by Amelia Grey
“Heaven have mercy, Millicent, you do try me. Why, in heaven’s name, would you think our readers would appreciate an opening like that?” Beatrice sighed heavily and slowly brushed Hamlet’s coat.
Millicent had no idea how her aunt could be so coherent at this time of the morning. It was dawn and here they were in her aunt’s bedroom with lamps turned high, putting the finishing touches to Lord Truefitt’s column so that it could appear in the afternoon paper. Millicent thought her opening had been a perfect depiction of the events of the Season.
It would be best for her to cajole her aunt and not try to upset her. Millicent would tweak the writings before putting them in an envelope to be taken to the address where her aunt dropped off the column each morning.
“Truly, Aunt, don’t get upset. Remember it concerns Hamlet when you fret. I forgot that you said the readers of the gossip sheets don’t like too much reality in the columns. Not to worry, I’ll change it.”
“Thank goodness.” She patted Hamlet’s head affectionately and he licked her hand noisily. “You’re here to help me keep my column, not see to it that I lose it. Worst of times, indeed! We must write only what our readers want to read. They don’t refer to them as scandal sheets because we write about weather and politics.”
“I understand. I won’t forget again, and I’m pleased you didn’t have a problem with the line from Shakespeare that I added at the last minute.”
Lady Beatrice seemed to consider her answer before saying, “No, I must admit that it didn’t bother me. In fact, I thought it rather clever. I’ve always enjoyed his writings. Especially the sonnets. That’s why I’ve sent you so many copies of his work over the years. But, you should have obtained my permission first.”
Millicent took the reprimand silently.
“The wording seemed to fit what we wrote. I suppose it was all right, but you really must not add things like that, dearie, after we have finished a column, without consulting with me first.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“See that you do.”
“Now, you are certain you heard Lord Dunraven is personally looking for the Mad Ton Thief.”
“Yes. Although I didn’t meet any of the Terrible Threesome earls tonight. There was plenty of talk about them at both parties we attended.”
“There always is, and I’m sure you will meet them soon enough. Most evenings they leave early to gamble or go to private parties where not even I can gain entrance. Listen to anything they have to say, but do not let any of them talk you into agreeing to a private meeting with them.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t, Aunt. You can trust me on that,” she said, feeling somewhat guilty, since she’d just this evening been alone with a handsome gentleman. She must make sure that didn’t happen again.
“I’m sure you will behave splendidly, dearie. But it is interesting that Lord Dugdale might be thinking about settling down and making a match. I do wish I could be out and about myself. I know just the questions to ask that wouldn’t raise suspicions.”
“I was careful.”
“I know. It’s always such a delight to hear what is going on with the earls.”
“From what I heard, Aunt Beatrice, it’s clear Lord Dugdale is paying more attention to the young ladies at the parties this year and staying later for dancing at the balls.”
“Oh, it would be so delicious to have one of them finally wed. Maybe now that the earls are reaching their thirties they are finally growing up. But it will be such a shame to lose them. They’ve been splendid to write about all these years, but not a person among the ton will care a pence about them once they are married.”
Millicent watched her aunt’s expression soften as she talked about her work. “You seem to actually enjoy what you do,” Millicent said.
“Dearie, I do. I do. I can’t imagine what it would be like not to have my column to write. It’s my life. Now, did anything else interesting happen?”
Millicent immediately thought of the gentleman she’d met in the hallway in an unused section of the house. She had been drawn to him in a way that excited her. She had never felt the least brazen in her life until she looked into his eyes. He was the only gentleman she had met since coming to London whom she would like to talk to again.
She had been enchanted by his unbelievably blue eyes, the tilt of his head and the way his friendly, disarming grin fascinated her. She couldn’t forget the way her skin prickled when his unveiled gaze swept up and down her with appreciation. And then offering her his pencil before letting her go.
But, was he a gentleman or a rogue?
Millicent mentally shook herself. What was she doing daydreaming about him? She was at the parties to do a job for her aunt, not to get starry-eyed over a courtly rogue who dared to be so forward as to detain her, then caress her hand and blow her a kiss so tantalizing she could almost feel its softness land against her cheek. Besides, he could be a married scoundrel for all she knew.
Several handsome young gentlemen in her village had tried to persuade her to accept their marriage proposals, but Millicent was waiting until she met a man she wanted to be with every day for the rest of her life.
Millicent wondered if she could feel that way about the nameless gentleman she had met last night. Already she wanted to see him again. She wanted to know if she would have that same sensuous experience of breathless wonder when she looked into his eyes the second time.
Her father had provided well for her and she had no need to marry for financial security. She wanted to marry for love.
But, Aunt Beatrice had made it clear that she was here to do an assignment. If she enjoyed a little of the Season along the way, so be it, but that was not her primary responsibility. Still, Millicent couldn’t help but think about the upcoming evening and look forward to it with a very different attitude than she had the previous evening of engagements.
“Come, come, dearest, don’t take so long over your thinking. We must finish this before I sleep. Did you hear anything else that we need to write about?”
“No, nothing other than what I’ve already told you. I’m sure I’ll do better tonight.”
