"Ooo." The countess sat forward on her chair. "He's here. And Miss Amanda Blakely has just stepped out into the garden with Mr. Fosse. This will be interesting."
A matron in a purple gown with white feathers in her hair scurried across the room and took the seat between Elizabeth and the countess. She leaned in close to the dowager's ear, but spoke loud enough Elizabeth could not help but overhear.
"They say the duke has given him his orders. He's to be married this season. Where is that Blakely chit anyway?"
The superior look on the countess's face was almost comical. She straightened her back and nodded knowingly in the direction of the French doors. "In the garden...with Mr. Fosse. Lord Devlin must have missed them by mere seconds."
Lady Barton put a purple-gloved hand to her mouth as if to stifle a shocked gasp. Though it sounded more like a snort to Elizabeth. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes at the ridiculous antics of the two old women, Elizabeth watched Lord Devlin leave the French doors and make his way toward the card room. Why did the handsome ones never dance? Not that it made any difference to her. Even if she were not the paid companion of a wealthy lady and therefore destined to sit patiently at her employer's side all evening neither dancing nor conversing with anyone, the pain in her joints made simply walking a test of stamina and will. Dancing was out of the question.
"Lord Devlin's gone into the card room." Lady Barton gave up all pretense of whispering. She leaned back and fanned herself. "Why would he do that? Miss Blakely doesn't play cards."
The country-dance ended. Harriet's tormented partner returned her to her mother and bowed, his eyes lingering on Elizabeth. She lowered her own eyes. Harriet made an unladylike sound and flounced down in her seat. The young man mumbled something polite and limped away.
"You'd think he'd have the decency to fetch me a drink after dragging me about the floor in such a hideous manner." Harriet looked at Elizabeth out of the corners of her eyes. "Mama," she said. "Why don't you send her to get us something to drink? I swear I am dying of thirst."
"Yes, Elizabeth." The countess waved a dismissive hand. "Do take Harriet into the salon for a little refreshment."
"I don't wish to go with her, Mama. Let her be useful and bring me a glass of something cool. Otherwise, why have her with us at all?"
Elizabeth had pondered that same question for weeks after the countess had first sent word to the rented apartments she'd shared with her mother. Why would a dowager, well known for attending every party of significance during the London season, need a companion? She certainly couldn't be lonely. Nor did she require an easily ignored escort. After all, this season she was launching her youngest daughter into society. Harriet was always by her side. Why had the countess appeared, as if out of nowhere, to offer her a desperately needed job?
In the beginning, Elizabeth thought perhaps the woman had heard of her mother's illness and their desperate situation and was being charitable. Having come to know Countess Glenbury better over the last few weeks, she realized such kindness would be out of character. But in the end the dowager's reason for offering her employment didn't matter. Elizabeth was in no position to refuse.
"Well?" Harriet shuffled her feet with impatience. "Mama, I'm thirsty!"
Elizabeth suppressed a sigh. From the first day of her employment she'd been careful to keep her condition a secret, fearful her new employer might find it a reason to dismiss her. Harriet couldn't know what her constant demands cost Elizabeth, the pain she endured in order to do something as simple as weave her way through a crowd on a long walk to the room where Mrs. Huntington had laid out refreshments for her guests.
"Mama!"
"Oh, very well, Harriet." Both the countess and Lady Barton had their attention focused once more on the entrance to the card room. "Fetch her something, Elizabeth. And bring something for Lady Barton and me as well."
Harriet gave Elizabeth a twisted smile. The countess's youngest child and only daughter was not an unattractive girl. At least not at first glance. Her features were delicate, her eyes a lovely shade of chocolate brown. If her red hair was a bit wild at times, its natural wiry texture took well to the curling iron, holding her coiffure in even the most heated of ballrooms long after the other ladies curls had begun to droop and frizz. No, the dowager's daughter had all the makings of a very attractive young woman, yet she was not.
