Refuge for Masterminds

by Kathleen Baldwin

  We return to studying maps, until Mr. Peterson steps into the library to hand Miss Stranje a letter from Lady Jersey. “A word, miss, if I may?”

  Miss Stranje looks up from her correspondence. “What is it, Mr. Peterson?”

  “It’s about your dogs.” He aims a prickly glare in Tess’s direction. “They appear to be digging up the garden.”

  “Oh! That means Tromos is making her den.” Tess shoves a map of London rookeries at me and scoots back from the table. “She must be going to whelp soon.” She dashes out of the room.

  “A den?” Mr. Peterson does not look happy. “But, miss, what about the shrubberies?”

  “Nature, Mr. Peterson.” Miss Stranje smiles at him pleasantly. “It is a force beyond our control. Unless you would prefer to lend Tromos your bedroom so she can have her pups in privacy, I’m afraid nature must take its course.”

  He draws back so indignantly, anyone might think she’d told him to go hang himself.

  “Rest assured, Mr. Peterson, we shall have the damage repaired before we vacate the house.”

  This seems to mollify him somewhat. “Very good, miss. Do you wish me to serve dinner at half past six?”

  “That will be fine.” She opens Lady Jersey’s letter. As Mr. Peterson leaves the room my stomach growls in protest. Half past?

  “The sooner we accustom ourselves to life in London, the better.” Miss Stranje instructs as if I have complained aloud. “Our invitations for the Prince Regent’s soirée arrived.” She holds them up. “And Lady Castlereagh will send our vouchers for Almack’s tomorrow.”

  * * *

  We dine on a light supper of roast chicken and vegetables. It is a silent affair as most of us are quite hungry. Only Tess drags her fork around her plate, probably because she’s missing Lord Ravencross or worried about Tromos.

  “Finish your dinner, ladies. The gentlemen sent a note saying they will call at eight to proceed with Mr. Sinclair’s dancing lessons.” Miss Stranje drops these tidings into our plateful of silence. A fork loaded with chicken, potato, and carrot arrests halfway to my mouth. “They’re really going to take time for dance lessons?”

  Miss Stranje looks directly at me. “Do not underestimate the usefulness of proper dancing skills, Lady Jane.” She takes a bite of carrots and green beans. “Miss Wyndham, I noticed a pianoforte in the Grand Salon, perhaps you and Miss Barrington would be so kind as to provide the music for this endeavor. I would offer to do it, but this evening Captain Grey and I will have much to discuss regarding the Prince’s protection at the upcoming functions.”

  I ought to be there for those discussions, except I can’t very well teach Mr. Sinclair to dance at the same time. “Perhaps given the circumstances, we might postpone lessons for tonight—”

  “No, the soirée is tomorrow. He needs instruction. Moreover, I believe it is just the tonic we need.” She spreads butter on a roll and tips her knife subtly in Tess’s direction, pointing my attention to the fact that Tess is still dragging her fork halfheartedly around her plate. “Despite the seriousness of the situation, it is important we keep up our spirits and go on as if nothing is amiss. To that end, I have invited Lord Ravencross to join us for dancing this evening.”

  “He agreed to come?” Tess looks up and blinks with disbelief. “He hates dancing.”

  “That may be, but he sent a note of acceptance.” Miss Stranje’s mouth curves up on one side. “He is settled in at his townhouse, and says he’s looking forward to your company.”

  Tess flushes and makes quick work of her chicken.

  * * *

  After dinner, I make the rounds to each of the clocks, checking to see if they’re wound correctly and are actually ticking. They are. Can a second actually be that slow? Finally, eight o’clock arrives. Thanks to me, all the clocks in the house chime in perfect unison.

  “Do sit down, Lady Jane. Your pacing makes my head spin.” Miss Stranje is sitting with us in the Grand Salon, which serves as a ballroom. I sit, as ordered, but my leg jiggles up and down.

  Three minutes after the hour, Mr. Peterson ushers Lord Ravencross into the ballroom. He stands in the doorway running a finger around his collar, looking like a man trapped in a dress shop. Tess laughs, and strolls to him. “You’re the first one here.”

  “So it would seem. I can go and come back later if you wish.”

