the kitchens—and into the conservatory.