Perhaps it was the fact that the unhappiness within her radiated out at the world, sharpening her tongue and twisting her features into a perpetual scowl. Her pale yellow gown did nothing to improve her looks and the heavy perfume she doused herself in would have put off even the most determined of gentlemen.
"Do hurry, Lizzie dear." Harriet's tone made Elizabeth want to grind her teeth. Instead, she thought of her mother tucked into a comfortable bed at the dowager's townhouse, being tended by an excellent physician and waited on by the countess's servants. Why the dowager had offered to take her mother in when she hired Elizabeth was another mystery, but Elizabeth had no intention of doing anything that might cause the lady to reconsider her generosity.
So she smiled sweetly at Harriet and stood, covering the moment it took her to get her balance and let the initial wave of pain pass by inquiring if the ladies had any special preferences. When she could, she left the other women seated by the French doors and made her way slowly across the ballroom, careful to hide the pain with a pleasant facial expression, careful to keep her steps smooth and even.
She'd almost reached the door to the refreshment room when she caught the flash of a gap-toothed smirk. Randall. Elizabeth ducked behind a full-figured matron and prayed her employer's son had not seen her. On the other side of the matron a young girl with a strong country accent was gushing.
"Oh, Count Glenbury, truly? Trapped behind enemy lines, unable to get back, and forced to survive in the wilds of France for months? How positively frightful! It gives me goose bumps just to think of it."
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. She knew what was coming. She'd heard this tale a dozen times since entering the widowed countess's employ. With each telling, Randall's story of his heroic survival for months behind enemy lines grew more fantastic. The version she'd had from Randall's less than adoring sister, Harriet, seemed more likely.
Randall had gone to war as a gentleman observer. He and his fellow enthusiasts had chased the troops from battle to battle, watching at a distance from the safety of their landaus, picnicking as the fighting raged and fleeing when it came too near. Afterward, Randall and his cronies would discuss the horrifying battles over fine food and wine in the comfort of an expensive inn, second-guessing the strategies of generals and thrilling at the desperate bravery of the common soldiers. Elizabeth's stomach turned.
"Yes, I was gone so long word was sent to my mother here in London that I was missing and presumed dead. All of society believed I had perished," Randall said.
"Ooh, the countess must have been wretched with grief," the country girl cooed.
Behind the matron Elizabeth cocked an eyebrow and tilted her head. On the occasions the Countess Glenbury spoke of her son's disappearance and return, she seemed more wistful than aggrieved.
"She is still recovering from the shock of believing me lost, but is overjoyed at my safe return," Randall assured the girl.
Hardly, Elizabeth thought. Perhaps the full-figured matron was thinking the same, because she cleared her throat.
"Come along, Persephone. I have seen someone I wish to speak with. Good evening, Count Glenbury," the woman said and lumbered off. To Elizabeth's relief, the matron headed straight for the refreshment room, allowing Elizabeth to skim along in her shadow, and elude detection by her employer's coxcomb son with gratifying ease.
Chapter Four
Apparently the night was yet too young for any significant number of ladies to leave the dancing. The card room had been a disappointment. Nicholas stood in the shadows of a ballroom alcove surveying the wall nearest the refreshment salon. A favorite seating choice of elder
ly matrons and their paid companions, the wall was lined with the heavily bejeweled crème of high society in their brightly colored turbans and elaborate coiffures. Nicholas ignored the ancient peacocks. It was their companions he studied; those voiceless, colorless creatures whose hair and clothing was as conspicuously plain as their faces.
These were women educated to be members of the same class as their employers. They were the poor relations of the nobility, the widows and daughters of once wealthy families. Without the dowries or beauty needed to attract husbands, they were forced to accept the limbo-like position of companion; neither servant, nor friend, nor family. Their days were spent in their employer's shadow, perpetually ready to call a servant, pour tea, run for a shawl, or answer correspondence; in short, to do all the tasks the lady ought to perform for herself, but was too old, ill, or lazy.
