by Julia Kelly
She needed to focus. The spark of hunger in his eyes when he’d asked her if she’d loved Julian was unmistakable. He was just like all the rest of those wretched journalists—ambitious, with no regard for the lives they slashed and burned along the way. Well, she was not going to be the woman to give him satisfaction.
She was trying to think of ways she could get through the meal without speaking to him further when the door to the dining room swung open and in strode Trevlan. Her brother’s friend flashed a smile at their hostess and bowed deeply.
“My apologies for being detained,” he said.
“Not at all, Mr. Trevlan. We’ve saved a seat for you,” said Mrs. Sullivan, giving him her hand. “You’re next to Miss Burkett. Have you two had the pleasure of being introduced?”
“We met just last week,” said Caroline with a nod to the gentleman.
“And I’m pleased to have the privilege of getting to know you better,” he said, sliding into his chair.
She could practically feel Moray tense in the chair next to her. When she stole a look at him, however, his expression was blank.
“Tell me, Mr. Trevlan, what did you think of the play last week?” she asked as the conversation once again began to flow around them.
“It was very French,” Trevlan said as he shook out his napkin just as the footmen began to serve a lobster salad.
She laughed. “Well, yes. One expects that from Molière.”
“But what are we supposed to think of it all?” asked Trevlan. “The hero spends the whole play trying to tell people they should speak frankly to one another, insults everyone, and gives up and goes into exile at the end.”
“I think the playwright is warning us to be wary of those who are too easy with friendship,” she said.
Trevlan looked at her rather doubtfully so she added, “Don’t you remember the line, ‘Your friendship comes at far too cheap a price; I spurn the easy tribute of a heart which will not set a man apart.’ ”
“But Molière also writes, ‘When someone greets us with a show of pleasure, it’s but polite to give him equal measure,’ ” said Moray.
Of course the man knew the perfect line to contradict her. Of course he did.
“I hardly thought you would be the sort of man to fixate on advice about decorum and etiquette,” she shot back.
“It’s necessary to know the rules before one breaks them,” Moray said with a grin.
“Well, I’ve been left in no doubt of your enjoyment of that,” she shot back.
Trevlan’s lips twisted into a grimace. “Enough of plays. They’re one of those dreary things one must attend when in the city. Like the opera.”
“You prefer the country then?” she asked, a little disappointed. She loved opera, with its beautiful music and often absurd dramatics.
Trevlan’s eyes lit up. “There is nothing better. Fresh air, open land, and plenty of sport. Do you hunt, Miss Burkett?”
“I don’t,” she said. “I grew up mostly in London and haven’t had the pleasure.”
Not that she was particularly keen on racing at breakneck speed over rough terrain. She could hold her own on horseback at an easy pace, but she was by no means expert, like some of the terrifying sporting girls who went tearing through Hyde Park when their families dragged them down to London each season in hopes of finding them equally athletic husbands.
“The Bilsdale Hunt was excellent this year. Good Yorkshire terrain and it only rained a few days,” Trevlan said, clearly ignoring her admission that she didn’t hunt.
“Do you not desist in the rain?” she asked.
“Some do,” said Trevlan, making it clear that he was not so weak-willed.
Nothing could be less appealing to her than the idea of cold, wet hours in the saddle, riding around looking for a little fox so that a team of dogs could rip it apart.
But then her own words to Mrs. Sullivan not a week before came back to her—I can’t afford to be particular—and so she steeled herself for an entire evening of conversation about foxhunting.
As it would turn out, Trevlan could speak about more than riding to hounds. He was quite knowledgeable about horses, his fellow riders, and the hounds themselves. He also regaled her with stories of hunting grouse—“The glorious twelfth should be declared a national holiday,” he’d said of the first day of the shooting season—and gave her his opinion on steeplechasing. He had plans to travel down for Ascot and then see about purchasing some hunters while he was in England. He also sailed at Cowes Week.
