by Cindy Anstey
However, this was another matter. This ate at the very heart, the very purpose of his attentions to her. Once spoken, the words could not be withdrawn. She had to tell him that Bobbington had no chance of securing Vivian’s affection.
Not only was this going to break Bobbington’s heart, but it would also end their lovely charade. Rather effectively. Spencer would look to his other diversions in Town. She would no longer be able to bask in the warmth of his gaze. He would be otherwise occupied.
She glanced at Spencer beside her and was surprised to see that he was already looking her way. His stare was deep and intense, and she was acutely aware of their touching knees. She swallowed.
She would tell him tomorrow.
* * *
AS IT WAS, Juliana could not tell Spencer anything the next day; the crush at the Rafferty assembly curtailed any attempt at a private conversation. Significant glances were their only means of private discourse, and when Juliana observed the smirk on Bobbington’s face, she wondered just how veiled those glances were. Still, the appropriate time to discuss the end of their little conspiracy evaded them.
The same could be said of the Gareth levee. At least that was the excuse Juliana gave herself. It was a trial—not that she felt any true rush to disclose Bobbington’s lost campaign, but that Spencer could be so near to her and yet … far enough to prevent the least touch, inadvertent touch, of course. No, that was not what she meant … she meant conversation—yes, that was it. He was quite near, and yet discussion was impossible.
So distracted by these touching and conversing thoughts, Juliana was surprised and rather pleased when Spencer left his clutch of gentleman companions by the French doors and came rushing over to the ladies lounging on the sofas by the fireplace. However, his face bore a strange expression, and his focus was on her lips.
Only then did Juliana realize that she was the one leading the conversation. And, as she listened to the words spilling out of her mouth, she realized—with some horror—that she had fallen back on a subject that she knew all too well—but that had no place in a circle of gossipy ladies. “The larval stage lasts between twenty and thirty days, which is followed by the pupa—”
“So, Mrs. Gareth, how did you find Brighton this winter past?”
There was a brief silence—in which the word bluestocking was whispered into the ether—and then Mrs. Gareth blinked away her shock and answered Spencer with an anecdote pertaining to a windy day and a lost bonnet. Soon, the conversation was flowing again and Juliana smiled her thanks to Spencer.
Unfortunately, he remained only a moment more to ensure that conviviality had been restored, and then he returned to the gentlemen and their important discussion of smuggled French brandy.
It wasn’t until the card party at the Maynard town house that Juliana found herself away from prying ears and able at last to address the sorry outcome to Bobbington’s affection. It seemed that providence had its own timetable.
“It would appear that our matchmaking efforts have been for naught, Miss Telford,” Spencer stated solemnly.
Juliana was standing between the deep-silled windows of the Maynard drawing room, watching the various games in progress. She had been playing a lifeless game of whist just moments earlier, when Bobbington had offered to replace her. Carrie had replaced Spencer at his table just moments before, and it left the two spares the opportunity to converse quietly without drawing anyone’s notice.
“Yes, I am afraid it is all too true.” Juliana turned to face the room as he was doing, keeping her voice low. “I am so sorry. Will Bobbington be grievously injured?”
They both glanced in the direction of Bobbington’s table. He was laughing and joking with Lady Pyebald. He looked comfortable and not at all discontented that his Vivian was casting cow eyes at Spencer from two tables away.
“Somehow, I think he will survive.”
“It is so hard to tell who is best suited for whom.”
“Well, I am not certain your aunt or Lady Pyebald would agree. I wouldn’t be surprised if they could tell you exactly who would match.”
“Yes, but their standards are all based on money and title, not an ounce of consideration for character or compatibility.”
“Are you saying that were all thoughts of finances and social standing subtracted from the equation, Bobbington and Miss Pyebald would be well matched?”
“Oh dear, no. I actually do not think they are a well-matched pair at all. My disappointment is merely for his sake. I would see him married to a more pliable woman. For all her light, airy looks, Vivian has a very strong will and would ride roughshod over Bobbington for the rest of his life.”
