The Singular Mr. Sinclair

by Mia Marlowe

  “Behave,” her mother whispered and shot her a look of censure as Caroline’s father headed for the card room.

  “Oh, look. There’s Lady Ackworth,” her mother said. “No, don’t look. She’ll think we’re talking about her.”

  “Perhaps because we are?”

  “Lady Ackworth considers herself the final arbiter of propriety.” Lady Chatham was careful to keep her voice soft. “If she gives you a black mark, it doesn’t go away.”

  The obnoxious busybody divided the ton into two camps. One was either her sycophant or her target. Even Lady Chatham, the most proper of countesses, was terrified of finding herself in the vindictive witch’s sights. Caroline’s mother palmed her cheek.

  “You see now why I admonish you to be on your best behavior. I’d walk through fire for you, sweeting, but even the most doting mother cannot protect her daughter from that old scold’s tongue.”

  When her mother took that tone, Caroline felt a stab of guilt over her rebellious attitude. Not enough to change, of course, but she did regret causing her mother grief.

  “I’ll try, Mother,” she promised. Trying wasn’t always succeeding, so she didn’t feel as if she’d fibbed. Given half a chance this evening, Caroline intended to misbehave in the extreme.

  Then Lady Chatham spied a group of her friends near the punch bowl on the far side of the room and threaded her way through the press to them. Caroline made for the base of the broad staircase. Before ascending to seek the retiring room to make sure the gem-studded pins Alice had tucked into her coiffure had survived the carriage ride, Caroline stood still for a moment, searching the crowd.

  Lawrence was nowhere to be seen.

  Drat the man! He promised he’d be here.

  Instead, Horatia, with Frederica at her side, caught Caroline’s eye. Across the room, Horatia gesticulated wildly with her fan in Caroline’s direction. Since her debut, Horatia had been studying what she called “the language of the fan.” It was an arcane set of stylized movements, more suited to the previous generation’s flirtations than theirs, but because it had fallen out of fashion, Horatia was convinced the three of them could use the gestures to communicate clandestinely when they were in public.

  It might have worked if Freddie had possessed a better memory or Caroline had shown the least interest in learning the signals. So instead of conveying a secret message, Horatia looked as if she were being accosted by a cloud of midges.

  When Caroline didn’t respond in kind, Horatia and Frederica scurried across the room to her, nearly bowling her over when they reached her.

  “Oh, Caroline, where’ve you been?” Horatia complained. “Well, no matter. You’re here at last.”

  “We thought you were coming early, dear,” Frederica explained.

  “I thought I did.”

  “Never mind. You’re here now,” Horatia hissed. To the glittering assemblage, her friend presented a brittle smile. However, Caroline spotted real tears trembling on Horatia’s lashes. “Perhaps you can think of a way to salvage the situation. I confess I’m at a loss.”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “It’s a disaster, I tell you,” Horatia said, still smiling bravely. “A total, unmitigated disaster.”

  “Indeed one might class it a disaster of biblical proportions,” Frederica said agreeably. “Truly, how shall dear Horatia ever show her face again?”

  “It’s not my fault, you little goose. Why are you acting as if I’m to blame?”

  Frederica blinked at Horatia with the innocence of a newborn lamb. “Well, whose fault is it, then?”

  “Come now. Settle down, you two,” Caroline said, pulling them off to a quiet spot. The rest of Lord and Lady Frampton’s guests were milling about in clumps of twos and threes, so their conference in the corner should call no undue attention. Unless, of course, her mother should happen to spot her “gossiping with her simpering friends.” In that case, Caroline would catch it later, but she’d deal with her mother’s scolding then. Horatia was in real distress now. “Whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as all that.”

  “Oh, yes, it can,” Horatia said miserably. “Look.” Setting the spangles on her headdress quivering, she jerked her head to the right, indicating where Caroline should direct her gaze.

