by Amy Lake
“Ah—” The Tallfields’ ball! “I suppose . . . yes.”
“May I have the honor of the first dance?”
“Dance? Oh, of course,” said a distracted Lizzie, who wanted only to regain the house, her bedroom, and her bed. “Yes, of course you can.”
She allowed him a peck on the cheek, and turned to go, feeling grumpier than ever. But Miss Asherwood’s mood was improved immediately upon entering the front door. Pivens stood there, smiling, and handed her a letter. From Marguerite.
* * *
Chapter 17
The Tallfields’ Ball
Miss Asherwood woke up on the day of the Tallfields’ ball with a sense of foreboding. Her dreams, which in the past had been innocuous things, barely remembered, on this occasion had turned violent and disturbing. She had dreamt about Marguerite that night, dreamt that the girl was in trouble and needed her help.
’Twas a nightmare composed of blood and fire, and she had awoken at some uncounted hour in early morning, her hand pressed over her mouth to suppress a scream. Elizabeth had been unable to fall back asleep with her usual ease, and only after reminding herself several times that Marguerite’s letter was on her writing desk, just across the room, was she finally able to get another few hours of rest.
Her mood brightened as the day wore on, and even more so when Penny came by in the evening to dress. Miss Perrin kept half her ball gowns in the more spacious wardrobes of Miss Asherwood’s home, and the two girls had long been in the habit of spending the hours together before a major society event. ’Twas a great deal more fun that way and on occasion, as they had both noted, the most enjoyable part of the night.
“Marguerite has written,” was the first thing she said to her friend.
“Excellent. When are you expecting her?”
“Well, that’s the problem—I’m not sure. The comtesse added a note, and she says that Marguerite will travel to Calais, take passage to England, and send word to me from Dover.”
Miss Perrin thought about this. “That sounds like it will work. Will she have money for a room in Dover?”
“Yes. But—”
“She’ll be fine, Lizzie.”
“She’s only fifteen.”
“Practically an adult, then.”
“You’re right.” Elizabeth nodded, then took a deep breath. “She’ll be fine.”
Later the talk turned to Miss Asherwood’s interesting prospects for the evening.
“Both Lord Blakeley and Geoff?” said Penny. She grinned at Elizabeth. “Shall we start a queue?”
“Don’t tease me. Geoffrey is unhappy enough as it is. If he knew—”
“But your new suitor says he may be able to help you.”
“He is not my suitor,” Elizabeth said, with a touch more asperity than the comment warranted. She was sensitive on the subject of Lord Blakeley, and did not care to admit it, even to Penny.
“Oh, very well. What do you think of these slippers?”
“I think,” said Miss Asherwood, eyeing the footwear in question, “that you will need to change your gown.”
The difference in height between the two girls—Miss Asherwood was about average, and Miss Perrin taller—precluded one of Elizabeth’s gowns, but they were able to settle, eventually, on a white cotton batiste for Penny; gathered very high, with silver embroidery.
“A pox on my hair!” said Penny, who often complained of its deep auburn. She stared at the fistful of heavy curls that she held up in front of her nose. “If it was blessed with a normal color—”
“Your hair,” said Lizzie, “is gorgeous. And you well know.”
“I shall never be able to wear pink.”
“And society will be all the better for it.”
Penelope laughed. “True.”
Elizabeth tried on several of her finest gowns before settling on a Grecian dress in a muted, amber silk. The neckline was low, but—she decided—no more than many of the other ladies would be showing, even misses of her own age.
“What do you think?” she asked Penelope, eyeing her décolletage in the mirror. She had a fine figure, and the current styles set it off to advantage.
Miss Perrin pursed her lips, critically. “It will do.”
“Good heavens. It will do?”
“Quite nicely. Lord Blakeley is tall enough. The view will be excellent.”
Lizzie hit her with a pillow.