  “Courage, my lord. It is only dancing.” She holds out her hands to him.

  He takes one of them and bows over it. “I would trade it for a battlefield any day of the week.”

  “I don’t doubt that.” She smiles. “Since we are making confessions, I’ll admit I would trade everything I own for an empty field to run in.”

  “I wasn’t aware you owned anything.”

  “Didn’t you know? I’m heiress to a large estate in Tiddenham.”

  He stops mid-floor. “Are you?”

  She draws back with a grin. “I’m jesting. Poor as a church mouse. Not a farthing to call my own.”

  “Well then, at least there’s that.” He seems relieved. “If you want a field to run in, it looks as though you’ll have to marry me after all. Now, does this ballroom have a balcony? I confess I’d like some air.”

  The candles in the chandelier sputter when they open the balcony doors and step out into the night. A few minutes later, they return and Tess is blushing.

  At quarter past the appointed hour, Miss Stranje sets down her sewing and rises to greet the rest of our guests. Mr. Peterson announces Captain Grey, Lord Wyatt, and finally, Mr. Sinclair.

  The Grand Salon at Haversmythe House is painted an elegant soft blue with lavish white moldings. Queen Anne chairs, upholstered in a matching blue velvet, are arranged along the walls. Two enormous chandeliers hang from the ceiling. One is lit for this evening, and it glitters with fifteen brightly glowing candles. The floor is smooth and waxed to a brilliant shine. But the most notable feature is how perfectly this room sets off Mr. Sinclair’s features.

  He is clad in his new Corinthian black coat and navy blue breeches. I will not remark on how his hair glows in the candlelight, nor how the blue walls are a perfect foil for his angelic features. The effect is somewhat marred by the fact that he is smiling at me like a roguish pickpocket.

  He bows over my hand and one might almost think him a gentleman. I run through all the things I should like him to say.

  I’m yours to command, Lady Jane.

  You look perfectly stunning in that gown, my lady.

  My dearest Jane, I’ve been counting each torturous minute until this moment.

  To all these compliments, I plan to offer a ladylike laugh, and playfully scold him the way Lady Jersey would. I will say, mind your tongue, Alexander Sinclair, and then smile coyly.

  He rises from his bow, and I perform a slow languid curtsy.

  “All right, Lady Jane, what are you up to?” He stares down his nose at me. Which, by the way, looks as if it was broken at one time or another. There is a decided knot in the fine lines of the bone. “I see cogs turning in that dangerous little head of yours.”

  Dangerous. Not pretty. Of all the things he could’ve called my head, lovely, or even clever, he chooses to say dangerous. What’s worse, I am completely innocent of plotting at the moment. I was merely enjoying looking at him.

  “I’m not up to anything.” I cross my arms. “Why should I be?”

  “Because you always are.” He says this with a modicum of respect, as if it is not entirely an insult, even though it is. “Craftier than a mongoose chasing a cobra, you are. I never know what to expect.”

  A mongoose?

  Suddenly, I want to punch him. My fists are balled and I have half a mind to actually do the deed, except that would not be ladylike, and fortunately for him Captain Grey and Miss Stranje are approaching, otherwise I might fling caution to the wind and smack him properly, right there on his angelic cheek.

  Mongoose, indeed.

  Miss Stranje greets Mr. Sinclair, and says, “Lady Ja
ne, we will leave you and the others to instruct Mr. Sinclair on the finer points of our English country dances. Mind you, the gentlemen have an early morning tomorrow. So, you only have an hour and a half before they must take their leave.”

  Mr. Sinclair bows to her and holds out his arm to me. “I am ready for your instruction, my lady.”

  “I’m surprised you would trust a mongoose.”

  “With my life, your majesty.” He adds a jaunty smile. But his flippant remark, with my life, jolts me back to the cold cruel fact that his life may indeed rely on whether or not I can catch the cobra.

  My fists uncurl.

  Sixteen

  WALTZING WITH DANGER

  Maya plays the flute beautifully and Sera’s fingers dance over the pianoforte keys with admirable determination, considering it is in dire need of tuning. Meanwhile, Georgiana and Lord Wyatt, Tess and Lord Ravencross, and I, are doing our utmost to teach Mr. Sinclair, the most obstinate man on earth, steps to a simple country dance called La Boulangère. After cajoling and prodding, we managed to teach him how to weave in and out among the other couples. At least we did our best, considering there are only six of us, and it really requires at least eight.