  Across the ballroom, Caroline spied Miss Penelope Braithwaite. She was decked out in an almost exact replica of Horatia’s ensemble. If the gowns had been perfectly identical, Horatia might have been satisfied. Between the two of them, she easily had the more fashionable figure. Penelope’s bosom was far too full to be stylish. But it was the almost exactness of their gowns that tipped the scales in Miss Braithwaite’s favor.

  The cut and style of the gowns were the same. The shade of ivory was like two matched pearls. But while Horatia’s gown was of lustring, Miss Braithwaite’s was fashioned of much costlier watered silk, covered with silver netting. The dear seed pearls and silver embroidery on Penelope’s gown made Horatia’s spangles seem tawdry and common by comparison. Their head dresses were also identical, save that Penelope’s boasted a splendid ostrich feather. Its grand height made the headdress seem like an achievement of major architectural importance.

  By contrast, Horatia’s was a mud-speckled shack.

  “How could this have happened again?” she almost wailed.

  “Hush.” Caroline grasped Horatia’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “If you let others know you’re bothered by this, it will be worse for you. Your gown is perfectly lovely.” That would have been true had Penelope not been wearing the drastically improved version of it. “Chin up, my dear, and ignore her. Others will, too.”

  Penelope’s laugh made their gazes swivel toward her and the older gentleman at her side.

  As part of her “finishing,” Caroline had been taught that a lady’s laugh must be genteel. “An ethereal sound no more obtrusive than an angel’s sigh,” her deportment teacher had told her. Penelope’s laugh was more like a demented cackle.

  “How can we ignore that?” Frederica asked.

  The older gentleman with Miss Braithwaite made a courtly obeisance over her gloved hand, then left her to make his way to the card room.

  “Who was that with her?” Caroline asked.

  “Lord Ware,” Horatia said dully. “He’s been hovering about Penelope like a bee around a flower since we got here.”

  Maybe that’s why Lawrence hasn’t come. He knew his uncle would be here.

  “Have you seen anyone else we know?”

  “Oh, my, yes,” Frederica said excitedly. “We’ve encountered Miss Cowper and Lady Greenhalgh and those three sisters—I forget their names, but they’re the ones who play wind instruments so…memorably.”

  “By memorably you mean wretchedly, dear. And they’re the Misses Harewood—Letitia, Lavinia, and Lucinda,” Horatia supplied. “I so pity the one who plays bassoon.”

  “It does sound rather like a gander with a head cold, doesn’t it?” Freddie added.

  “Forget how it sounds. The poor girl who has to play it must make sure her skirts are plain enough not to catch on the unwieldy thing. Imagine having to forget fashion for the sake of a musical instrument.”

  Forget fashion? The musical world will never forget the way the Harewood sisters desecrated that transcribed Boccherini trio last week, Caroline thought but didn’t say. If speaking ill of others was a prayer to the devil, she didn’t dare. How was Caroline to wrangle a declaration from Lawrence tonight if she didn’t have help from every angel in the vicinity?

  “Is there anyone else here I should know about?” she asked.

  Frederica colored up prettily. “Lord Rowley has arrived. He smiled at me when he first came in.”

  “He smiles at everyone,” Horatia said pettishly.

  “Anyone else?”

  “No, Caro. Your Mr. Sinclair has not shown his face yet,” Fred
erica said.

  Caroline blinked in surprise. Sometimes she underestimated Freddie’s powers of observation. “Again, he’s not my Mr. Sinclair.”

  “Not for lack of your trying,” Horatia muttered.

  Caroline glared at her.

  “Oh, dear Caro, don’t frown so.” Frederica patted her forearm soothingly. “Your face might stay like that.”

  “Freddie, you sound like my mother. I shall frown if I please.” Caroline pulled what she was sure must be a truly horrific expression. “And whatever face I end up with, I will deserve. At least it will be because of my own choices. For pity’s sake, can I not have one evening without everyone trying to tell me what—”

  “Lady Caroline, if that frown is any indication, you are still a damsel in distress.” Oliver Rowley appeared before the three of them. He made a formal leg to the girls, a bow that would have been more at home in the ballroom of a generation past. Despite his actions, his grin was anything but proper. Frederica giggled nervously, but Rowley kept his focus on Caroline. “Judging from your dreadful scowl, there must yet be a dragon lurking in your haymow.”

