by Jane Ashford
“Good,” said Tom.
Teresa began reviewing her gowns to decide which would dazzle one particular, discriminating member of the haut ton.
Sixteen
He had perhaps worked harder at other things in his life, Arthur decided several days later, but never in such a concentrated burst. He was accustomed to having a large staff making arrangements for him. He hadn’t wanted to involve them in his plan for Miss Grandison’s brother, however, and he didn’t really mind the effort. He told himself he was like an ancient knight on a quest to win his lady. An odd sort of quest, to be sure, but the intent was there. A massive effort was the point, wasn’t it? He didn’t feel in the least as if he’d lost his senses. Had he not rather found them?
By the day of the ball, he had checked off all the tasks on his list. He’d made certain that Quigley, Trask, and John Grandison all planned to attend. He had used all his powers of persuasion on Mrs. Overton and convinced her that serving rack punch at her ball might set a new fashion, though Arthur suspected that she was moving over into the category of those who thought he’d gone a bit mad. The idea filled him with an unfamiliar glee. It had been a very long time since he’d confounded anyone. Had he ever? Really? He couldn’t recall an instance, but he did have a great deal on his mind.
Tom and the two actresses from the Drury Lane Theater had been provided with the right sort of clothing and fully primed for the “scene” they were to perform. The ladies seemed to find the whole idea good fun. Miss Grandison had done her part as well, reminding the ton of her youthful embarrassment despite rising doubts about Arthur’s mental stability.
On the night, Arthur dressed to be more conspicuous than usual. Actually, he never was the least bit conspicuous. So this ensemble would be a first attempt. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” said his valet, Clayton, when he discovered a certain garment that Arthur had dug out of the back of the wardrobe. “There has been some mistake. I will just…”
“No, I’m wearing that one,” Arthur interrupted.
Clayton turned, holding the waistcoat that they’d rejected as unacceptable, its cherry-red and silver stripes too garish for public view. “This one?”
Clayton had been with him for more than twenty years, and Arthur valued his canny insights as much as his personal services. But in this case the valet wasn’t aware of the plan. “That one,” Arthur confirmed.
“But, my lord.”
Arthur saw that he’d gained another recruit into the ranks of those who feared for his sanity. So all was going well. “I am determined to wear it. A bit of a change, eh, Clayton?”
Though Clayton was an unassuming figure in middle age, with a round face that was pleasant rather than handsome and quiet brown eyes, he had the ability to exude disapproval. He exercised it to the fullest as Arthur finished dressing.
The waistcoat had the desired effect. It drew astonished stares when he entered the Overton house, and Miss Grandison couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away from the garment when he went up to speak to her at the beginning of the ball. “The event will take place at the interval, when the refreshment room is most crowded,” he told her.
“Event?” She stared at his midsection.
“Delayed justice? Act of redemption? What do you wish to call it?”
“At this moment, Lord Macklin, I cannot find a phrase that satisfactorily expresses my feelings.”
“Well, you needn’t worry. The plans are all in place.”
“Worry. Am I worried? I don’t seem to be able to discern what I am.”
Arthur offered her a polite nod, as if they had been discussing commonplace matters and stepped away.
“How do you intend…” she began.
“It would be best if you were not aware of the details, don’t you think?”
“Best,” repeated Miss Grandison as if the word was untranslatable. He left her before she could figure it out.
His waistcoat attracted more attention, with smiles or frowns depending on the source. Certainly he was being noticed much more than usual. It was an interesting experience.
And then Teresa arrived with Tom, and he forgot everything else. In a gown of deep-blue silk with sprays of tiny sapphires sparkling in her earrings, she was gorgeous. Arthur’s heart began to pound like that of a gambler who was risking all on one desperate throw.
Just as she’d imagined, Lord Macklin came up to Teresa and asked her to dance. She accepted and took his arm to join the set. It was more than a pleasure to walk across the floor beside him. Although he didn’t look quite like himself. It was the stripes, she decided. “Your waistcoat is certainly…festive.”
