by Anne Mallory
“I’d never dare, countess. Not unless it was a step toward you.”
“Still as knavish as ever.”
“Still as sharp as the most razor-edged of blades.”
The countess gave her intricately coiffed hair a pat. “Always. Now, what have we here.” Sharp icy blue eyes swung Miranda’s way, pinning her. Everyone else in the house had glanced right over her, but not this woman. The ruler of them all.
“This is merely Miss Miranda Chase, countess.” The edge of his mouth curled, a tendril lifting in the breeze. “A lowly shopgirl.”
“Mmmm. As if you would bring someone lowly to me, Downing.” The countess walked around her, examining her. “Where are you from, girl?”
“Leicestershire, my lady. Then Main Street Books and Printers on Bond.”
The countess tilted her head, just a small movement beneath her mountain of hair and ornament. “A small shop, but with a good reputation.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Miranda tried not to stumble over her words.
The countess perused her for another second, then turned to the viscount. “Well then, Downing. What do you have for me to sniff my nose at today?”
“A twelfth-century illumination.” He untucked an edge of the cloth bundle. The gilt edges caught the light before he pulled the covering back over it.
The countess’s face showed nothing, and neither did her posture. “I have many illuminations, Downing.”
“But you haven’t seen this one, countess.”
She examined him, a look that would make most grown men cower. The viscount maintained his indolent pose under her regard. It was just respectful enough not to be insolent. The countess looked at Miranda speculatively. “To the judgment room then in ten minutes, shall we? I have to deal with this rabble first.”
Miranda trailed behind as they walked, feeling like a puppy caught in her own leash. The two separated, the countess turning into the middle of the room and its inhabitants. Downing going toward a hall, his steps slowing to a crawl, forcing her to catch up.
She’d rather have stayed behind him, but every time she slowed, he did as well. Soon they’d be inching forward on their toes, odd ducks waddling in a desert. She gave in and increased her pace, pulling alongside him.
They entered a magnificent room full of odd and eclectic items and gadgets. A spinning globe stood in the center, and the viscount spun it as he passed. The glitter of the gold meridians was mesmerizing. She couldn’t help stopping and observing it. She touched it with one finger, then withdrew her finger just as quickly. She glanced up to see the viscount watching her.
“I’m sorry, I just—”
“Sorry about what? Touching the countess’s cheap globe?”
Her chin dropped an inch, and her finger rose again to touch the wonder. “It isn’t cheap.”
The viscount’s brow rose challengingly, but she could see the satisfied edge to his smile. She narrowed her eyes. “What game do you play?”
“Me? Oh, but to which one do you refer?”
She shook her head and looked at the globe, giving it a gentle spin. “It’s lovely.” Her finger absently traced the lines of the Continent, touching Italy, pulling back to rest upon France.
“Have you ever visited?”
“What?” She looked up, then down again. She hastily picked up her finger. “Oh, no. When would I?”
“Your uncle doesn’t do trade in Paris?”
“Sometimes. But couriers travel between.”
“You should go.” He leaned against the marble stand of an ancient display, a priceless Greek bust peering down imperiously.
She gave a humorless laugh. “You sound like Georgette.”
“Your friend?”
Georgette would be beyond pleased that he knew her name. Might just push Miranda into the Thames and take her place as threatened.
“Yes, she is always telling me to leave my silly thoughts behind and go.” She grimaced, thinking about Mr. Pitts. “Everyone is always telling me to leave and see the world.”
He pushed away from the stand and took her hand, pulling his fingers along her cut-rate glove. “I’ll take you.”
She laughed, the pitch a little too high. “I think you might grow bored, my lord, before we even catch sight of the sea.”
“You think I can’t roam a museum without dissolving into ennui?”
“Not bored by that.” Though she couldn’t see him studying a piece of art for hours. Not with the way his hands constantly moved or his expression changed with the shadows. Not with how he took every quiet opportunity to further the challenge between them.
“I don’t believe you. You think I can’t appreciate simple beauty.”
She looked around the room, at the expensive décor and intricate pieces. “In my experience, the Quality tend to like more complicated things.”
“You’ve been reading the gossip columns far too long.”
“And you’ve been gracing them for far longer, I think. In increasingly complicated schemes.”
“I’m pleased you’ve been paying attention.” He smiled lazily. “But it proves another point—that you read the gossip columns rather than experience such things yourself.”
“Living the life written within would hardly suit me.”
“Mmmm.” His head tilted. “Have dinner with me.”
She froze. “Pardon me?”
“Vauxhall.”
“Vauxhall.”
His mouth quirked. “Gardens.”
“Vauxhall Gardens.”
“You’ve heard of them then.” The edges of his mouth curved fully as she responded to the teasing with a glare. “Dinner.”
“I don’t think that wise,” she somehow managed to answer, if faintly.
“Who said anything about being wise? Really, Miranda, I thought you knew me better than that by now.”
She didn’t know which was the more perilous—that she thought she might know something about the enigmatic man in front of her or that she was as much in the dark as the rest of London.
