by Cindy Anstey
“And you? How have you been enjoying London?” Juliana changed the subject.
As Spencer smiled at her tactics, the clearing of the floor caught his eye, and he realized that the next set was about to begin. He led Juliana forward to her place. “Much the same as you, I am afraid,” he stated quickly. “Bobbington needed to revive his wardrobe as well. And I must say I agree with you, shopping is beyond tedious.” He glanced down the line as he secured his position, expecting to see Bobbington staring dolefully at his Miss Pyebald from among the spectators. Spencer was rather surprised to see his friend lead a partner to the end of the line. She was none other than Miss Reeves.
For the next half hour, Spencer and Juliana swirled and stepped to the lively music. They laughed and carried on a very disjointed conversation. It consisted of sentences begun during one figure and completed on the next. There was so much chatter, music, and movement in the room that they could barely understand each other, and their hilarity was as much the nonsensical discourse as it was the intoxication of the dance.
“We will be hiding the lark tomorrow afternoon,” Juliana’s strange comment came near the end of the dance.
“Is that a card game of some sort? Or—”
“Our whole party will be driving in Hyde Park tomorrow afternoon,” she stated with clear enunciation of her consonants, indicating that she was repeating the comment. They waited as the couple beside them stepped forward. “If the weather is conducive.”
“Splendid. I do believe Bobbington and I now have the same intentions. And are you to—”
Juliana was caught up in the arms of another dancer as Spencer whirled his partner in a double turn.
Once they were back in their forward positions, Spencer tried his question again. “Are you to enjoy the Kensington assembly or the Strath recital next?”
Juliana stepped to the right as he moved opposite. “Singing ass, I believe,” she said with a straight face.
Spencer blinked. “I think it safer to clarify that one with you on the morrow.”
Juliana nodded in such a way that Spencer was fairly certain she had heard not a word.
Just as he was about to ask about Hamlet, he noticed an abrupt movement behind her back. It was as if there was a scuffle near the doorway. Spencer was not alone in his distraction, for the music trailed off, ending with the long wail of an oblivious violinist. Footfalls pounded briefly, as dancers lagged behind the music’s termination, and then they, too, fell silent. All eyes were on the scene at the door.
“I will not have it.” Lord Pyebald’s shout was clear and succinct in the hushed room. “He is not welcome. Get him out.”
Spencer and the rest of the assembly watched as a smirking young man, impeccably dressed, with dark wavy hair was set upon by two large footmen. They grabbed him roughly about the shoulders and pulled him backward out of sight of the company.
No one in the room moved or commented, but everyone detected the strong aroma of scandal. They waited to see if the whys or wherefores would present themselves, or if it would escalate.
Lord Pyebald raised his beefy arms and smiled an artificial grin. “Young men, they will do anything for a free drink.”
The ladies tittered; the men guffawed. No one believed the disagreement was that simple, least of all Spencer.
It was all very intriguing.
“Who was that?” he asked Juliana in a studied, casual way.
The look of puzzlement on her face was more of an answer than her uninformed shrug. It was a matter of which even those close to the family were unaware. This could be worthy of an investigation.
Just as the orchestra’s lithe music cut into the tense atmosphere, Spencer glanced around the room to see if anything else was off-kilter. He watched Miss Pyebald glare at her father with a tight jaw and clenched fists and then turn back to her partner with feigned nonchalance. Lady Pyebald, sitting with her cronies by the wall, watched her daughter’s faltering steps for a moment, and then she, too, turned a glare on Lord Pyebald—it was returned in kind, and then both peers of the realm allowed themselves to be distracted by their guests. The silent argument had been but an instant and would have been missed by most.
As Spencer continued to assess the crowd, he noticed that Bobbington was not like most—unfortunately, his friend had noted the exchange. Bobbington’s face was clouded—likely worried that the young man at the door was a significant rival for his darling’s affections. Someone not approved by her papa but who had found an endorsement with her dear mama. What a predicament.