“You sound almost wistful, Miss Telford. Tell me: Has your Season, with all its concentration on matrimony, changed your view on the subject?”
“Well, perhaps slightly, but not in the manner you mean.”
“Oh.” Spencer turned to her with his brows lifted. “What is it I mean?”
“You mean has all this talk caught me, pulled me into the vortex, and persuaded me to long for a suitor of my own.”
“Is that what I meant?”
“Yes, indeed, and my answer to that is no. But…”
“But?”
“But my Season has helped me see a less jaundiced view of marriage. For instance, the Morleys sitting—Mr. Northam, I am trying to explain, and if you would stop staring at me and look to the far table—thank you. Now, as I was saying … it is couples like the Morleys that have changed my mind. They were telling me earlier that they have been married thirty-five years. Isn’t that marvelous? Not for the number of years, so much as the way they keep—there you see. Mr. Morley just winked at his wife, and she touched his sleeve. They care greatly for each other.”
“Perhaps they are cheating at the game, the wink and touch are merely codes.”
“Hardly, they are losing, and laughing as they do so.”
“It might all be an act.”
Juliana laughed. “They are not the only couple I have noticed. Did you not observe the closeness of the Straths and the Drakes? Yes, happy, loving couples such as these have convinced me that there is something to be said for this thing called marriage.”
“Aha, so you have changed your mind.”
“Only in that I understand its worth, whereas I didn’t before.”
“So this understanding, it has not led you to plans of your own? Have you met no lord on whom you want to ply your wiles? Your heart is not lost on some witless puppy?”
“No, no plans.” She tried to ignore his reference to a lost heart, but her mouth betrayed her. “There is, however, one man who has helped me appreciate the heady emotions behind a possible love match.” Juliana watched as Spencer turned his head with deliberate slowness back to face her. She wondered just how far this playful banter was going to go. Her heart was thrumming its rhythm in her ears.
“Anyone I know?”
“I think you might know him, well enough.”
“A good man?”
“Would I admire a man who was not?”
“He might be deceiving you.”
“I think not.”
“Would it matter?”
Juliana frowned and tilted her head sideways. She wasn’t sure she liked the direction the conversation had taken. “It would depend, would it not? On the deception.”
“Such as.”
“If the gentleman always wore a hat because he was bald, it would be a forgivable deception.”
“What if it were more serious than that?”
Juliana swallowed; she felt very uncomfortable. She could no longer read Spencer’s expression, but it was not relaxed. “It matters little. I am still convinced that marriage is not for me. Devoted to my research, as you know.” Best to change the subject. “Are you looking forward to tomorrow’s play?”
“Yes, indeed.” Spencer looked relieved and almost appreciative of the change. “I am expecting it to be a most entertaining night.”
“We are to have a box.”
A burst of bawdy laughter erupted at Maxwell Pyebald’s table. Juliana and Spencer turned to find the man’s eyes upon them. She felt Spencer stiffen.
“Indeed. I forgot to inquire of my man where we are placed. However, it matters not. I am sure you will be easy to spot.”
“Mr. Northam, I thought we agreed that it was pointless to place Bobbington in Vivian’s path. You need not seek us, or me, out any longer. The game cannot be won.”
“Some games are worth more in the playing than in the winning.”
As they stared at each other, lost in the heady emotions that accompanied such delicious scrutiny, a swish of skirts alerted them to an approaching lady.
“Juliana, be a dear and let me near the window. The heat of the fire is going to my head.” Vivian maneuvered herself in between the couple, leaning in Spencer’s direction. “I will be so glad, won’t you, Mr. Northam, for the truly fine weather of summer, when we can laze about out of doors in the fresh air.”
Juliana pulled her scarf more fully around her shoulders to stave off the chill in the room. She looked at Spencer over Vivian’s head with a raised eyebrow. There were four windows in the ornately carved room, none of which were open as it was dreary and damp outside. The coal basket in the fireplace had long since reached its peak and was providing limp heat. Vivian’s ploy was as transparent as—.