  “No, just a rogue standing before me,” she said, extending a hand for him to make a civilized obeisance over. She smiled back at him, remembering the boy he’d been. “Rowley, it is good to see you. You’ve been such a stranger since you and Teddy came home.”

  “Yes, well, there were a number of matters that required my attention upon our return.” His gaze swiveled to Frederica. “Miss Tilbury, how enchanting you are this evening. I look forward to sharing the supper dance with you later, but now I must beg Lady Caroline for the minuet.”

  A string quartet was beginning to tune up in an alcove adjoining the drawing room. Judging from the purity of their scales and singing tone, this ensemble would far exceed the musical endeavors of the Harewood sisters.

  “Surely the dance master has already designated a couple,” Caroline said. Few dancers knew the minuet and even fewer could do justice to its intricate steps. It was often skipped over when the lady of the house called the order of dances. If the minuet was performed at all, it was done only as an exhibition. The dance was spritely and elegant, and Caroline’s toes tapped inside her slippers, itching to try it. “I shouldn’t wish to push myself forward.”

  “You’re not,” Rowley assured her. “I’ve already done the pushing for you. I know what a brilliant dancer you are, so I brought you to the attention of the dancing master.”

  “Thank heaven the master didn’t catch you making that horrible face,” Frederica said.

  “Quite,” Rowley agreed. “In any case, the master remembered your dancing from other fêtes and suggested we pair up for the minuet. Say you will.” Then he drew himself up to his full height to issue the formal invitation. “Lady Caroline, may I have the honor of this dance?”

  Caroline often railed against the lack of choices in a lady’s life and indeed, she had none now. So long as she knew the gentleman who asked her to dance, a lady was required to accept his invitation or remain a wallflower for the rest of the evening.

  Lawrence had been adamant that Freddie should turn Rowley down for the supper dance. Since then, Caroline had suffered a number of niggling reservations about her old friend.

  But she had no reservations whatsoever about dancing the minuet with him. She dipped into a low, graceful curtsy.

  “The honor is mine, Lord Rowley.”

  Chapter 16

  Opportunity makes fools of us all. The wrong thing at the right time is still wrong.

  —Lawrence Sinclair, whose timing has always been a bit off.

  Light blazed from every window of Lord Frampton’s town house. Music wafted out the open door. Carriages pulled up, queuing in an unhurried manner that allowed the beautifully dressed guests to disembark and proceed in stately glory through the wrought-iron gate.

  Lawrence held back, watching them from the corner. Even now, after walking from Leicester Square to Mayfair in his best new knee britches, waistcoat, and jacket, he couldn’t decide if he should actually go in. His Sinclair heritage meant he was on the edge of the aristocracy, but he doubted he’d ever truly belong to this world.

  Or with the one person in it who mattered to him.

  On the way over, he’d rehearsed in his mind what he’d do when he saw Caroline.

  In his favorite imagining, he’d sweep her around the ballroom in a seductive waltz. They only had eyes for each other, and when the music ended, they wouldn’t stop dancing. They’d turn and dip right out a pair of double doors that led into a star-spangled garden. Perhaps there’d be a fountain pattering, and faintly, they’d hear music and laughter drifting out from the ball. Night-blooming jasmine would perfume the air and a nightingale would sing. But nothing in the world around them would really matter.

  He and Caroline would be as alone as Adam and Eve in the Garden. Then he’d tell her everything. All his failures. All his flaws. He’d lay them bare, and, angel woman she was, she’d say they were nothing. He could be as naked as Adam with her—figuratively, of course—and not be ashamed.

  She loved him as he was. Past sins, past hurts would no longer signify. The world would be newborn.