He smiled slowly. “There is a masked party there tonight. Everyone will be costumed. And it just so happens that I have a domino that will perfectly suit you.”
“That is absurd.”
He lifted a brow. “Many people have extras in case someone should visit.”
“Not that. Well, yes, that too. But the other. The reference to suiting me. The offer.”
“You want me to rephrase it?”
“I am scarcely your usual company.” She tried to tug her hand away. “I’m hardly versed in dinner conversation appropriate to the type of dinner you’d have at Vauxhall.”
“I like your conversation the way it is. I choose my own company.” His fingers stayed curled around hers, and he tapped her wrist with one long, extended finger. “And I choose you.”
“I—”
“Much merrymaking and unwise actions will ensue.”
“I—”
“You will be surprised what a little costume can do for overcoming your shyness.”
“I’m not shy,” she said without thinking.
He lazily smiled, and his smallest finger moved, grazing the edge of her palm. “Excellent then.”
“I haven’t consented to anything.” Her voice went a little high.
“Would you like me to help with that? To choose for you? You just needing to follow and be free?”
There was something very uncomfortable about the sentiment and the way he said it. As if he knew her mind.
Before she could answer, Lady Banning strode back into the room. Miranda tugged her hand free of the viscount’s. He seemed willing to keep it indefinitely otherwise. She colored, but Lady Banning gave only the barest hint of a reaction that she had seen any of it.
“Up to your tricks, Downing? Or do you really have something worth viewing?” The countess held out her hand.
The viscount tipped the bundle so the book fell into her palm. Lady Banning showed the first hint of emotion
as her fingers hurried to steady the book.
She gave the viscount a frosty glare. He looked innocently back.
“One of these days you are going to test me beyond repair, Downing.”
“Never. You find me too amusing.”
She gave him another frosty stare, then looked to the book. “It’s adequate.”
He lazily leaned against the marble stand once more and twirled a hand. “Barely acceptable.”
“I highly dislike you, Downing.”
“Alas, I live for your favor.”
The countess spared a glance for Miranda. “Girl, I hope you know what you are getting yourself into with this one.”
Miranda’s eyes widened like the rabbit she often felt akin to in the viscount’s presence.
The countess’s eyes narrowed and turned back to the viscount. “Downing.” There was a warning in the word.
For the first time during the conversation, the viscount’s posture changed from the lazy regard he had maintained throughout. A minute tightening, but present nevertheless.
Lady Banning stared at him for another second, then looked back to the book. “Tell me of it, then.”
The viscount’s body returned to its former liquid ease. “It’s a book.”
“You try my patience, Downing, and I have little of it to spare.” Lady Banning turned to her. “Miss Chase. What can you tell me of this tome? I assume Downing has brought you here to verify the provenance in the absence of his good manners.”
Miranda gingerly took the illumination in her gloved hands and studied it. “The paper is correct. The writing seems appropriate for the twelfth century.”
She delicately turned the pages. “The illustrations are of the right variety. The condition is excellent.”
It was a remarkable thing. Though she felt awkward skimming sections hailing the glory of chastity after devouring the illicit tome hidden in her room.
“It’s not a fourteenth-century scandal, but still admirable.” The countess pursed her lips.
Miranda tried not to turn bright red. Had the countess read her mind?
“Admirable,” the viscount said in the lazy tone he had uttered acceptable previously.
The countess gave him a sharp look. “Very well, Downing. The girl has just confirmed what I already knew. As did you. What do you want?”
“You know what I want.”
Her lips pinched together, and she stood silent for a second. Then she snapped her fingers, and a servant smoothly dislodged from his position by the door and presented himself in the center of the room.
“Fetch the parcel.”
The servant nodded and slipped away, obviously already knowing where to go and what his mistress was referring to.
The servant reappeared with a bundle. The countess snapped her fingers toward the viscount. The servant held the bundle forward with both hands extended.
Downing took it, a faint smile touching his lips before he unwrapped the sturdy cloth binding similar to the one in which his illumination had been stored. John Fennery would be pleased that his newly created preservation cloths were seeing such diligent use by the wealthy of the land.
There was a folio inside, not the book she had expected.
She looked over, her curiosity overcoming her manners. It looked like the quill drippings of a quick hand scribbling a draft. She squinted her eyes and made out a few names and notes. Viola. Sebastian. Orsino.
She blinked and leaned toward him. There were a number of sentences crossed out. Others penned over them, under them, to the side.
“Is that…?” She let her words trail.
“Merely a few scribbles.” The viscount tucked the pages back into the folio.
“A good head on her shoulders. And better in all ways than your usual fare.” The countess gazed at her, eyes narrowed, then turned her head to stare at the viscount. “How did you find her?”
“I diligently searched beneath a stack of books.”
“Mmmmm. And here I thought you barely knew how to read, Downing. Though I suppose you could have just pushed them to the side in your haste to find a new skirt.”
“I’m gutted, countess.”
She snorted. A very genteel, lofty snort. “How I’d like to see it, Downing. Do leave a card when it occurs.”