Never once did he ask her a question about herself. Never once did the conversation deviate from sport. What had started out as a rather lively dinner party with a clash of wills between her and Moray had quickly become one of the most boring evenings of her life. Still, she wasn’t about to give up. Not when there were a finite number of men to marry in Edinburgh, and this one seemed to like talking to her.
While she was trying to figure out the best way to insert herself into a one-sided conversation about fly-fishing in mountain-fed Highland streams, she couldn’t help overhearing Moray’s conversation with a pretty, bespectacled bluestocking on his left.
“But how can you say that the law does enough when a lady still must give up any property she’s held before marriage to her husband?” the woman was saying about the Married Women’s Property Act, which had passed several years ago.
“In that we’re in agreement,” he said. “A woman’s property should be her own regardless of when she acquired it. What I’m arguing is that the new bill granting those rights will never pass the House of Commons as it currently stands.”
Caroline had followed the marriage reform law with great interest because her father had distinct opinions about it, and she was about to jump in when Trevlan said her name.
“Yes, sir?” she asked hopefully. Perhaps he’d actually ask her a question and they might have a real conversation.
“Do you know how to tie a fly?”
Her face fell. “No, I don’t.”
“Well, it’s rather tricky . . .”
Caroline slumped in her chair as much as propriety and her corset would allow and prayed the pudding course would be served quickly.
Chapter Seven
CAROLINE SHED TREVLAN after the first dance of the evening. The doors dividing Mrs. Sullivan’s two drawing rooms were folded back and the carpet removed. A trio of musicians had set themselves up in the corner and were playing a mix of reels and waltzes.
Two dozen more people had streamed into the house at ten o’clock as the gentlemen and ladies reunited following their after-dinner repose, and the floor was filled. She’d danced with Trevlan once and then with a widowed gentleman named Gent and the engineer, who she’d learned was named Holbrooke. Now she stood watching the couples spin to a fast polka, hiding her smile at Michael’s stiff back and grimace as he maneuvered the space with a Mrs. McKenzie.
“How was your dinner conversation?” a voice from over her shoulder asked.
She kept her eyes on the dancers, knowing all too well the owner of that rich timbre. “Quite pleasant. How was yours?”
“Mrs. Archer is admirably knowledgeable about the Married Women’s Property Act, but then I’ve always found suffragists to be so. My managing editor, Mrs. Wilis, is an unapologetic supporter of a woman’s right to vote and hold her own property, and can likely out-argue most politicians on the subject. Where do you stand, Miss Burkett?”
“With your Mrs. Wilis. The more independence a woman can exert, the better,” she said, thinking of her own predicament of needing Michael’s support.
“You’re positively revolutionary, Miss Burkett. I’m taken aback,” he teased.
She shrugged. “I’m practical, and because of that, I know you’re right about the bill not being able to pass the House of Commons.”
He grinned. “I don’t know whether to be more shocked that you’ve found something you agree with me on or that you were eavesdropping.”
“I’d
hardly call it eavesdropping when you were sitting next to me,” she said with a scowl.
“Your attention wasn’t arrested by the intricacies of foxhunting?”
“I find it to be a brutal, unfair sport.”
“I don’t disagree,” he said.
“I thought that all gentlemen enjoyed the thrill of the hunt.”
“I’ve never hunted,” he said, his tone suddenly touched with frost. “As you say, that would require being a gentleman.”
She looked at his impeccable clothes. She had noted the polished tone of his voice, softened only by the light lyric burr of what she guessed was a Highland heritage. She’d stolen glances at him at the theater and over dinner, and she could tell he was easy with other men and charming to women he wasn’t pestering for a story. She imagined he’d be a sought-after guest for Saturday-to-Mondays, making lively conversation with fellow guests at sprawling house parties and offering some relief to hostesses expected to carry all of the entertainments.
“You surprise me, sir,” she said. “I would have thought you’d jump at the opportunity to ride to hounds.”
“I enjoy a good ride as much as the next man, but hunting requires either grounds of one’s own or an invitation from someone who has them. I wasn’t exactly to the manner born, and although I find my invitations in the city to be numerous, those country house parties are rare.”