* * * *
It had rained on and off all day, and even the well-tended walks of the Aisling House were a maze of puddles. Once they were safely into the carriage, Miss Perrin asked again about Marguerite.
“What information does Lord Blakeley have, do you think? What can he do?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Miss Asherwood. “Perhaps nothing, since Marguerite may already be on her way.” She paused. “But he seems so . . . capable.”
“Not a bungler, then?”
“No.”
“We must despair of the reliability of London gossip, then.”
Elizabeth gave a small, ladylike snort.
They sat for a few minutes in silence. The carriage neared Collybrooke, the Tallfields’ enormous home off Cavendish Square, and progress stalled.
“We must be nearly arrived,” said Penelope.
Elizabeth peeked out the window. “Good heavens. It looks like half the carriages in London are on the street.”
“A complete tangle, then.” Penny looked out her side. “It would be faster if we walked.”
“Your slippers would never survive the mud.”
“I suppose. Do you suppose it rains this much in Italy?”
Elizabeth stared at her. “Italy!”
“’Twas just a thought.”
“Why would you want to go to Italy?”
“I don’t know if I do, really,” said Miss Perrin. “But do you ever feel—” She broke off.
“Feel what?”
“Men do things,” said Penny. “Real things. Why can’t we?”
Miss Asherwood saw Lord Winthrop as soon as she and Penny entered the ballroom. He hurried to their side and kissed her hand, greeting Penelope and asking Elizabeth if she remembered her promise of the first dance.
“Of course,” said Miss Asherwood. She was trying to ignore the impulse to raise her eyes and scan the ballroom for Peregrine Blakeley. It was somehow necessary that she see him first, although Lizzie could hardly have explained why. She’d never had this reaction to a gentleman before, this intense self-consciousness. If he had entered the room, and saw her talking to Geoffrey, and she didn’t know he was there—
“And Miss Perrin, of course—would you do me the honor of the next? I believe it is a contredanse allemande.”
“I’d be delighted,” said Penny. “I see Susannah, Lizzie, and she looks ready to burst with some news—I’ll meet you afterwards.”
“Hmm?” said Elizabeth. “Oh. Yes.”
Penelope looked at her curiously. And Lord Winthrop took Elizabeth’s hand, leading her on to the dance floor.
“I’ve missed you,” said Geoffrey.
Elizabeth looked at him in surprise. “I haven’t left London,” she said. “And we were in Hyde Park together not three days ago.”
Lord Winthrop laughed. “I didn’t mean that. But you’ve been woolgathering for weeks, I think. You scarcely seem to be here even when you are.”
Geoffrey was an acute observer, thought Miss Asherwood. More than she had given him credit for.
She felt his hand tighten on hers.
“Elizabeth,” said Geoffrey. He gave her a speaking look.
She felt alarm at his tone, and the look, but the steps parted them before he could continue, and then Marietta Stone tripped over Lord Penwith’s foot, and fell down, which started a chain of tumbling lords and ladies; and for a while, until everything was once again sorted out, everyone was laughing too hard for conversation at all.
By the time she and Lord Winthrop were once again hand-in-hand, Elizabeth was ready for him.
“You know I have been concerned about Marguerite,” she said.
Geoffrey sighed. “There is nothing to be done,” he replied, “other than contact the Foreign Office, which I have—”
“Yes, I know you’ve written a letter,” said Lizzie, a trifle curtly. What was a letter, when Lord Blakeley had agreed to help? “I’ve heard from my sister,” she added, remembering that Geoffrey knew nothing of this. “She will be visiting soon.”
“Ah.”
Lord Winthrop said nothing more, and Elizabeth felt in no mood to pursue the subject with him.
Lady Helen was the only one of Miss Asherwood’s acquaintances who could really be described, on any occasion, as ‘all aflutter’, and she was doing it up a treat when Elizabeth joined the group.
“Lizzie! Lizzie!” called Lady Helen.