Nicholas didn't realize he was scowling until one particularly plain brown wren fidgeted nervously, her wrinkled face stretching into a strained smile. He smiled back in acknowledgment and she blinked rapidly, one hand going to her gray hair in an almost girlish gesture while with the other she fanned herself briskly. He started to turn away when his attention was arrested by a young woman leaving the refreshment salon.
Her blue-black hair was knotted in a simple bun at the nape of her neck, save for two heavy coils that hung loose on either side of her face in the Spanish manner. It was not a fashionable style but it suited her well, giving her a look of both sophisticated elegance and soft innocence. Thick black lashes and wine-red lips stood out in stunning contrast against cream white skin. The simple blue dress she wore was as outdated as her hairstyle, stretching snuggly over high, full breasts, curving in at the waist and then falling past softly rounded hips. She walked with a slow gliding regalness, her back straight, her head high, her hips gently swaying.
Balancing three glasses of punch in her hands, she moved across the ballroom, apparently oblivious to all the male eyes, including his own, that followed her progress. Nicholas's carefully maintained control slipped at the sight of her and the chaotic smells, sounds and colors of the ballroom rushed in to assault his senses.
Hunger flared, its intensity taking him by surprise. His lips tightened against his teeth. He closed his eyes, fighting for control. When he opened them again she had reached a knot of young bucks standing near a tall potted plant.
One of the men, a corinthian in a wildly striped waistcoat, stepped away from his fellows to block her way. Nicholas knew the boy. Jamie McClintock was a rowdy lad, known for his heavy drinking and skirt chasing. But for all his wild Scottish ways, he was harmless enough. At least Nicholas had always thought so.
The Scot said something. The dark-haired beauty shook her head and tried to go around him. McClintock sidestepped with her, blocking her escape. Like sharks tasting blood in the water the other young men moved in. Nicholas looked around expecting a parent or chaperon to swoop in. What was her family thinking to let her wander about alone in a London ballroom? It was tantamount to abandoning a kitten in a wolf den.
By the outdated cut of her dress he guessed her the daughter of one of the landed gentry. Country folk standing the expense of a season in the hope her beauty would be enough to win her a well-heeled husband, dowry or no. There were a few such girls each year. Most returned home disappointed. That would not likely be the case with this one. With her striking looks and elegant carriage she would have no trouble securing an offer.
The young men had her surrounded. McClintock reached out and wrapped a finger around one of the dangling locks of gleaming black hair. Insolent pup! Was he trying to ruin the girl in front of the entire ton?
Nicholas started forward, but before he could take more than a few steps McClintock's eyes widened, his mouth rounded. He released the girl and jumped back, punch dripping from his fancy waistcoat. The other bucks roared with laughter, their attention redirected to tormenting their friend. The dark-haired goddess, mouthing apologies and clutching her now empty glasses, backed away. She slipped back into the refreshment room as a ripple of laughter passed through the nearby crowd. Nicholas smiled. There was a country kitten who could take care of herself.
The urge to follow her into the refreshment salon, to learn more about her, was alarmingly strong. His expression sobered. He was engaged to Amanda Blakely. But even if he weren't, he could not allow himself to be distracted. Time was short. Vlad had someone he wanted Nicholas to meet, a doctor friend from the old country. They would be expecting him and even the promise of a second crown wouldn't keep that jarvie waiting in the park forever.
The card room had been a disappointment. No sedately dressed companions had lurked on the comfortable couches that lined its paneled walls. Nor had a lady young enough to be the one Vlad had described sat at the card tables. Nicholas needed to find the girl quickly. It shouldn't be that difficult to locate a lady's companion. Her very ordinariness should make her stand out like a brown hen in a crowd of exotic birds like this.