“Worthy of a celebration,” he replied. Incomprehensibly. His blue eyes had an almost feverish sparkle.
“Why have you invited me here tonight?” Teresa asked him.
“I? Mrs. Overton invited you.”
“That would be the lady who greeted me at the entrance? The one who clearly had no idea who I was?”
“There are so many guests,” the earl replied. “This will be the last great squeeze of the season.”
The music began. They moved through the first steps of a country dance.
At the next opportunity for conversation Teresa said, “Tom thinks that we—he and I—are here because you will be leaving London soon and wished to say a…ceremonial goodbye.”
“Does he?” Lord Macklin looked pleased. “He is a clever lad.”
“So it is that? You wished to make some…grand gesture of farewell?”
“Grand but not goodbye, I hope,” Arthur muttered.
“What? I didn’t quite hear you.”
“You look ravishing tonight,” he said. “You throw all the other ladies into the shade.”
Teresa felt her cheeks flush. She was glad he found her beautiful. She thought him…everything a man should be. When he swung her around in a turn of the dance, her senses swam. She saw herself throwing her arms around him and begging him to carry her off, right here, in front of everyone. If he proposed marriage now… She shoved the idea away. It was no more possible than it had been before. Music and movement and a glittering crowd made no difference. And men didn’t ask again when they’d been refused. Of course, they didn’t invite one to balls and call one ravishing either. In eye-popping striped waistcoats. “It isn’t like you to make dramatic gestures,” she said.
“No? Are you sure you know me so well?”
She met his gaze and couldn’t look away. Love was there. As well as…anticipation? Something was happening tonight. She didn’t know what, but she had the sudden sense of a turning point looming. “What…” she began. And the set ended.
People stepped apart, dispersed. Lord Macklin turned and was inundated by a bevy of young ladies in pastel ball gowns and a babble of greetings.
“My brother Cecil is full of admiration for your waistcoat,” said Miss Deeping to the earl.
“You do understand that this is ominous?” asked Miss Finch. “To be admired by Cecil Deeping is to destroy any aspirations you might have to good taste.”
“Oh, Harriet, he’s not so bad,” said Miss Moran.
“Have you seen his waistcoat?”
“I was too dazzled by the coach-wheel buttons and the many fobs,” said Miss Deeping. “Henry said he looks like a mountebank.”
“I have never regretted having no brothers,” said Miss Finch.
“Yes, you have,” replied Miss Moran. “When you were wishing you could learn swordplay back at school.”
“Ha! I’d forgotten.” Miss Finch laughed. “A brother like Cecil would be no use for that. And one doesn’t get to choose.”
“I’ll bring Cecil to compliment you later,” said Miss Deeping to the earl, giving the final words an odd emphasis.
Before Teresa could do more than wonder about undercurrents, Miss Moran burst out with “Your earrings
are lovely. Did you design them?”
Teresa nodded. Tom joined them. There was a general milling about. Couples moved in for the next set. And somehow Lord Macklin was gone. Teresa looked for him, but he seemed to have disappeared.
He wished he could dance every dance with Teresa, Arthur thought as he edged his way into the card room. But he couldn’t. He wanted to attract attention to himself, not to her. And if he talked to her anymore, he might give things away. His…cast clearly couldn’t resist dropping hints. So that great pleasure was denied to him. He had to stay away from her. He would lurk here until nearer the time. He found a place at one of the card tables and joined the hand, receiving gibes about his waistcoat with a witless smile.
Arthur emerged as the set before supper was forming. He didn’t seek a partner. Rather, he located Miss Grandison’s brother, who also was not dancing, and went to stand near him. Just as the music ended, Arthur stepped forward and said, “Good evening, Grandison, how are you?”
The man looked surprised to be addressed. They were not well acquainted. But he responded civilly.
“I’ve heard there is to be rack punch with supper,” Arthur added. “Shall we go and see?”