  “No, no! That is not it at all.” I stop and gesture vehemently at Mr. Sinclair’s long lanky legs. “Your knees must rise higher. Like this.”

  “What do you mean?” He waves his hands at my gown. “I can’t see a thing. Your skirts are in the way.”

  I raise them, so he can see how to do a proper twirl and hop.

  He shakes his head. “Still can’t see it. Do it again.”

  I repeat the step, but this time Lord Wyatt sputters into a guffaw. I whirl around and see Alexander, the scoundrel, grinning and indicating I should lift my skirts even higher.

  “Wretch.” I drop my skirts. “You’ve seen more than enough. Now, you try.”

  “I can’t believe you expect me to hop.” He crosses his arms. “Lord Ravencross doesn’t prance around like a giant flapping goose.”

  “Well, but…” I sputter, not sure how to answer appropriately. “He was wounded in the war, which excuses him from such exertions.”

  Lord Ravencross grumbles something I can’t quite hear over the music.

  Alexander remains unmoved. “And what’s Lord Wyatt’s excuse?”

  Lord Wyatt waves away this line of defense. “Oh no, you cannot lay blame on me, my friend. I’m only doing this for your sake. I usually avoid dancing at all costs. I’m not about to leap around the ballroom like a ruddy gazelle.”

  Georgie laughs at Lord Wyatt’s quip, which does not assist me in teaching Mr. Sinclair the proper forms of skipping and leaping. “It is meant to be danced enthusiastically.” Annoyed, I wave my hands to explain. “With vigor. The higher a gentleman jumps the more impressive he is thought.”

  He remains skeptical.

  “Very well, I’m done cosseting you, Mr. Sinclair.” I cross my arms and lift my chin. “Do you wish to learn the steps, or not?”

  The piano and flute fade to a stop.

  “Cosseting?” His mouth falls open as if I have shocked him. “My dear Lady Jane, that is not cosseting. Wolverines have more patience than you do.”

  “How very flattering. First, you liken me to a mongoose, and now I’m a wolverine. I’m not sure if you have elevated me or demoted me in the animal kingdom.”

  “Oh, it’s a step up to be sure.” Alexander may not be willing to gallop around the ballroom floor, but mischief is always doing a spirited jig in his eyes. “Speaking of high stepping,” he says. “I find it hard to believe that a civilized country such as yours requires gentlemen to hop and skip around like a bunch of silly schoolboys.” He squints hard at me as if there is a smudge on my face.

  I brush the bridge of my nose. “What are you looking at?”

  “You. You’re playing a joke on me, aren’t you? I’ll look like a right fool in front of everyone at the soirée, and you’ll have a good laugh over it. That’s what you’re up to, isn’t it?” He appeals to the other gentlemen. “She’s jesting about this hopping and leaping business, isn’t she?”

  Lord Ravencross shrugs. “Dunno. I do my utmost to avoid balls.”

  No help at all.

  Lord Wyatt glances sideways at Georgie, and the two of them grin as if they are sharing some private joke.

  I press my hands against my hips to keep from flinging them in the air with exasperation. “How can you think I would play such a mean trick on you? Although, now that you mention it, I wish I had thought of it. Tell him, Sera. Tell him I’m not making this up.”

  Sera plunks the out-of-tune G on the pianoforte. “She’s telling you the truth, Mr. Sinclair. English gentlemen jump, and twirl, and prance across the ballroom floor. It is the nature of our country dances.” She leans back over the pianoforte and ripples her fingers over the keys. “Perhaps we should try a waltz. It might be more to his liking.”

  “No.” I stomp my slipper against the floorboards. “Not until he’s proficient with La Boulangère.”

  Sera shakes her head. “He knows the steps. He simply doesn’t want to do them.” She plays the opening strains of a waltz with as much volume as the old instrument will allow.

  I purse my lips at Sera. “I thought you were my friend.”

  “I am.” She smiles to herself and continues playing. Maya joins in the one-two-three, one-two-three, flowing tempo of a waltz.

  I am outnumbered.

