The Bargain

by Jane Ashford

  Hannah snorted.

  Ariel had heard enough. She pushed the door open and walked through. “Hannah, I just wondered…” she said, then stopped and gazed at Lord Robert with a pretense of surprise.

  He jumped to his feet. “Oh, er…”

  “Lord Robert stopped by to pay me a visit,” said Hannah calmly. “We are old friends. I have known him since he was a boy.”

  “Oh.” Ariel put all the amazement she could manage into the word.

  “Right,” he said. “Family retainer, that sort of thing. Just wanted to see… to see… that everything was all right.”

  “To make sure I wasn’t working her to death?” Ariel couldn’t resist saying.

  “Eh? No, no. No question of anything like that. Didn’t mean to imply…”

  “Was there something, miss?” put in Hannah, rescuing him.

  “I wondered if we might have roast chicken for dinner tomorrow?” replied Ariel.

  Hannah met her eyes, and Ariel saw that the older woman was well aware that this was an excuse and fairly certain that Ariel had been listening for some time. “Of course, miss,” she answered. “I’ll get a nice fowl at the market in the morning.”

  Ariel couldn’t read her look. She didn’t seem angry, or particularly surprised. It was impossible to penetrate the older woman’s calm reserve. But she didn’t sense hostility either. “Thank you,” she said and turned to leave.

  “Got to be going myself,” announced Lord Robert. “Just stopped by, you know, on my way to… er…”

  Ariel glanced back over her shoulder. “You are welcome in my kitchen anytime you like, Lord Robert,” she told him. She thought she glimpsed a twinkle in Hannah’s eyes in response to her sweet smile.

  ***

  Lord Alan Gresham gazed at the overly animated crowd who filled the prince regent’s largest reception room to bursting. They were rather like a flock of marauding crows, he thought, all landed in a field of ripe corn and calling raucously to one another while they gobbled as fast as they could. Only the crows were more intelligent, he added sourly. They were after sustenance, not gossip.

  “It’s very noisy,” commented Ariel Harding, who stood close beside him with one small white hand on his arm.

  Alan looked down at her. He was still not quite certain how it had come about that he was here, in evening dress, escorting her to a Carlton House reception. He knew that when this evening party had been mentioned, he had determined that it wasn’t wise for Ariel to attend. She didn’t belong in a place like Carlton House. Its atmosphere encouraged just the sort of behavior he vowed to avoid, and her presence would definitely disrupt the calm, reasoned progress of his investigation. But then Ariel had been certain that the ghost would make an appearance tonight, and so eager to see it again… After that Alan’s recollection was uncharacteristically muddled. And here they were, side by side, and the object of a host of curious eyes.

  Ariel was certainly worth looking at, Alan admitted to himself. She was ravishing in a cloud of sea green, her skin and lips glowing against the pale fabric, the sparkle of her gaze almost effervescent. His arm felt hot where she held it, and he couldn’t keep his mind from drifting to those moments when he had held her in his arms. Did she have any idea how difficult she was making his life? he wondered.

  “Ah, there you are,” said a plummy voice behind them. “At your post, eh? Good, good.”

  Alan turned reluctantly to face the prince, who was moving through the room surrounded by his usual retinue. “Not alone though,” the regent added. “That gel from the cupboard, ain’t it?” He examined Ariel with an expert’s eye, his gaze lingering in strategic areas. “Never forget a… face,” he added with an aristocratic leer.

  Ariel dropped a tiny curtsy, at the same time lacing her other hand around Alan’s arm and clinging to him. Alan gritted his teeth.

  “Enjoyin’ yourself?” the prince asked her in a suggestive voice.

  “Oh, yes, Your Majesty,” replied Ariel in breathy tones that made Alan look down at her, startled. She tightened her hold on his arm. Her glossy brown curls brushed his shoulder; her breast pressed softly against his elbow.

  “Alan takin’ good care of you, is he?” said the monarch. He waggled his eyebrows at Alan.