He bowed. “Of course.”
“I’ve heard rumors that you are looking for more…permanence.”
“Rumors often reflect the wishes of others.”
“And yet once in a while they prove true.”
“Respectability has never suited me.”
The countess sniffed. “As if you could be respectable. I said ‘permanence.’ An entirely different meaning.”
“And yet they are similar in many minds.”
The countess surveyed him. “Are they similar in yours, is the question. I’m inclined to lend the rumors some credence in this instance. There is something different about you, Downing, these last few months.”
“I confess to letting my hair grow a mite too long. I shall beat my valet posthaste.”
“Hmph.” Her eyes narrowed. “And yet…yes, I do wonder.” She abruptly turned to Miranda. “Good afternoon to you, Miss Chase. It has been a most interesting one so far.”
Miranda bowed low. “Good afternoon, my lady. It was a pleasure.”
“Oh, I expect our paths will cross again. Do stop by the salon next week, with or without Downing.” She said it as if she hadn’t just issued one of the most coveted invitations in London. She turned to the viscount. “Downing.”
The viscount bowed again, but more stiffly.
Miranda walked from the house in a trance. She didn’t remember getting into the carriage. “Actual foul papers. Original writings for The Twelfth Night…” she murmured as they softly rocked. “How on earth did she obtain them?”
“The countess is quite adept at procuring what she wants.”
“I’m surprised she agreed to the trade.” She shook her head. To find notes for the plays, or any of Shakespeare’s other works, was very rare, almost mythical. The foul papers or notes inevitably slipped into vaults—snapped up before reaching the public.
“There was never a doubt.” He lazily tapped a finger on the seat. “The countess is mad for illuminations. I save them especially for her. She’ll trade near anything for them. This trade required three of them, this one being the final tome, but it was well worth it.”
Miranda’s heart stopped beating for a second. The countess had mentioned fourteenth-century scandalous texts—which in retrospect, and without her overriding embarrassment coloring her hearing, pointed to a preference for that fare. And if Miranda weren’t mistaken, that was what she had been secretly, studiously, paging through again the night before at home. “I…I must return your illumination.”
He raised a brow. “Why ever would you do that?”
“I should never have taken it anyway.” What had she been thinking? She hadn’t. Just like she often stopped breathing when he was around. The illumination was doubly valuable if he could use it to trade with the countess. “It is too valuable.”
“Nonsense.”
“Hardly nonsense,” she argued.
“I wouldn’t have given it to you if I’d needed to keep it.”
“But—”
“You are obviously enjoying it.” His eyes sifted over her. “I hope you are enjoying it at least. I want you to have it.”
A buzzing began just beneath her thoughts, under her skin.
“Just as I want you to accompany me to the gardens.”
“Oh?” To put into practice the illuminated illustrations, to answer the siren’s call, to feel truly alive.
“A reward to you for returning my books to me last week.” His lazy speech was in direct opposition to the increased buzzing, the feelings and desires sifting beneath the surface.
She strove to answer as lightly. “You deliberately avoided taking the books. I could do nothing but return them.”
One l
ong finger wove a slow pattern on his knee. “Then for putting together my library.”
“You are paying me.”
“Then for brightening my day.” He smiled. Slowly. Fully. Her heart skipped a beat. Silly, dangerous thoughts and feelings. “Say you will go.” His voice was low and whiskey-laced.
She couldn’t go. It was madness.
Her mother’s ghost would forever haunt her, the academy would bar her from ever entering again. Georgette would kill her for refusing. Her uncle wouldn’t notice either way.
Mr. Pitts’s scathing voice echoed in her mind—decide for yourself.
She was going to say no. Tell him that she wasn’t interested. Not in attending a lavish dinner at Vauxhall—as assuredly the viscount would provide. Not in attending a masquerade where she could be anyone she wished amidst the thousands of fairy lamps and the fireworks.
Not in going with the viscount—the most interesting man she’d ever met who didn’t reside somewhere behind a pen. A husky siren who promised to teach her things she’d never dreamed.
“Very well,” she heard her voice say, far away, almost out of her control.
He leaned back against the seat with a satisfied smile. “Excellent.”
They stopped a few seconds later. She was still trying to process that she’d said yes. And meant it.
She realized they should have stopped long before now. That she had been so absorbed with the aftermath of their visit, with the man in front of her, with her thoughts, that she hadn’t even paid attention to the ride. To the carriage and death trap. “Where are we?”
“At the dressmaker. You need something to wear tonight.”
“I only just agreed to…” She let the rest of the sentence trail, the flood of feeling tightening. “I suppose I am as easily predictable as the next woman.”
He tilted his head. “Not predictable.”
“Well, you certainly guessed correctly that I would agree to attend.”
“I was hoping.” A sly twist of his lips caused her to bite her own. The carriage door opened.
She stared at him and tried to be light over the conflicting feelings within. She desired this. And if she chose this path, she must guard her heart. “I thought you said you had a domino?”
“A domino wraps the package. You need a dress beneath.”