And as Spencer contemplated the mixed emotions swirling in the belly of his friend, his eyes met those of another gentleman, staring unwaveringly at him. Mr. Pyebald’s glower held the now-too-familiar hint of hostility. That was not unexplainable; Spencer snickered quietly. He turned from the molten animosity to the gentle, laughing eyes that were circling around him.
“I do not believe Mr. Pyebald appreciates my attentions to you, Miss Telford. He looks quite out of sorts.”
Juliana followed his nod, and they both watched the man look away and then stomp off in a pet. “Likely, he believes you will succeed where he has been unable?” she ventured with a laugh in her voice.
“How is that?”
“Mr. Pyebald has been trying to get me into the gardens all evening under the pretense of my needing a respite.”
“Most indiscreet.”
“Exactly.”
Spencer took Juliana’s arm and led her to the top of the line. “The gardens cannot be overly large, the possibilities of seclusion few. If you were to need a respite, I would be more than happy to accommodate.”
Juliana laughed. “Mr. Northam, as we’ve already agreed, that would be indiscreet.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Juliana’s broad grin was a handsome reward for his tomfoolery. He almost wished he could persuade her to take a turn about the garden. However, at the end of the set, convention dictated a visit to the back of the room for a refreshment.
Spencer had just passed Juliana a glass of lemonade when they heard the swishing approach of Miss Pyebald. Her eyes were veiled and her mouth puckered with concern. She was almost hesitant, certainly solemn.
“Is all well, Vivian?” Juliana asked. She placed her hand on Miss Pyebald’s arm.
“I am unsure, Juliana. It is Carrie. She has gone quite pale, almost ashen. I took her out to the balcony for air, to see if that might restore her spirits, but … but I believe the excitement of the evening has taxed her overmuch.”
“Have you spoken to Aunt Phyllis?”
“No, I have not. Do you think I should? Carrie asked that I fetch you. Should I—” The girl half turned as if she were about to leave immediately.
Juliana tightened her grip on the younger girl’s arm. “No, no, dear. That would cause undue distress to my poor aunt. I will do what I can.” She turned to Spencer, passing back her glass as she did so. “I am afraid I must see to Carrie.” She smiled. “It is likely nothing. Maidenly nerves or some such. I shall be back presently.”
Spencer offered to accompany her, but it was Miss Pyebald who suggested his presence might not calm Carrie’s nerves as well as a quiet tête-à-tête with her cousin. Juliana nodded in agreement and asked him to stay inside.
“I shall look for your return.” Spencer bowed gallantly, disappointed to see her step through the doorway alone.
“I am sure Juliana will make Carrie feel better. She has a way with people, you may have noticed.”
“I have, indeed,” Spencer answered warmly.
“As have I,” announced Bobbington as he stepped smartly into the place vacated by Juliana.
Spencer had noticed his friend hovering, waiting for his chance to join the conversation.
“Really, Lord Bobbington, I had no idea that you were so well acquainted.” Miss Pyebald’s eyes were large and innocent, but her smile strained to remain in place. She clearly did not appreciate the interruption.
“Well
, I, I do not really know her. That is to say, we have only just met.” Bobbington floundered.
“Perhaps it is just the general sense one feels in her presence.” Spencer tried to help his friend out of his embarrassment. If he bumbled about too long, the fellow might make reference to their cliff-side meeting. It was information that Spencer did not want in the hands of any Pyebalds. An innocent comment to her father or brother could give the game away.
“Yes, well.” Miss Pyebald looked from one gentleman to the other. She tipped her head toward Spencer with the stance of making a private discloser. “She is not quite as…” She hesitated as if searching for the right word. “Not as unblemished as she would seem.”
“Oh.” Spencer felt the muscles of his back constrict.
“No, indeed,” the spiteful gossip continued, “she has been known to take long walks, alone.”
Spencer trod on Bobbington’s instep to keep him from smiling or affirming the comment.