“At a ball? That is most unusual.”
“Mrs. Overton assured me.” He edged the other man toward the doorway to the refreshment room. Grandison let himself be herded. Arthur saw the three young ladies leading groups of their friends in the same direction. Miss Julia Grandison was approaching as well. She grimaced at him. He ignored her.
The young actresses had been put in charge of Quigley and Trask, to maneuver them into position at the proper moment. They’d been given free rein as to how this was to be accomplished. When Arthur brought his charge into the room he saw the two gentlemen who had tipped a punch bowl over Miss Julia Grandison many years ago looking a bit dazed by the unexpected female attention. They were also precisely in place near the rack punch. Arthur brought John Grandison to join them, nodded a dismissal to the actresses, and then moved behind the refreshment table. “Look, it is rack punch,” he said.
When they turned, Arthur picked up the large bowl—heavy, but he’d been braced for that. He raised it high and, with a great heave, tossed the warm liquid over the unsuspecting trio.
A gasp swept through the room.
Arthur experienced a barrage of appalled stares from the cream of society. Mouths hung open; some pointed at him. He spotted Tom, looking poleaxed. He noticed Miss Finch, her brows raised in startled surmise.
Trask, Grandison, and Quigley wiped sticky punch from their faces. It dripped from the tails of their coats. They gazed at Arthur, stunned.
“How very clumsy of you, John,” someone declared. It was Julia Grandison, in her best public voice. It was indeed marvelously penetrating.
The room erupted in a storm of talk. Arthur felt a tremor of anxious gratification as he continued to search for the one person he most wanted to find. And then he saw her. Teresa stood near Tom. She’d been hidden by another lady’s headdress, but she’d obviously seen the whole. Her amazed expression said so.
Arthur stared at her with his heart in his eyes. He couldn’t speak to her now. He mustn’t involve her in his notoriety. But he hoped for some sign that she’d understood his message. He didn’t care one snap of his fingers for social ruin. Let them bring it on! After an endless moment, she started to smile. He held her gaze until the smile seemed likely to turn to a laugh, then turned on his heel. His work here was done. He walked out of the room and the house.
* * *
“He threw it right over them,” Tom told an awed audience at the theater workshop the next day. He shook his head. “The look on his lordship’s face when he heaved that punch bowl. I’ll never forget it.”
“But why did he do it?” asked Miss Moran.
The three young ladies had shown up first thing, and Teresa’s suspicions that they had been in on the prank had been partly confirmed. They’d settled with a group of artisans in the courtyard to hear and rehash the tale.
“It was so unlike him,” declared Miss Deeping. “I’ve always found Lord Macklin stuffy.”
“But we know you are a poor judge of people, Charlotte,” said Miss Finch.
“I may miss some things, but I’m not usually that far off!”
“Yes, you are,” said Miss Moran. “Haven’t you noticed the twinkle in his eyes?”
He had done it for her, Teresa thought. She still couldn’t quite comprehend the enormity of it. The scene kept playing in her mind—the heft of the bowl, the slosh of the punch, the utter stupefaction of the three victims. And most vividly, the earl’s look at her afterward. His expression, his gaze, said that this was a message for her. A weird sort of gift. When she’d smiled at him, he’d looked…satisfied?
“His lordship didn’t say nothing to me about tossing punch,” replied Tom. “I reckon he decided to help Miss Grandison get back at her brother in the end.” Tom grinned. “She tried ever so hard not to look pleased, but she didn’t quite manage it.”
“Ada will be furious to have missed this,” said Miss Deeping.
“I’m right furious,” said Poppy, who’d joined the workshop staff only a few days ago and was settling in admirably. “What a sight to see. Why didn’t you take me along?” she asked Tom.
“I told you, I didn’t know what his lordship was going to do. And I couldn’t just march you into a grand society ball without an invitation, could I?”
“You think I couldn’t have done as well as Molly and Kate?” Poppy glared at him.