Miss Elizabeth Smith -- even her name was ordinary. Perfect. Though somehow, after seeing the dark-haired girl, he'd lost whatever enthusiasm he'd once possessed for finding her. Vlad had said she'd taken a position as a companion to the Countess of Glenbury. Nicholas recalled the dowager vaguely from a brief meeting years ago, but like every member of London society he was familiar with her reputation. The countess was a gossip of the first order, able to talk non-stop for hours about the tiniest details of the latest scandals. He'd questioned Vlad's wisdom in directing him to any female connected with such a woman, but Vlad had been insistent in his quiet way. This was the one they'd been looking for, the one suitable for their purpose.
If what Vlad said was true she should be easy enough to find, or at least would have been had he not been forced to seek her in a ballroom crowded with the scents of so many warm-blooded creatures. He'd hoped to locate her without attracting the attention of her mistress. It wasn't wise to stir the curiosity of a busybody like the countess, but he'd wasted all the time he cared to waste tonight.
A polite inquiry to a pair of ladies seated against the wall gave him the countess's direction. She was seated near the terrace doors. He must have walked past her when he'd entered the Huntington's ballroom. Nicholas moved to a vantage point where he had a clear view of the countess and her lady friends and allowed himself a moment to study his prey. She was sitting next to the countess and Lady Barton. Both were ignoring her, their heads leaned close together as they spoke.
He'd expected a plain female. Those who made their living as companions to the wealthy generally were, either by birth or by design. But Nicholas was surprised to see that this companion was dressed quite fashionably. Though the fact that her yellow gown made her skin look sallow and clashed with her red hair meant it was probably one of her mistress's castoffs. Perhaps he should consider himself lucky. She was a surprisingly pretty girl. Or might have been save for the sour expression on her face.
He glanced over his shoulder toward the refreshments salon. McClintock and his friends were gone. There was no sign of the dark-haired girl. Best to get it over with.
Both the countess and Lady Barton froze in mid-chatter to stare, mouths agape, when he stopped in front of them.
"Good evening, ladies," he nodded. A set for a cotillion was forming behind him. It seemed a good excuse to avoid having to converse with the older women. He extended his hand and, with the social arrogance allowed the heir to a dukedom, ignored the proprieties and didn't wait for a proper introduction.
"May I have this dance?" he asked the girl in the yellow dress.
"I would be delighted!"
The speed with which she rose to her feet and placed her hand on his arm took him by surprise. He'd expected her to make her excuses, giving him an opportunity to suggest something else, something less public. Perhaps her condition was not yet too advanced.
Suppressing the instinct to escape the cloying fog of heavy perfume that engulfed him, Nicholas led her onto the dance fl
oor and took a position opposite her in a line of dancers. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the Countess Glenbury and her crony, smiling and speaking rapidly, their heads so close together the white feathers in Lady Barton's headdress became entangled in the countess's ribbon and flower concoction. They were still struggling to free themselves when the music started.
"I am so pleased to be asked to dance by a real gentleman, Lord Devlin," the girl said as they executed the first in a series of bows. "I have been pushed about the floor by the clumsiest oafs this evening. I was about to give up dancing altogether."
The girl giggled at this last statement as though she'd said something quite clever. Nicholas kept his expression neutral. Apparently she took that as encouragement because the next time the steps of the dance brought them close enough for speech she said, "Mama says you have property in both Cornwall and Devonshire, as well as a grand house here in London."
Nicholas was spared having to affirm this partial listing of his assets by the fact that almost immediately the steps of the dance separated them once again.
Vlad had said the girl's mother was dying of cancer. Why would a woman on her deathbed be discussing his assets with her daughter? It was not unusual for the husband-seeking daughters of the ton to know every detail of any and all eligible prospects. Marriage among their class was business after all. But a companion, even a pretty one, had little hope of marrying out of her situation, unless it was to a merchant or clergyman. Even the most naive of females would have considered the only son and heir to a dukedom quite out of reach.
As the dance proceeded Nicholas was treated to more of the girl's insipid conversation. He said little, letting her talk of all the balls she'd attended since the season began and the ones she would attend over the next few weeks. Nicholas had stopped listening. Had he really thought this girl pretty just minutes ago? The music finally ended. Nicholas bowed over the girl's hand.
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