  Then, in another iteration of the same scene, a much grimmer and more realistic Lawrence was possessed of a will of iron. He’d made the decision to protect her, even from himself. If he happened to come face-to-face with Caroline, he’d be polite but distant. However, when she wasn’t aware of it, he’d watch her in hopeless silence, torturing himself while she laughed at another man’s jokes. He’d grind his teeth when someone else waltzed her out the door.

  But his resolve was steady. He wouldn’t interfere. He didn’t deserve her, and nothing could change that. The only way to love her truly was to let her go.

  “Stow it, Sinclair. You’re being a maudlin ass,” he told himself gruffly and set off in the direction of Lord Frampton’s home.

  There was no point in plotting a strategy. He had no idea what he’d do when he saw Caroline. Like the weathercock she’d claimed to be, he, too, was twisting in the wind. Whatever was going to happen would happen.

  Maybe nothing.

  Maybe everything.

  That was the thing about the future. Nothing was written in stone. He did himself no favors by trying to control what was to come. Life was lived one breath at a time.

  It felt a little like the morning of a battle. On those days, he’d never known whether he’d live to see the sunset, but he always prayed to live the hours remaining to him the best way he could. He’d been through the smoke and fire and horror of war and somehow survived.

  He’d get through this blasted ball, too. He simply had to soldier on. If he was destined to spend an evening watching Caroline laugh and flirt and dance with other men, he’d endure it. He willed himself not to care.

  Lawrence squared his shoulders and marched up to Lord Frampton’s door, where he was greeted warmly by the host and his gracious lady. They introduced him to Lady Ackworth and a few other matrons lingering near the entrance. Everyone was all smiles and pleasantries.

  “I say, Sinclair,” a familiar voice called to him. “I was hoping to see you here this evening.”

  Lawrence turned to see Colonel Boyle, dressed in full kit. The colonel had been Lawrence’s commanding officer during his time with the dragoons. He crossed the foyer to join him, and the two men shook hands.

  “How are you, sir?”

  “In fine fettle. This bit of diversion is just what’s wanted before I ship out next month.”

  “Where are you bound?”

  “The gorgeous East, my lad. India.” The colonel lowered his voice. “The major who reports to me is ready to sell his commission. I hope to convince you to purchase it.”

  “I left the service a year ago.” If Lawrence had wanted to make a career of the military, he’d have stayed o
n then.

  “I know, and I must say, I regretted not being able to dissuade you at the time. You were the best officer in my command and you’d be perfect for this new assignment.”

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I’ve no interest in India.”

  “You will when I tell you my orders,” Colonel Boyle said with confidence. “I’m to raise and train a regiment of native infantry with a cavalry attached. Going to press northward, as I understand it. This company will be garrisoned near Peshawar.”

  “I’m less familiar with the subcontinent than I should be,” Lawrence said. “Where is that?”

  “Near the Khyber Pass. At the foot of the Himalayas, my lad. The roof of the world, they call it. In any case, we’ll make it a great honor to be accepted into this regiment. Mark my words, we’ll even have a few princes clamoring to join up. I hear those fellows ride like the Devil himself. They’ll make a splendid cavalry and you are just the man to train them.”

  The idea was appealing. His days would be spent on horseback, training and practicing battle dressage. Lawrence could look forward to being tired in a good way each evening and sleeping like the just.

  But he’d be half a world away from Caroline.

  “Other interests keep me here, sir.”

  The colonel shook his head. “Don’t make the decision rashly. Say you’ll consider it. And remember, lad, this offer is about more than service to king and country. A bright fellow like yourself can make his fortune in the East.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Lawrence promised.

  “We sail on the twelfth of next month. I’ll hold the post for you until then.”

  Lawrence thanked him but was sure he’d let the opportunity pass. Still, he’d been able to move in the rarified society of Lord Frampton’s guests as an equal. If the rest of the evening went as well, this ball would be easier than he’d thought.

  However, his resolution not to be vexed by his situation with Caroline faltered when he followed the sound of music into the drawing room.