“It does take a certain aptitude to listen to conversations and glean what is good gossip and what is mere talk, not worthy of print. Now, don’t hurry with your rewriting of this so there will be no mistakes in the column, and see that Phillips delivers the package on time.”
“Consider it done.”
“Splendid.” Beatrice’s eyes closed. “Now leave me, Millicent. I need to rest.” Her eyes popped open. “Don’t forget to seal the paper with Truefitt’s crest.”
“I’ll take care of everything,” Millicent said softly, wishing she could bend down and place a tender kiss on her aunt’s forehead, but with Hamlet curled beside his mistress that was not going to happen.
“Go on to sleep, Aunt Beatrice, and dream of pleasant things. All will be well.”
Millicent tiptoed out of the room and softly closed her aunt’s door. She walked down the shadowed hallway to her bedroom and, after sending her maid, Glenda, downstairs for tea, Millicent shut herself inside. She turned up the lamp on the small desk that had been put in the room for her and sat down to start the painfully slow work of rewriting the article, making all the corrections her aunt had suggested, thankful that the gossip column wasn’t very long.
She picked up the quill and dipped it into the ink jar, but the sharpened nib didn’t touch the vellum before she replaced it on the stand. Instead, she picked up her reticule and opened it. She shook the contents down onto the desk: handkerchief, spectacles, dance card, a satin ribbon, and two pencils.
Her stomach quickened when she saw the pencil the intriguing gentleman had insisted she accept. She picked it up and squeezed it in her fist, then slowly she opened her hand and rolled it back and forth between her fingers. An unexpected pleasure filled her.
She remembered how she had felt when he’d deliberately let his fingertips brush across the inside of her glo
ved hand, soft but firm enough she would know he’d stepped outside the boundary of propriety. What daring. He had no idea how she would react, yet he took the chance she wouldn’t scream for help or box his ears. And he was right. Surely the man was an unscrupulous rake to be so forward to a lady he had never been introduced to.
As a proper young lady, she should have given him a snub for such ill-mannered behavior, but that thought had never entered her mind. And as a proper young lady, she should never allow herself to write such things as tittle-tattle. Perhaps she should feel heavy with guilt for what she was doing, but for some reason that emotion hadn’t entered her thoughts either.
Millicent shook her head. She must banish the stranger from her mind. No doubt he had deliberately set out to make himself unforgettable so she would wonder who he was and seek him out so that appropriate introductions could be made. She wouldn’t allow herself to think about him again. She had too much work to do and very little time.
She picked up the quill again determined to do her work. She wrote What’s in a name? before her mind betrayed her and turned to dreamy blue eyes, a knowing smile, and a forbidden kiss blown across the air.
Four
“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” but not according to Miss Pennington. She was overheard saying she could never marry a man named Longnecker. One wonders what the eligible marquess had to say about that.
—Lord Truefitt, Society’s Daily Column
Chandler watched her Dancing. Gliding across the floor with ease through the steps, the turns and twirls. She was a natural beauty, slim with delicate bone structure, a small waist, and slightly rounded hips.
The neckline of her flowing gossamer gown was higher than most fashions of the day and showed only a mere hint of the swell of breasts which lay beneath her clothing. That disappointed him because he very much wanted to see that gentle swell. Again, he had the feeling she was deliberately trying not to draw attention to her beauty by wearing severe hairstyles and modest clothing.
Chandler had noticed more about her than he should have, but something about her beckoned him. He desired to get closer to her and see her mesmerizing golden brown eyes again, which he had decided were really a glimmering shade of dark, speckled amber. He wanted to engage her in conversation again, but for now he was content to ponder and watch her.
She was polite to her dance partner but not overly so. She smiled at him, but it wasn’t the encouraging smile of a young lady who wanted to gain the gentleman’s attention. It seemed to be more of a “thank you for the dance” smile. That pleased him, too.
“Do you know who she is?”
Chandler turned to see that his friend Andrew Terwillger, who was more notoriously known throughout Society as Lord Dugdale, standing right beside him.
It bothered Chandler that Andrew had caught him watching her, and it bothered him that she hadn’t noticed him observing her at all.
His friend’s appearance reminded him he was supposed to be watching for suspicious-looking characters and following men who wandered off alone. That’s how he happened upon the young lady last night. Chandler had little faith that the authorities in charge of finding the Mad Ton Thief would be successful. He felt it necessary to do some investigating on his own.
The thief was daring enough to have already stolen from three different homes. He had been so successful in stealing right out from under the eyes of the owners and guests, there was no reason to think he wouldn’t continue to pilfer the homes where he was a welcomed guest. Chandler wanted to catch him, and to do that he had to watch the doorways for any man who might wander off alone.
“Haven’t got the foggiest clue who she is,” Chandler finally answered his friend. “Do you know?”
“Me? No, I haven’t met her, but—” Andrew paused.
“But what?” Chandler was forced to ask, knowing that his friend wouldn’t quit the subject until he did.
“After I noticed that you couldn’t keep your eyes off her, I made an inquiry for you.”
“For me?”