  “Very good care,” she answered in a way that confirmed every innuendo.

  “Ah.” The prince regent’s pudgy features creased in a smile. “You let me know if he doesn’t, and I’ll… see to it myself.”

  Ariel gave him a coy look. A sound of exasperation escaped Alan.

  “Now, now,” responded the regent, “I’m not poaching, m’boy, just commending your taste.” With a waggle of his fat fingers, he passed on to speak to another of his guests.

  “Why did you do that?” demanded Alan in a fierce whisper.

  “What?” said Ariel in her normal voice. She had released her clinging grip and was standing beside him as if nothing had happened.

  “You know very well. You gave him the clear impression that—”

  She looked up at him, her hazel eyes limpid and innocent. The heat of the room had lent a further glow to her cheeks, and her full lips were damnably inviting. What if she really were his mistress? Alan thought, as the prince, and probably everyone else in the room, now believed. Desire flared in him as he imagined what the night could bring under those circumstances. Those lips—all of her—would belong to him. He would watch that sea-green gown slip off her shoulders and fall to the floor. He would feel her silken skin under his fingers. He would not have to resist the impulse to…

  Ariel blinked, and her lips parted slightly.

  Wrenching his thoughts from these channels, Alan returned to reality, becoming aware of sidelong glances and knowing smiles from those surrounding him. That had torn it, he thought. Anyone who had missed the byplay with the prince had now been treated to the sight of him practically devouring her with his eyes. There would be no denying the rumors. Silently, he cursed the whole lot of them.

  Ariel cleared her throat. “I believe that is the Earl of Dunbrae,” she said.

  He waited for the inevitable.

  “I asked someone to describe him, and I think that must be he.”

  Following her glance, he surveyed a large man with graying black hair and a disgruntled expression. It was Dunbrae, of course; his luck was running that way.

  “Yes?” asked Ariel.

  Heavily, he nodded.

  She looked gratified. “How fortunate. I understand he rarely comes to Carlton House.” She started forward.

  “You’re going to approach him?”

  “Of course. It is a perfect opportunity.”

  “Here?” he demanded. “With all these people looking on?” It wasn’t enough that she intended to question her mother’s former lover, he thought. She must do it in sight of all the gossips in London.

  “They won’t know what we say,” she countered blithely, moving off before he could stop her and forcing him to follow.

  “I’m Ariel Harding,” she was saying to the older man when he caught up. “Bess’s daughter.”

  The earl’s craggy face grew sterner.

  “I wanted to speak to you about her,” she added.

  Dunbrae glowered at Alan as if to say, “Can’t you control this chit?”

  Alan raised a hand to do something, then let it drop. No, he couldn’t, he thought. That was the trouble in a nutshell.

  “I was away when she… died,” continued Ariel. “And I still can hardly believe she’s really gone.”

  A flicker of feeling passed over the earl’s features.

  “I think about her so much. If only I knew why…” She faltered briefly. “I hoped you might be able to tell me,” she finished.

  A muscle jerked in Dunbrae’s cheek. “I was out of town,” he said, his Scots accent evident. “I had to be in t
he north for a month. When I came back, they told me she was dead.”

  Ariel’s face fell. “So you weren’t there.”

  “I would ha’ been, if I’d had any warning at all,” he said loudly. “If she’d told me…” He bit off his words and gathered air with his fist. “I know na’ more than you,” he added quietly. The muscle in his cheek jumped again; pain was evident in his blue eyes.

  They stood in silence for a few moments.

  “I heard she comes here,” the earl added heavily then. “Have you seen her?”

  Ariel nodded. “Once. I tried to reach her, but—”

  “Bess Harding does not come here,” Alan couldn’t help saying. “Her supposed ghost is a hoax.”

  The other two looked at him.

  “Which will be exposed and discredited quite soon,” he added.

  Ariel bent her head. The earl sighed. “Aye,” he said. “I know it. I should na’ have come.” He stared around the room with clear contempt, then made another sharp gesture. “I’ll be going.” He gave Ariel a piercing look and a nod before turning away.

  “Didn’t she confide in anyone?” murmured Ariel. “Was it always secrets?”

  Alan moved so that he shielded her from most of the prying eyes. The stark grief in her face was not for public consumption. It tore at him and made it imperative that he do something. But what?

  Alan had spent a good deal of his life avoiding entanglements with other people. They were annoyingly unpredictable, and more important, they interfered with his work, which had always been his first consideration. Now, he wanted to intervene, but he didn’t know exactly what to do. He had no experience of such situations. Sebastian would know, he thought, and then was surprised. The idea that Sebastian had anything to teach him was a new one.

  Alan looked over his shoulder. It seemed as if a thousand people were staring, waiting for him to make a move. He needed to get Ariel away from that malicious scrutiny, to divert her. What would Sebastian do? “Would you like to dance?” he said.

  Ariel blinked.

  She might well be surprised, he thought savagely. It was a ridiculous idea. This was what came of trying to emulate Sebastian.

  “Do you know how to dance?” she responded.

  She never said what he expected, Alan thought. “Of course.”

  “Really? It doesn’t seem like something you would…”

  For some reason, her startled reaction stung him. “I have danced at any number of balls,” he informed her, “and at Almack’s and at country house parties.”

  “Have you?” She sounded wistful now. “I had lessons at school, but I have never actually danced—officially, I mean.” She looked toward the next room, where a group of musicians was playing for the dancers.

  The starkness was gone from her expression, and the uncertain eagerness that had replaced it was irresistible. “Then it is high time,” said Alan, and he offered his arm.

  A waltz was just beginning, and Alan swung Ariel out into the circling dancers. The speed and sureness of the movement made her breath catch. One of his hands had captured hers; the other was warm on her ribs. Her eyes were just inches from his broad shoulder, where her own fingers had somehow come to rest. For a moment it seemed that she had forgotten everything she knew about dancing. She would trip over her skirts, she thought, tread on his foot, cause them both to fall in a heap on the parquet floor. But then the strength of his arm guiding her and the rhythm of the music caught her up, and she found herself matching his movements as if they had done this a hundred times, swaying with him in the cadence of the dance.

  The feeling was intoxicating—like flying. The glinting colors of the dancers’ clothes and jewels blurred into the flicker of candlelight as they moved among them. The sweet strains of the violin filled her ears. She could feel the very threads of his coat under her fingertips, and she was exquisitely sensitive to every small signal of his body. He swung her in a turn, their bodies close, and her breath came faster.

  He danced extremely well, she realized with some surprise. He moved to the music as if he were part of it, displaying a natural grace that she hadn’t noticed before. And he seemed to be having a fine time. She never would have predicted that. When he spun her at the end of the room and swung her back up it, they drew a number of admiring glances. Delighted by it all, Ariel smiled.

  Lord Alan smiled back at her, his handsome face relaxing, his blue eyes sparkling with what certainly appeared to be pure enjoyment.

  Ariel couldn’t tear her eyes away from his face. He looked so different. It was as if a curtain had parted to let light flood out. “You like to dance,” she said a bit breathlessly.

  He merely continued to smile down at her.

  “Wh-where did you learn to dance so well?” she asked, flustered by his warm, steady gaze.

  His arm tightened about her waist, and they whirled together to the right. “My mother saw to it that we all learned,” he answered. “She considers it one of the indispensable social skills.”

  “Really? What… what are the others?”

  “An easy manner, an ability to converse, a consciousness of others’ feelings, and a knack of gracefully balancing a cup and saucer on one’s knee,” he replied promptly.

  She looked at him from under her lashes, uncertain whether it was all a joke. “Knee?” she repeated.

  His smile widened slightly. “For morning calls and tea parties,” he informed her. “One is always being required to manage a cup. Robert used to sit in the drawing room and practice. With the Sèvres.”

  She laughed at the image this evoked. “And you? I didn’t think you cared very much for social graces.”