Her cheeks flushed. “I didn’t mean to pry or imply—”
“Imply what? That I’m not quite of the leisure class? I suppose I should be flattered that you might mistake me for a gentleman by birth.”
She pursed her lips, knowing that to say anything else could earn her even more censure. She might not like this man, but she’d never insult him regarding something so out of his control as his birth. He had wealth and power, but to many of these people he’d still be an outsider. In some ways she understood. She’d been born a gentleman’s daughter, but she’d been elevated by her engagement into a social class otherwise unattainable by her.
“My apologies. I didn’t mean to make it seem that I think any less of a man who’s made his way in the world,” she said quietly.
The tightness of his jaw released and the slow smile he wore so easily once again slid over his lips.
“Even if it’s with newspapers?” he asked.
She sucked in a breath and nodded. “Even then.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. Then he bowed. “I’ll bid you good night, Miss Burkett.”
“You’re leaving?” she asked in surprise.
“I am.”
“But you haven’t danced.”
Then she blushed. That made her sound as though she’d been keenly watching his every move.
“Not tonight. I’m afraid that newspapers don’t put themselves out. Perhaps another time, however, there might be a dance for me on your card,” he said.
“I didn’t say I wanted a dance with you,” she said in a rush.
“And I didn’t ask.” He grinned. “And yet.”
She watched him slip away through the crowd, a flash of broad back and dark hair, and then he was gone.
And yet.
“Don’t be disappointed, dear,” said a voice at her right.
She looked over, her gaze falling on a woman with faded, curling blond hair whose long train was nearly as wide as the woman was tall.
“I beg your pardon,” said Caroline. “Have we met?”
“Mrs. Flora Weir. You’ll excuse me for introducing myself. I know it’s not done, but we were sat too far apart at dinner and Moira is currently occupied with her little group of followers,” said the lady, nodding to where Mrs. Sullivan stood surrounded by men, young and old.
“Miss Caroline Burkett,” said Caroline, dipping into a curtsy.
“I find the practice of waiting for an introduction to be tiresome. One risks never meeting anyone interesting.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Caroline. “Well, it is a pleasure.”
“Now, if not Mr. Moray, then who?” asked Mrs. Weir.
Caroline started again. “I don’t know what you mean.”
The lady leveled a look at her. “Moira is my dearest friend, and I know that she never has a dinner party followed by dancing if there isn’t a motive behind it.”
“Doesn’t she?” asked Caroline.
Mrs. Weir shook her head. “I’ve learned as much over the years.”
If this lady understood as much about Mrs. Sullivan based on casual observation, surely someone else would have figured out that she’d employed the matchmaker. She wanted a husband, yes, but she didn’t want to earn a reputation as a desperate spinster along the way. Not while her name was once again splashed across scandal sheets and society pages.
“Oh, don’t fret,” said Mrs. Weir, her tone now almost soothing. “Most people never see what’s before their eyes. The ones who dined with us will think of nothing more than how witty and intelligent they must be to have made it to Moira’s table, and the ones who joined for dancing will hardly know who was here before.
“So you’re searching for a husband,” continued Mrs. Weir cheerfully.
“Oh, do stop bothering her, Flora,” said Mrs. Sullivan, who had extricated herself from her little group to join them. “You must forgive her, Miss Burkett. Flora is something far worse than a gossip.”
“What’s that?” Caroline asked in a faint voice.
“A person who gathers information to her like a dragon hoarding gold,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
“Do you know the idiom about the pot calling the kettle black?” argued Mrs. Weir.
“It’s my vocation. You’re merely nosy,” said the matchmaker.
“All the better to advise Miss Burkett,” said Mrs. Weir brightly.
“And what, pray tell, is the matter you’re giving Miss Burkett counsel about?” asked Mrs. Sullivan.
“I was simply pointing out that Mr. Moray never dances,” said Mrs. Weir with a sniff.
Mrs. Sullivan inclined her head. “That is true.”