“Good heavens, is the Tallfields' house burning down?” asked Elizabeth.
“Wait for it,” said Penny.
“I’m engaged!”
This was unexpected and happy news. Lady Helen’s previous fiancé, one of the younger sons of the Earl of Wakefield, had died of the winter grippe during a particularly cold spell two and half years ago, and the girl had been bereft. Of all Miss Asherwood’s friends, Helen Wexcomb was the one young woman who longed openly for children, and who seemed perfectly made for life as the mother of a large brood. To Lady Helen, every year as a spinster was a child she could not have, and although Elizabeth did not quite share the sentiments for an exceedingly large family, she was truly pleased for her friend.
There was one nagging question, however. Who was the gentleman in question? Elizabeth could not remember Lady Helen mentioning anyone in particular the last time they had met.
“Lord Crispin Brock,” whispered Penelope, in her ear. “Met at the Merryweathers'. Absolutely smitten.”
“Ah!” said Miss Asherwood, and she joined in the general rejoicing.
“Miss Asherwood?”
The voice at her ear made Elizabeth’s heart slam against her chest. She had failed to spot him first after all, in the chaos of the crowded floor.
“I believe you have promised me a dance?”
Lord Blakeley stood in front of her, very close, and Miss Asherwood looked unwillingly into his eyes. She was caught. And all too aware of her neckline, which made her feel more vulnerable than ever before with the man.
He was dressed as she had seen him before, in dark wool and a cravat that managed to appear both elegant and off-hand, as if its owner could not be bothered with mere trivialities of dress. She wondered that she had never really comprehended the color of his eyes before; they were neither black nor brown, but a deep grey-blue.
Lizzie swallowed. “Lord Blakeley,” she acknowledged. By some miracle, her voice was steady.
“Ladies,” he said, and bowed to the rest of the group. Penelope, Lady Helen, and Susannah made their curtseys in return. Susannah’s face showed her amazement; Elizabeth hoped she would say nothing . . . unexpected.
“Shall we?”
The touch of his hand burned. She felt her friends’ stares as Lord Blakeley led her away. And for the moment, Geoffrey was entirely forgotten.
“You look exceedingly pretty tonight,” was her partner’s first comment.
“Thank you,” she allowed. Convention suggested that she reciprocate, and Lizzie had a store of charming and unexceptionable remarks for such occasions, but none of them seemed possible with Lord Blakeley.
I’m like a schoolgirl with her first crush, she thought. Heaven help me.
His hand seemed unusually warm as it touched her back, and his arm unusually strong. His eyes were bottomless, as if she could drown in them.
Miss Asherwood felt blood in her cheeks. Stop it, she told herself.
“You said you had information that might assist my sister,” she blurted out.
“Ah,” said Lord Blakeley, who was clearly amused. “A young woman who comes right to the point.”
“I’m . . . sorry,” said Miss Asherwood, who was wondering how she had managed to say anything that coherent.
“Don’t apologize. I find it refreshing,” he replied.
“I should tell you that I’ve heard from ma . . . mademoi—Miss du Merveille.” Elizabeth had frankly considered omitting this pertinent detail, as it seemed likely to put an end to her association with his lordship. But perhaps Marguerite would have difficulty along the road to Calais.
“Really?”
“She will be traveling soon . . . ” Miss Asherwood raised her eyes to Lord Blakeley’s face. Was she imagining that he suddenly went still? “I would still appreciate some help.”
“I do, in fact, have a name for you.”
“A name?”
“Yes, a contact in Picardy. He currently lives in . . . Calais, but he may know the family, or at least know of them, and if you write to him, I can guarantee that you will receive a quick response.”
“But—”
“Once you have contacted him, and we are sure of Marguerite’s whereabouts, he can assist us in her removal to England.”
“Oh. Yes.”
Perhaps it was the word ‘us’ that reassured her, a signal that Peregrine Blakeley would not walk back out of her life at the end of the dance. