by Cara Elliott
Damnation—the book! John had forgotten that she had planned to pick up the volume of Hingham’s essays from the bookstore this morning.
“Miss Sloane!” he called, hoping to press his plea to borrow it sooner rather than later. However, by the time he sidestepped the chess displays and reached the passageway, the tiny bells above the doorway were already sounding a parting chime.
“Damn, damn, damn.”
He was leaving for Shropshire in the morning, and wasn’t due to be back in London for at least a week. There were duties to attend to at home—including escorting Lady Serena Wells to the County Militia’s annual ball.
Order and precision. Logic and discipline. Not fanciful musings about wood possessing a soul or stones having an inner fire.
Reason would rule.
Which, of course, was as it should be.
But as he gathered up his intended purchases. John found his thoughts were straying from smoothly polished marble to a substance that possessed a slightly rougher and more interesting texture.
Chapter Seven
The swirl of scarlet silk, a vivid reminder of a foot soldier’s regimental coat, turned the earl’s thoughts from the capering figures of the country dance to the upcoming debates in the House of Lords. It was, he thought grimly, going to be one hell of a battle. The issues concerning the welfare of returning veterans were complex, and it would take a good bit of adroit maneuvering to broach his reforms without stepping on toes…
“Wrexham?”
The staccato notes of the violins suddenly ceased sounding like the whine of bullets to his ears. “Forgive me,” he murmured, ruefully aware that one of his wandering feet had nearly crushed Lady Serena’s dainty slipper. Once again he found himself on the dance floor. And once again, he was making a hash of it. “I fear that what few skills I have at these sorts of maneuvers are a trifle rusty.”
“On the contrary, sir, your movements are quite precise,” replied Lady Serena. “You just need a bit of practice.”
“Like drills on the parade ground?”
“Exactly. Indeed, if you break the figures into individual elements and perfect each one, you will find it easy to avoid a making a mistake.”
“Ah.” His breath came out in a sigh. Was a misstep truly important if one was caught up in the spirit of the music? Recalling Olivia’s outrageous words, he nearly smiled. Somehow, she was under the impression that dancing was meant to be more than an exercise in regimented moves. Indeed, the Hellion of High Street had cheerfully acknowledged her disapproval of strict rules in general…
“Wrexham?”
John quickly corrected his errant step. “So sorry.”
“Would you rather sit out the rest of the set, sir?” asked Lady Serena. “You appear to be thinking of things other than the intricacies of a gavotte.”
“Perhaps we had better, in order to avoid grievous injury to your toes,” he admitted with a rueful grimace. “I am afraid I have been allowing my thoughts to stray a bit.” Then, realizing how churlish his words might sound to a lady, he hastened to add, “An unforgivable offense, given the present company.”
“Oh, you have no need to apologize, milord, for I am aware that you have every reason to be preoccupied. Uncle Justin says that you are very concerned about the upcoming debate in the House of Lords over the treatment of our war veterans. And from what he has given me to understand, you will among the leaders in pushing for serious reforms. Do you mean to forward the idea of a pension?”
“Well, as to that…” As John began an earnest explanation of his positions, the clench of his muscles slowly loosened. Lady Serena’s questions were informed and intelligent. And she seemed truly interested in his answers.
Looking around the crowded ballroom, he found himself feeling both relieved and reassured. Indeed, the more he considered it, the more the lady by his side seemed the perfect choice for a countess.
“…what is more, a soldier certainly brings a laudable discipline to any task he is assigned,” finished Lady Serena.
John had lost track of which reform she was commenting on, but the reference to discipline suddenly brought to mind a topic closer to home. After a moment of hesitation, he decided to broach the subject.
“Perhaps too much so.”
Her brow quirked in question.
As the dance ended, he steered their steps out to the garden terrace while explaining about his choice of a drill sergeant as tutor for Prescott.
An evening breeze swirled lightly through the ornamental shrubbery and set the torches by the stone balustrades to dancing along with the echo of the music. In the softly shifting patterns of light and shadows, it was impossible to make out any nuance of Lady Serena’s expression.
Nor were her first words any more revealing. “I see,” she murmured.
“See what?” he probed.
“In truth, I see nothing wrong with your decision, milord. In my opinion, it is better to err on being a trifle too strict rather than too lenient. As your heir, young Prescott must learn about duty and discipline. It is never too early for a young gentleman to understand his responsibilities in life.”
It was, to be sure, an eminently rational response, but John felt his brow furrow.
“You do not agree with me?” asked Lady Serena.
“In principal I do. And yet, surely there is an alternative to the rigid application of rules and rods. I…”
He drew in a deep breath. Bloody hell, if he intended to speak out on important issues, he would have to do a better job at articulating his feelings than he was doing now.
“…I wish that you might try to be a bit more friendly with Scottie,” he said in a rush, deciding that blunt honesty was the best tactic.
“I appreciate your candor, my lord,” she replied slowly. “Just as I believe you would prefer me to answer with equal forthrightness. I shall never be Prescott’s friend—the differences between an adult and child are simply too great to think otherwise. I would, however, hope that I might win his respect and some degree of affection.”
Respect and some degree of affection.
She had certainly won his, he told himself.
And what more could he ask for than such a firm foundation on which to build a new life? Scottie would learn to appreciate that in time…
Still, on offering the lady his arm, the earl could not quite shake the feeling that the brick and mortar of his future was slightly askew.
“The morning post, milord.”
“Thank you, Whitney.” Without looking up, John motioned for the silver tray to be placed to the side of his plate. Nothing among the assortment of mail promised to be half so interesting as the essay he was reading. Bold, witty, imaginative, it voiced a fresh perspective to the very Parliamentary issues that were weighing on his own mind.
Indeed, he must remember to jot down several of the phrases…
As he reached for his coffee, he caught sight of his sister’s distinctive script atop the unopened stack of letters.
Duty before pleasure, he reminded himself. This week’s feature by the Morning Gazette’s clever political columnist could wait for a few minutes while he attended to family matters.
John set the newspaper aside. Not that he didn’t enjoy Cecilia’s pithy commentaries or words of wisdom. However, he had an unsettling feeling that she had not given up the battle to maneuver him back into the ballrooms of Mayfair.
Not a snowball’s chance in hell, he vowed, ignoring the tickling little daggerpoints of heat dancing down his spine as he suddenly recalled Miss Olivia Sloane’s molten green eyes and her interesting opinions.
He couldn’t afford any distractions in his life at the moment.
Prescott’s entrance was a welcome enough diversion that John did not comment on his son’s tardiness or the smudge of dirt on his cheek.
“I’ve a letter here from your Aunt Cecilia. She sends her love, and says to tell you that she has found a lovely book on sailing ships that she thinks you
will enjoy,” he murmured, skimming over the first few paragraphs.
So far, so good. Perhaps he had been exaggerating the danger.
“And your cousin Schuyler suffered a broken finger while playing cricket at Eton.” He looked up with a smile, only to find his son fixing him with a rather fishy stare.
“Hmmm. Life in London appears be a trifle dull, despite the Season being in full swing.” Refolding the missive, John reached for his newspaper.
“Speaking of letters, Father…” A much-creased sheet of stationery slid across the polished mahogany. “Try this one. I think you will find it vastly more entertaining.”
The shirred eggs did a queasy little lurch in his stomach. “Where did that come from?” he asked.
“Just read it, Father,” insisted Prescott. “Please.”
John rang for a fresh pot of coffee before gingerly picking up the paper.
“Who the devil is Lady Loose Screw?” he finally demanded, once he had read over it twice.
“My new mother,” blurted out Prescott.
John nearly dropped a cup of the scalding brew in his lap.
“Of all the applicants, she is the only one who measured up.”
Undaunted by the earl’s oath, the boy went on in a rush, “As you see, she likes books and philosophy, she knows how to cast a fly and ride astride, she doesn’t mind frogs and mud. And she is really quite funny. In a word, she’s perfect, Father.”
Mother. Applicants. Replies. The words stirred a dire foreboding.
“Do you mean to tell me it was you who placed the advertisement in the Morning Gazette?” John spoke softly, trying to keep his outrage from boiling over.
“Yes.” The tilt of his son’s chin was no doubt a mirror image of his own tightly clenched jaw.
“Perhaps I was wrong in telling Withers to relax the rules governing your behavior.”
“Just listen to what she says regarding rules!” Prescott reached across the table to snatch back the paper. “Rules may be the screws that keep the gears of Society spinning,” he read. “But if on occasion a screw loosens, and a few squeaks ensue, my experience has indicated that the machine doesn’t fall apart.” He looked up expectantly. “She sounds like just the sort of lady we are looking for.”
“Lady Loose Screw indeed—she sounds like a complete rattlehead!”
“Well, at least she is not as rigid as the Steel Corset!” retorted Prescott. “I think she would make a perfect wife.”
Aghast at the suggestion, the earl drew in a deep breath. And let it out in a shout. “Well, then perhaps in another ten or fifteen years, you may consider making her an offer. In the meantime—”
“But Father—”
“In the meantime, you are going to march to the schoolroom this instant and write an apology to the editor of the paper, along with an immediate retraction of that ridiculous ad.” Embarrassment added an extra edge to his outrage. The idea of becoming the butt of ridicule, especially at such a sensitive political time, was unthinkable.
At least, he prayed that would be the case.
“By the grace of God,” he growled. “If we act quickly to squelch any more newspaper stories, we may manage to scrape through this farce without anyone connecting it to the Wrexham name.”
“You—you mean you won’t at least consent to meet with her?”
“Absolutely not!”
“But—”
“Not another word! That’s the end of this matter—do you hear me, Scottie?”
John found he was not the only one capable of stinging sarcasm. “Loud and clear, sir,” came the reply.
For a moment, father and son eyed each other with mutual loathing.
“Then I suggest you sharpen your pen and get to work on composing a suitably contrite admission of your transgressions,” snapped the earl. “You will have ample time in which to hone your choice of words, seeing as you are confined to your quarters for the rest of the day.”
Prescott said nothing, but the glitter of tears was eloquent in its resentment. Kicking back his chair, he rose and fled from the room.
John fisted the offending letter into a tight wad and chucked it into the fire. To the Devil with Lady Loose Screw. He took a rather childish satisfaction in watching the flames lick up and consume the crumpled paper.
Ha! If only it were half so easy to reduce the rest of his problems to naught but ashes.
Retreating back behind the pages of the newspaper, he sought solace in the clear-headed thinking of the political essay. But the fight with his son had left him too drained, too distracted to concentrate. Fed up, John abandoned his breakfast and stalked off to his study.
Now that his initial outrage had worn off, he found himself shocked at the ferocity of his son’s reaction. And his own. Raking his hands through his hair, he stared glumly at the crossed cavalry sabers hung on the wall.
Women! Let them set pen to paper, and all hell broke loose.
Slapping a fresh sheet of foolscap upon the blotter, he, too, began to write. First a note to his sister, then one to Lady Serena, informing them of his abrupt decision to return to London several days earlier than originally planned. The newspaper essay—and his own stuttering reply to Scottie’s latest misbehavior—had roused him to action.
To have any hope of winning both the battle for military reforms and the fight to keep his son from coming to hate him, he would need better ammunition than his own roughcut thoughts. Words were a powerful weapon, and to marshal them into an effective fighting force, he would need help from an experienced general.
Cecilia, Serena, Olivia, and now this Loose Screw. Wrexham repressed a slight shiver. Their names seemed to slither across his skin, like the damn serpent from the Garden of Eden.
After being bedeviled by females, he needed to talk to a kindred spirit. It would be a breath of fresh air to seek counsel from another gentleman as savvy and wise as “The Beacon.”
“All good things must come to an end.”
Josiah Hurley stepped back from the type case to see what had provoked the mournful announcement.
“It looks as though we shall have to come up with a new farrididdle—er, that is, feature—to keep the public’s interest. It’s a pity. Circulation is bound to drop off.” His assistant chuffed a sigh. “At least we had a good run.”
“Not so fast.” After a quick glance over his clerk’s shoulder, Hurley relaxed.
“But—but you see for yourself that our anonymous author admits to a hoax and withdraws the ad.”
“You have a good deal to learn about the newspaper business, George.” Hurley picked up the second sheet of paper that had fallen from the packet. “A story does not lose its momentum until we cease giving it legs…so to speak.” Tapping an ink-stained finger to his chin, he contemplated the schoolboy scrawl. “Sometimes, when the original path seems to be fading away, you simply have to find a new slant.”
Chapter Eight
Don’t slouch. And don’t squint.” Lady Trumbull’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Reading and writing is such an unnatural occupation for a young lady. It is no wonder you have an odd kick to your gait.”
Olivia’s slipper grazed the delicate Chinoise curio table, nearly knocking several porcelain figurines to the floor. “Anna has enough grace for two, Mama. You need not worry that she will follow my lead.”
“Hmmph!”
A reproachful glance from her sister caused her to leave off the subtle teasing. Not that her silence would do anything to soften her mother’s scowl. It was only the sight of her middle daughter, looking resplendent in a gown of ivory sarcenet trimmed in daffodil yellow, that fashioned a look of budding triumph on the baroness’s face.
“Indeed, Anna, you are looking in the first bloom of beauty tonight. I have no doubt you will have every eligible gentleman buzzing around you.” Lady Trumbull slanted a glowering glance at Olivia. “Unlike some, who make no effort to display a sweet disposition. Lady Knowlton mentioned to me this morning that she overhea
rd you contradicting Lord Howell over some detail of parliamentary procedure.”
“He had his facts wrong,” she replied calmly. Her mother’s criticism had long since lost its sting. “On several points.”
“That has nothing to do with the matter,” exclaimed the baroness. “A lady is expected to offer compliments, not corrections, when a gentleman offers his opinion.”
“Even when he is a pompous ass?” muttered Olivia under her breath. It was a good thing her mother had not heard of her spirited exchange with Lord Wrexham the other evening. It would have required a sea of smelling salts to bring her back to life.
From behind the baroness’s back, Anna twitched another quick warning sign.
Olivia tweaked a brow, but refrained from further comment.
“You are sure you do not wish to change your mind and come along?” asked Anna.
“No, no. I think I shall just sit by the fire for a bit and catch up on some correspondence before turning in for an early night.” Though in truth, her candle would likely be burning until well into the wee hours of morning. The book from St. Andrews had clarified the main problem in her essay, but if she didn’t—as Caro put it—stop dawdling, she would be in danger of missing tomorrow’s deadline. And seeing how Mr. Hurley was most pleased with the attention his new columnist was attracting, she did not wish to disappoint him.
“Anna, do step away from your sister before you catch a sniffle. It would never do for your admirers to see you with a red nose.”
“Yes, go,” urged Olivia before edging back into the shadows of the little parlor.
“A lady is expected to be prompt,” began the baroness as she gathered her shawl and hustled Anna toward the foyer. “A lady is expected to be charming. A lady is expected to be…“
A lady is expected to be an utter bore, mouthed Olivia. Which was why she was quite content to be an aging bluestocking rather than a belle of the ball. At least there were two thoughts to rub together inside her head…even if the friction sometimes set off sparks.