“You ain’t an actress.”
“Yet,” muttered Poppy.
“Ada wouldn’t have liked seeing her father embarrassed,” said Miss Moran.
“After the hints about an opera dancer?” said Miss Finch. “I disagree.”
“He looked so bewildered,” said Miss Deeping. “Even after Miss Grandison spoke up. He didn’t seem to have the least notion that his sister might resent the way he treated her years ago.”
“And so perhaps he deserved a shock,” replied Miss Finch. “How could anyone fail to realize that?”
Teresa wondered if kindness had been part of Lord Macklin’s motive. No. He was kind, but this wasn’t the sort of benevolence he practiced. He’d done it to show her that he meant what he said—he didn’t care a whit about society’s opinion of him. She also wondered how he was feeling this morning in the…aftermath of his outburst? Was he full of regret? She would hate to learn that he was sorry now. She half rose, full of a need to see him.
“The bald fellow, Trask, took it the best,” Tom went on. “After the first shock, he started laughing. With punch running down his bald head and onto his shoulders. The other one, Quigley, looked like he was going to explode. Lord Macklin might want to watch out for him.”
“He has already sent me a fiery protest,” said a deep voice from the courtyard doorway. Teresa turned with all the others to find the earl approaching. She sank back into her chair. “We are exchanging…correspondence, trying to avoid a duel,” he added. “I think we shall succeed if I offer up enough abject apologies. He is a high-court judge. He can hardly put a bullet in me.”
The earl joined them on a chorus of exclamations.
“I wouldn’t be too concerned,” he responded. “It is not exactly a matter of honor to be dowsed with rack punch. Quigley was not…impugned. Though we have not quite settled what it is.” He smiled.
Teresa could see no signs of regret in his face. He sounded much as usual. He looked as urbanely handsome and assured as ever.
“We are all wondering that,” said Miss Deeping. “Have you heard the wild theories racing around the ton?”
“I have not.” Lord Macklin looked merely amused.
Miss Deeping counted them off on her fingers. “One, the most convoluted—that Miss Julia Grandison knows some dark secret about you
and threatened to reveal it unless you did as she asked. Two, the strangest—that opera dancers have sent you out to pay off past humiliations. In a demented kind of chivalry. Several men have looked quite concerned about that one. And three, the simplest—that you’ve just gone mad. Of course.”
“Charlotte is making a chart,” said Miss Moran. “With subcolumns for what your dark secret might be and which gentlemen had best watch out for retribution.”
The earl burst out laughing. Teresa listened as if the sound might give her clues. It seemed a carefree laugh.
“Why did you do it?” asked Miss Finch.
“To make a point.”
“What point?” wondered Miss Moran.
Lord Macklin met Teresa’s eyes and held them as he said, “That I am quite willing to be notorious.”
There was no mistaking the message in his gaze. He had done this thing for her, to prove he meant what he’d said. And he had not changed his mind about marriage. Teresa’s pulse sped.
“Why would you want to be that?” asked Poppy. “Won’t it be a great trouble?”
“No. Not the least in the world.”
“But people might snub you,” said Miss Moran.
He turned and looked at her with slightly raised brows. His expression seemed politely inquiring, but Teresa could see the unshakable aplomb behind it. “If they like,” he said, his voice laden with indifference.
“They won’t,” said Tom. “Not his lordship. The gossips will yammer and sniggle, the dog-hearted foot lickers. And then I expect everybody’ll end up admiring him in the end.”
There were murmurs of general agreement. Teresa looked around the group. These individuals of different outlook and degree all thought Tom was right. She hadn’t taken the earl’s quality and history into account. He would not be scorned. He made that impossible.
He was watching her. Not like a cat waiting for a mouse to scurry past. More like a supplicant daring to hope. She felt her face heat with a dizzying mixture of anticipation and amazement and desire. Could it be happiness, trembling in the balance? She saw him recognize…something in her face.