“Did I not just say that?” He grinned playfully. “I dare say you’d be damned perturbed at me right now if I’d asked about her for myself. Right?”
Chandler frowned and turned to his friend. “Surely, I wasn’t being that transparent?”
“Only to me. I know you so well.”
“Obviously, too well,” Chandler grumbled under his breath while throwing a sly glance toward his friend. “Or perhaps, after all these years, I’m losing my touch.”
“Let’s pray it’s not that. Possibly for the first time in your life you are actually interested in a lady of quality rather than a dutiful mistress.”
“It would be a damn nuisance if that were true, wouldn’t it?” Chandler said.
“Damn nuisance, indeed.”
“But it’s nice to know I have a friend like you who is looking out for me, just in case I decide to turn from my wicked ways.”
“You know you can depend on me, Dunraven. I’ve always been there for you, always will.”
“That is a comfort, Andrew.”
“I find that I’m looking the ladies over more carefully this Season, too.”
Chandler’s eyes strayed to the dance floor. “I believe you mentioned that.”
“I passed thirty this year, you know. I guess it’s time to think about setting up a nursery. I wouldn’t want to pass the title on to my brother’s little hellion. My father would rise up out of his grave in objection.”
Chandler smiled and nodded a greeting to a gentleman who passed by. “Your nephew is still a babe, isn’t he?”
“Four, I think.”
“He’ll grow out of his fits of ill-temper.”
“God help us all if he doesn’t. I’m told by his father that no one can bear to be in the same room with the child but his mother.”
“There is plenty of time for you to have an heir.”
Andrew was shorter and slimmer than Chandler and his medium brown hair had started thinning on top. Recently Chandler had noticed that his friend’s middle was getting pudgy, too, but he’d thought better of teasing him about it. Maybe Chandler should suggest they get back into fencing and riding like the devil was after them. None of them were as active as they used to be. It was as if a change had taken place over the past year or two without either of them realizing it.
“Tell me, Andrew, has any of this year’s bevy of young ladies caught your eye?”
“They’ve all caught my attention at one time or another, Dunraven.”
“Of course. You’ve now looked them all over carefully and narrowed the list, I presume?”
“Exactly.” Andrew nodded and asked, “What do you think of Miss Bardwell?”
“Truthfully?”
A rueful smile lifted the corners of his lips and he sniffed quietly. “We don’t know any other way to be with each other, do we, Dunraven?”
“I think not,” Chandler said, but silently wondered.
That used to be so, but Chandler knew it wasn’t anymore, at least for him. Recently, he was keeping things from his friends. He was becoming more evasive and private about his personal thoughts and life. He’d lost the desire to be with them day and night laughing, talking, drinking, and gaming.
“Well, what do you think of Miss Bardwell?” Andrew asked again.
Chandler hesitated before saying, “Since you asked for honesty, I think her father’s purse is bigger than her heart, and a January day would be warmer than her bed.”
Andrew laughed. “It’s no wonder we have gotten along so well together these past years. We think so much alike. She does remind one of a cold cod with her pale complexion, light blue eyes, and blond hair. You know, according to the tittle-tattle, she’s determined to capture one of us this Season.”
“Be my guest,” Chandler said, knowing it best not to make a further comment about the young lady. Andrew could be seriously considering her for a match. “And
tell me, since when do you know what the gossips say?”
“I read them from time to time just to see if they still think I’m worth writing about, and so do you. Don’t try to deny it.”
“I read them in hopes there will come a day I won’t find my name printed there.”
“The day they stop writing about us will be when we’re dead or married, and I’m sure they don’t care which comes first. Better they talk about us than forget about us. They were rather vicious to you about Lady Lambsbeth and her husband, but since that time, it hasn’t been so bad, has it?”
Chandler didn’t want to go down the road that led to Lady Lambsbeth again so he took the conversation back where it had started. “Don’t worry, Andrew. More desirable young ladies than Miss Bardwell have tried to catch us and failed. Keep the faith.”
“Hmm. There have been a few ladies over the years who have tried to entrap us. Some of them have been quite delightfully clever.”
“Some have been beautiful.”
“Some wealthy.”
Chandler’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you, by any chance, hinting that Miss Bardwell might have had reason to have made such a brash statement that she intended to marry one of us this Season?”
“Maybe. Maybe not, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a lady having more money than heart. After all, a good mistress can make up for the warmth that’s lost in the marriage bed. That is what lovers are for, isn’t it? An acceptable wife gives a man children, and a mistress gives him pleasure.”
How had they become so cynical?
Somehow Chandler knew he didn’t want what Andrew just described. “Maybe it works that way for a desperate man.”
“Which neither of us are,” Andrew added.
“And may we never be.”
It was all the rage for members of the peerage to seek the arms of a mistress, but Chandler knew he didn’t want another woman in his bed after he married. Although he wasn’t going to admit that to anyone other than himself. And he certainly wasn’t going to admit he was interested in taking a wife. It wouldn’t be worth the raucous remarks he’d have to suffer. He was surprised Andrew was letting it be known that he might actually be pursuing the idea of making a match.