  “I don’t.”

  He pulled her a little closer again and guided them in a rapid turn. Ariel felt the muscles of his upper arm flex as they moved. It was exceedingly unsettling to be so close to him, and so very conscious of his strong, dominating physical presence. She had to cling to his shoulder briefly to keep her balance. “But you like to dance,” she repeated a bit desperately.

  “Music is very mathematical,” he replied. “It has an order and a clarity that is quite beautiful. It has nothing to do with social graces.”

  “So you are… responding to the music? When you dance?” she wondered.

  “How could one do anything else?”

  The musicians ended with a flourish, and the dancers slowed to a stop. In the brief moment while he still held her, Ariel gazed into Lord Alan’s eyes. So often, he spoke as if what he said was obvious and common. But this wasn’t. A great many people had no response at all to music, she thought. He could have observed any number of them at her school, singing off-key or drawing tortured sounds from the pianoforte. His deep instinctive response was something special.

  It was also unexpected, Ariel thought. There was more to him than she had realized. Or perhaps she simply hadn’t understood what he meant by “man of science.”

  The warmth of his hand left her side; his fingers slipped from hers. Ariel let her own arm drop with some reluctance. All she wanted just now was to dance with him again, and explore this new facet of him further.

  They stood near a row of tall windows that marched along one side of the room and overlooked a garden illuminated at intervals by torches. The windows were open to the balmy spring air, though they had little effect on the stifling atmosphere.

  Alan savored one stray puff of air, drawing it into his lungs. Dancing always stimulated him, but dancing with Ariel had been an unprecedented experience. Usually, he was most keenly aware of the notes being played, the harmonies and rhythms, the admirable way the piece fitted together. This time, he had been wildly distracted by the feel of her supple body between his hands, and the way it seemed to respond automatically to any small movement he made. The duet they had created together had conjured visions of Ariel with her shining brown hair tumbling a
round her shoulders, and her skin glowing with something other than the exertions of the dance.

  He had to stop this, Alan thought. He was here to end the “haunting,” and he musn’t be distracted.

  He took another breath. The wind was rising outside, he noticed. Branches swayed and a bush bent halfway to the ground. Or was that the wind? Had he glimpsed a shadowy figure moving in the garden? All senses suddenly alert, he began to thread his way through the crowd toward the windows.

  “Where are you…?” began Ariel, then fell silent. Casting a glance over his shoulder, Alan saw that she was following him with an intent expression.

  They had nearly reached the windows when light flared in the garden. Someone had opened a dark lantern, Alan thought, or perhaps more than one. And the beams were directed full on the figure framed by an arching trellis—the “ghost” of Bess Harding. It looked the same as before—the old-fashioned gown, the bone-white face, the splatters of supposed blood, the illusion of floating above the ground. But this time the figure threw back its head and held out its arms as if beseeching the crowd. Several female guests shrieked.

  “Get out of my way,” said Alan, pushing past a cluster of transfixed partygoers. “Pardon me. Let me pass.” He twisted and shoved until he made it to the nearest open window. Without pausing he threw a leg over the low sill and ducked under the sash, straightening again in the flowerbed just outside.

  The light on the ghost vanished. This time, Alan was certain he heard the squeak of dark lanterns. His first impulse was to race to the spot where the figure had appeared, but then he stopped to think. The woman, whoever she was, would be expecting that, and she would have moved. It would be wiser to listen for the sounds of flight and follow.

  He was straining his ears when Ariel tumbled out of the window behind him in a rustle of silk. “Where is she?” she cried, stumbling slightly on the hem of her gown, then hurrying across the flowerbed toward the site of the latest haunting.

  Alan looked to the right, where he expected to find one of the men he had stationed at the doors of the building. The fellow was there. Alan summoned him with a gesture and gave the order to search the garden. But he knew it was too late. The hoaxers had found a way in, and they were certainly departing through it right now. All he had managed was to keep them out of the house.