“Oh dear.” Vivian suddenly grabbed at Spencer’s arm and then collapsed. As expected, the gentleman caught the fainting figure before she suffered the indignity of crumpling to the floor.
Juliana shook her head while Spencer looked decidedly uncomfortable, holding the swooning beauty awkwardly. His jaw tightened, and a hard look stole into his eyes.
“Here, let me help.” Juliana reached for Vivian under her arms, lifting the girl’s weight off Spencer. “Aunt Phyllis, might I trouble you for assistance,” she called over her shoulder.
The sound of a chair scraping back almost eclipsed the protests of the quickly recovering girl. “No, no, I’m fine. Let go.” Vivian straightened and yanked her arms from Juliana’s hold. “Feeling much better, in fact.” She smiled up at Spencer, batting her eyelashes, and leaned closer to him yet again. “Want to take a turn around the room, Mr. Northam?”
Fortunately, Spencer was saved from responding by the ill-timed arrival of Aunt Phyllis. “Is anything amiss, girls?”
“No,” Vivian snapped without looking away from the gentleman in her clutches. “What say you, Mr. Northam? A turn around the room?”
Spencer bowed with elegant grace. “Thank you for the offer, Miss Pyebald. However, I agree that the sultriness here is unbearable, so I shall bid you farewell.” He lifted his eyes to those of Juliana’s. “And I look forward to our next meeting.”
The message was so blatant and so flattering that Juliana could blithely ignore the many aspersions tossed at her head for the remainder of the evening.
* * *
“LAMAR STAMFORD HAS THE REPUTATION OF A SCAPEGRACE, particularly in Lambhurst. Runs with a pack of wild unlicked cubs. Shockingly loose in the haft.”
Spencer leaned back against the black leather cushion of the covered landau. Winfrith and Bibury sat across from him, their backs to the horses. As the coachman negotiated the crowded London streets, the vehicle rocked and bumped across the uneven roads. The sharp clop of hooves on cobblestone was muffled inside the carriage, although the smell of horse was unmistakable.
They were headed toward Catherine Street and the Theatre Royal Drury Lane without Bobbington. Conveniently, the fellow had felt a pressing need to visit the tailor and his club that afternoon, and the men had agreed to meet him. It gave Spencer the chance to exchange information with his mentors, put forward theories, and finalize plans without having to invent an excuse for Bobbington’s sake.
“Still, the two families were in close society until recently,” Bibury continued. “There appears to have been a major falling out, as you saw at the ball.”
“Yes, I think a good many people observed that altercation. If this wastrel were privy to the communiqués, I cannot see that Lord Pyebald would make such a display of throwing the fellow out.”
“Perhaps it was an act, designed to redirect anyone who might be watching.” The skepticism in Winfrith’s voice showed that while he had put the theory forward, he was not at all convinced of it.
Spencer shook his head. “No, I think not. The man was out of sorts for the remainder of the evening. Too elaborate a ruse for a man such as he.” He pulled off his top hat and dropped it onto the empty seat beside him. “No, I thought there might have been a connection, but it seems I was taking a side step. Besides, he has no tie with the War Office and its army dealings.”
“Actually, he does.”
Both Winfrith and Spencer turned sharply to Bibury as he spoke. “Hart.”
“Lord William Hart? Assistant to the undersecretary of state for war and the colonies?” Spencer asked.
“Yes, but not directly. Through his son. Milton Hart.”
Winfrith nodded. “Yes, right. We saw them together at Brooks’s, remember, Northam? Hart was bragging about his new horses. Yes, that is it, came into some money recently, as I recall. That could be it.”
“But it makes no sense. While I agree young Hart might have access to information through his father, and it would be an easy matter to pass it all onto Stamford, there it ends. Stamford and Pyebald are not talking. Why would they quarrel when such large stakes were at risk?”