“What of Mr. Carlson? He just arrived,” said Mrs. Weir indicating discreetly to a tall man with a shock of red hair who was scanning the room with his hands behind his back.
“What is he like?” Caroline asked.
“The eldest child of Mr. and Mrs. Carlson. He has two sisters, Eloisa and Georgette. Mr. Carlson own a brickworks in Falkirk. Their money is new but the family is utterly respectable,” said Mrs. Weir. When the lady glanced at Caroline, she smiled. “There’s no use in being a nosy gatherer of gossip if I don’t remember it.”
Caroline laughed as Mrs. Sullivan gave a long-suffering sigh.
“And is he . . . ?” Caroline trailed off.
“Looking for a wife?” asked Mrs. Sullivan. “Let’s see, why don’t we? Stay here for five minutes, please.”
Mrs. Sullivan glided off, and Mrs. Weir turned a sparkling set of eyes on her. “Just wait. Now, how are you finding Edinburgh?”
Sure enough, after five minutes of polite conversation with Mrs. Weir, Caroline heard a slight cough to her left. When she turned, she found herself standing in front of Mr. Carlson and Mrs. Sullivan.
“Miss Burkett, my dear Mr. Carlson expressed a particular interest in meeting you,” said Mrs. Sullivan with a dazzling smile.
Mr. Carlson bowed. “A pleasure, Miss Burkett. I understand you’re newly arrived in Scotland.”
“I lived in London until recently,” she said.
“If you’ll permit me, I’ll introduce you to my sister Eloisa. She had a London season for her coming out, and now she speaks of little else,” he said. Then his eyes flitted to a spot over her shoulder. “Ah, here she is now.”
A slender girl with the same shock of red hair but with rather faded features glided up and took her brother’s arm. “Hello, Mrs. Sullivan, Mrs. Weir. Charles,” Eloisa said, casting an openly curious eye over Caroline.
“Miss Caroline Burkett, this is my sister Eloisa Carlson,” Mr. Carlson said.
<
br /> Miss Carlson’s eyes narrowed and there was a distinct chill in her voice when she said, “I know Miss Burkett by reputation.”
Mr. Carlson had the good manners to look perplexed by his sister’s sudden change in mood.
“Miss Carlson, I was hoping you would make your way over here,” said Mrs. Sullivan quickly. “Flora was just telling me how much she admires your dress.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Weir quickly. “Such pretty detail. You must tell us the name of your dressmaker.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Carlson quickly. Then she tugged on her brother’s arm. “Mamma said that she needs you urgently, Charles.”
“She looks perfectly happy with Georgette,” he said, gesturing to an older woman with an ostrich plume stuck in her hair, who sat chatting with a young lady dressed in white silk.
Miss Carlson gave a tight smile but then glared at Caroline. “Forgive us. It really is urgent.”
Caroline’s heart sank through the floor. This was what she’d feared when Moray had approached her that first night in the theater. She could weather the articles and the reporters writing about her, but it was the censure that hurt. One by one she’d seen her friends and acquaintances turn their backs on her because she’d become too notorious. Too dangerous to know.
“Eloisa, Mamma does not need us and you are being unforgivably rude to Miss Burkett,” said Mr. Carlson. His misplaced chivalry made Caroline want to sink through the floor.
Mrs. Sullivan stepped forward. “Miss Burkett, your color is a little high. Perhaps you’d like to—”
“She’s the woman Georgette and I were telling you about,” his sister hissed. “The one from the paper.”
That was all it took for the damage to be done. Mr. Carlson’s forehead wrinkled and his lips thinned.
“Please excuse me, ladies,” he said. “I must attend to my mother.”
He walked off as though he couldn’t put the entire length of the ballroom between them fast enough. With a look of satisfaction, his sister turned to follow.
“The rudeness of that girl,” said Mrs. Weir.
“And her brother. It appears I shall have to reconsider inviting the Carlsons to any further engagements in my home,” said Mrs. Sullivan. “I apologize for the great misjudgment of character on my part, Miss Burkett.”