  Overruled.

  Mr. Sinclair holds out his hand. “Come, Lady Jane. Complete my education.” He uses a rakishly seductive tone.

  “Don’t be impertinent.” I refuse to look at him. “I’m not at all certain this is proper. Young ladies aren’t supposed to participate in a waltz until one of the Patronesses has granted permission.” I glance around the room, and without regard for the rules, the others are already waltzing.

  He moves closer. “From what I saw in the parlor yesterday, my lady, those high-and-mighty Patronesses would do more than grant you permission. They would command you to dance with me immediately. So, if you want to do what is right and proper—”

  “Oh you! You heedless American. What do you know about what is proper?”

  “Heedless? Me? You wound me. I’m a very considerate fellow. Not heedless at all.” He leans close and whispers, “Didn’t I carry you when you lost your shoe…” He straightens. “Oh, now I see. You didn’t mean heedless, you meant to call me a heathen.” The wretch stretches out his hand, awaiting mine.

  “No doubt, you really are a heathen.” I study the ceiling briefly, then glance to the floor, anywhere but at his eyes. I know what I’ll find there, and I know how it will dissolve whatever is left of my resistance. I exhale loudly. “I daresay, you are the most persistent gentleman I have ever met.”

  “Persistent, yes. But a gentleman? I’m surprised to hear you say so.” His melt-butter grin renders me helpless to resist. His hand still awaits mine, open and inviting. If he were not six feet tall and golden-haired, I might think him a devilish imp sent to lure me into misbehaving. I place my hand in his palm. Glove to glove. And yet, the heat of his hand warms me through.

  I make the mistake of looking up to see if he feels it. Alexander is staring at my fingers clasped in his hand, his lips part gently as if it surprises him, too. I forget how much I crave the inviting lines of his mouth.

  A litany of warnings spring to mind.

  This is too great a risk. I’m contracted to marry someone else.

  You will leave soon. You’ll sail off to America and forget all about me.

  And break my heart—what little there is left of it.

  I ought to run from the room.

  But I don’t. Instead, I watch as he swallows, and savor the slow uneasy bob of his Adam’s apple. “Now what?” he asks, in far too husky a voice.

  “Now…” I don’t care if you are leaving soon, I want you to kiss me. I gulp down a hot blast of bashfulness that singes my cheeks. “Now, you must pay
careful attention.”

  Not that you aren’t already paying too close attention, studying me as if you wish we were alone.

  I nervously place my other hand on his shoulder, and do my best to play teacher. “Your right hand is supposed to rest lightly on my upper back, just beneath my shoulder.”

  His palm slides into place and my breath catches.

  “Like so?”

  I can only nod as the touch of his gloved hand on my back makes prickles of excitement race down my arms.

  A blotchy scarlet flush crawls up the inside of his neck and floods his cheeks. “And, um … what do we do now?” He inhales deeply, squares his jaw, and tugs me closer.

  I cannot look up at him, afraid of what I might do. I glance down at our feet and struggle to breathe evenly. “It’s a box step. You step forward, one. Two, to the side, and three, backward.”

  “One. Two. Three. Like this?” He takes over from there, with none of the hesitancy he’d shown on La Boulangère.

  “Exactly. If you would like to do a more sweeping turn, we simply take a wider step like—” I make the mistake of trying to guide him. We tangle and nearly stumble. He clutches me tighter and corrects our misstep.

  I glance up. Which proves an even graver error. Our mouths are perilously close. My lips part, and suddenly it is as if the ocean is roaring in my ears, and I smell the tang of salt in the air. Memories of that night wash over me. It feels as if we are back on the cliffs, when we …

  He leans nearer, and I know he, too, is remembering that night and the softness of our lips touching.

  Except we are not on the cliffs of Stranje House. We are in Mayfair. In a room surrounded by onlookers. We cannot—we must not—kiss here.

  There is a scandalously narrow distance between us. As we move into the next step, I ease further away from him. “The Patronesses have rules about the waltz. There must be two feet between us.”

  “Two feet,” he mutters, as if it grieves him. “And will these Patronesses bring a measuring rod to the ball?” He does that thing again, twists his features into such overdone earnestness, that I can scarcely keep from laughing.