“And likely large sums. No honor among thieves. Perhaps they had a falling out over the payment.”
“Perhaps. But this is becoming too convoluted. If Lord Pyebald and his son wanted to exchange information with this wastrel, they would invite their country neighbor for a visit. No one would wonder about its purpose. Or they could simply meet at Brooks’s or White’s; even the Hells would cover their actions. They certainly wouldn’t take pains to appear to be at odds. And they certainly wouldn’t set up a public meeting at a play.” Spencer absentmindedly flicked at his hat, almost sending it over the cushion’s edge and onto the floor. “No, there must be a reason why these parties had to wait to meet.”
“Perhaps our traitor is so well placed that a meeting with undistinguished peers—such as Lord Pyebald and Maxwell Pyebald—would bring about comment, no matter where it occurred,” Bibury suggested.
“Like who?”
“I couldn’t say. It is just a theory.”
“Do we know if anyone of importance is coming this evening?”
Both Bibury and Winfrith looked uncomfortable.
“Well, we will know soon enough.” Spencer leaned forward to look out the carriage window. “It appears we are almost there.”
The rest of the journey was less about theories and more about positioning, guarding, and watching. This was going to be their best, if not only, chance to see who it was that jeopardized the security of England.
* * *
JULIANA KNEW SHE WAS NAIVE AND UNWORLDLY, but she was not obtuse. Something was amiss. She felt it.
Since early afternoon there had been a tension in the town house of an unexplainable nature. Juliana had heard the mutterings of a heated discussion between Vivian and her mother, a sharp unwarranted set-down from Lord Pyebald to Maxwell, and plaintive pleas from Carrie to Vivian. All out of the ordinary and all destined to burst the bubble of euphoria that Juliana was trying to maintain. It was Carrie who brought her resoundingly down to earth.
Juliana had chosen her cream-and-blue satin evening gown for the occasion. Its square, low neckline was elaborately decorated with lace, and the cut of the high waist and flowing overskirt flattered her figure, with little subtlety. It was one of her aunt’s least favorites, but Juliana thought Spencer might feel otherwise.
When Carrie burst through the door of Juliana’s bedchamber, her cousin was wearing an exquisite ivory dress that put Juliana’s to shame. But it was not the comparison of gowns that brought trep
idation to Juliana’s mind but the cloud upon Carrie’s face.
“Is something bothering you, dear?”
“Well, you might ask, Juliana. My frustration is at a height that even I thought unattainable. There are times when I truly do not understand her.” Carrie flounced to the mirror, stepped in front of Juliana to view her gown, and did not notice that her pout spoiled her pretty looks.
“Has Vivian borrowed your favorite shawl, lost your novel, or ruined your gloves?”
“No, no, and no. Those are such trivialities in comparison.”
Juliana was about to dismiss the tirade when Carrie continued.
“She is going to steal your favorite.”
“My favorite what?”
“Suitor.”
“I don’t have a suitor, goose.”
“Of course you do. I speak of Mr. Northam.”
Juliana did her best to hide the start that Carrie’s words had given her. “I do not know what you mean.”
Carrie snapped around to look her straight in the eye. “Juliana Rosamond Telford, I have been watching you and Mr. Northam since the Strath recital. You told me you would not have Mr. Pyebald, and I believed you. So I knew there had to be another.”
Juliana could not help herself; she smiled. Carrie was such a romantic. “Really, Carrie dear, Mr. Northam and I are simply friends.”
“Friends do not look at each other as you two do.”
“What has all this to do with Vivian?”
Carrie sighed, “I tried … on your behalf. I even begged her not to.”
“What, Carrie, what?”
“She means to try again—to gain his interest. She is determined to have him as a suitor. Not that she is in love. Oh, no. She says she needs a handsome young man to hang about, to make a cake of himself, to catch the eye of those with titles and larger fortunes. She has decided that Mr. Northam will do nicely. She does not care that you have developed an attachment to him.”