“I have been known to do so myself from time to time.” Spencer plastered a guileless look upon his face. “A brisk walk on a fine—”
“Yes, but that is a gentleman’s prerogative, whereas a young lady…? Well, perhaps I should say no more.”
“Perhaps you should say less.”
Miss Pyebald flinched and leaned back as if stung. Her expression was a picture of confusion.
Spencer hadn’t meant to speak aloud. He was rather confused himself. Why had he felt so protective when the pretty minx was maligning Juliana? It was not as if their relationship were anything but feigned.
No sooner had the thought crossed his mind than he realized that his reaction would be seen as growing evidence of an attachment. So instead of feeling that he had erred, he now congratulated himself on his quick thinking. He would contemplate the other issue later.
Miss Pyebald must have seen the conviction in his eye, for she beat a hasty retreat, spouting some nonsense about having to talk to her mother. She didn’t even glance in poor Bobbington’s direction.
“Face it, old boy,” Spencer addressed his friend after Miss Pyebald had left. “You are not making any pathways into the heart of Miss Pyebald.”
“Well, she certainly sees you as a possible match. She hardly noticed me at all. But I will not give up hope. What kind of lover faces adversity and merely walks away? No, I shall redouble my efforts.”
“You do that.”
“Just you keep your focus on Miss Telford.”
“I intend to.”
“Good.”
The two men stared at each other in silence. Rivalry had reared its ugly head. Spencer thought a little clarification might help, but just a little. “I am not interested in Miss Pyebald, Bobbington. You can be sure of that.”
The tension that had puckered the lines above Bobbington’s brows relaxed. “I thought not, but she is such an angel. Who could not be swayed by her captivating eyes?”
“I had not noticed.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Northam,” a timid voice broke through the thick air of posturing, “but have you seen Juliana? I thought I saw her with you just a moment ago.”
“Yes, indeed. That is most amusing. She has gone in search of you.” Spencer nodded to the delicate porcelain doll before them. “Are you feeling better, Miss Reeves?”
Miss Reeves frowned and shook her head slightly. “I am well, Mr. Northam. In fact, never better. All these people, and dancing, it is more than enough to keep one full of energy.”
“Were you not feeling poorly just moments ago?”
“No, not at all. Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Miss Pyebald asked Miss Telford to attend you on the balcony. She said that you were unwell.”
“Well, that is most strange, for I have not seen Vivian this past hour or been out to the balco—Mr. Northam, wherever are you going?”
Spencer felt as if his heart were galloping. With as much decorum as possible, he quickstepped around the dancers and headed toward the arched doorway of the balcony. It would seem that Maxwell Pyebald was not above compromising innocents and using a gullible girl to do so.
CHAPTER
9
In which a reprehensible betrayal is brought to fruition and a delicious awareness is born
JULIANA STEPPED OUT OF THE DOORWAY AND INTO the refreshing night air. The lively rhythms of the orchestra behind her softened and then dissipated, carried away on the cool breeze that gently swayed her skirts. She glanced down the moonlit balcony, first one way and then the other. It seemed deserted. Even the stone seats by the stairs were empty, eerily so.
“Carrie,” she called. She kept her voice hushed, not wanting to draw attention from the revelers on the other side of the threshold. “Carrie, it is I, Juliana. Are you well?”
There was no answer.
Juliana furrowed her brows and glanced back over her shoulder. All appeared as it should within the walls of the town house. The glowing candlelight revealed a room full of elegance and laughter and high-stepping strangers. She turned her gaze back to the emptiness. Why did the night suddenly fill her with such foreboding?
“Carrie,” she called again. This time her appeal was more strident as the fear that something terrible had happened to her cousin came unbidden to her mind.
Juliana rushed over to the railing and looked out at the garden. As Spencer had said earlier, it was not overly large. The neighboring houses abutted too closely for anything but a mere suggestion of greenery. And yet the blue moonlight revealed no living soul, only shadowed flora.
Juliana squinted into the half-light, waiting for something to materialize. And then she heard a rustle, such as would be made by a skirt. She leaned over the rail farther and saw movement, not out in the garden but closer to the house. It came from the bottom of the stairs, hidden away from both the moonlight and the candle glow.
Juliana felt great relief. Carrie may not be well, but she knew that there would be the devil to pay if her mother caught her out in the garden alone. Clever girl.
Juliana turned to the stairway and skipped down from the first floor. When she reached the bottom step, she halted and called out to the shadow.
“Carrie, what is the matter?”
Juliana had just enough time to see that it was not Carrie but Mr. Pyebald who awaited her when he pulled her off the step and into the shadows with him. In a flash, she knew that she had been hoaxed.
“Mr. Pyebald, I am so glad to see you,” she lied as she tried to disentangle herself from his embrace. “I am looking for my cousin Carrie. It would seem that she is unwell and in need of assistance. Do you think you might help me find her?” Juliana hoped that her appeal to his gallantry would override any other thoughts that might be lurking in his self-involved, beetle-headed mind.
“Miss Telford, Juliana, how I have longed to hold you in my arms.”
“Mr. Pyebald—”
“Call me Maxwell,” he whispered into the air above her ear as he jerked her against his chest. “How you set my heart aflame.”
Juliana heard little more of his blathering nonsense, for she was much too involved in foiling the multitude of hands that he seemed to have sprouted. No sooner had she pulled one from her bodice than another appeared and cupped her bottom. Then his lips decided to demonstrate the sincerity of his words by planting wet kisses reeking of sherry across her face, all the while trying to find her lips.
Juliana was nearly at the end of her strength when she heard a noise on the balcony above. No sooner had a surge of relief flooded her mind than a new fear blossomed. This was a very compromising situation. The last thing she wanted was to be caught in a seemingly passionate embrace. Her Season would be over before it began. She would be sent back to Hartwell in terrible disgrace or married off to this buffoon before she could say do-not-let-him-near-my-inheritance.
This was a particularly sticky predicament. It topped her disreputable list, even above St. Ives Head. Hanging off the cliff was a much more comfortable situation than this. At
least there she had a knight to rescue her.
As soon as her thoughts turned to Spencer, Juliana knew he was the last person whom she wanted to encounter. To hear rumors of this seemingly intimate embrace would be terrible enough, but to witness it? He knew her to be less than besotted with Mr. Pyebald, but did he know her well enough to know this scene was not of her making? She prayed it was not Spencer’s footfalls thundering down the stairs. She had to escape before anyone caught her with this fumbling fool.
Juliana placed both hands against Mr. Pyebald’s chest and shoved. It was like trying to move a brick wall. “Release me at once.” Though she knew it was futile, she tried again.
This time Mr. Pyebald flew backward, landing with a thump in a muddy flower bed. His expression was as shocked as hers.
Juliana swallowed and looked up. Mr. Northam, her handsome, congenial knight, stood before her, his face a mask of rage. In his hand was a remnant of Mr. Pyebald’s neckcloth.
“Please, it is not what you think. Not what it looked like,” she said quietly. She reached her hand toward him in appeal.
“That piece of filth was not accosting you?”
Juliana stared dumbfounded. Perhaps she had been away from Hartwell too long, among those who always saw the worst in others. She had forgotten that there was still reason in the world.
“Well, yes. Then it was exactly what it looked like. I was so afraid that you would think—”
“Who’s down there? Juliana? Juliana, is that you?” Lady Pyebald’s voice ricocheted off the walls. “Are you in the garden, alone with a man after I so expressly forbade it?”
Juliana turned and looked up at the blustering woman. The lilac turban squeezed onto her head bobbed with indignation and drama. Her daughter stood demurely at her side.
It was too late to jump back into the shadows. Juliana’s lovely white dress reflected the moonlight beautifully. “No, Lady Pyebald, I was simply—”
“No, no? It is obvious that is precisely what you are about. How can you say no to me, girl, when I can see a man standing next to you? Show yourself, sir, that I might know who it is that has despoiled this lovely flower.”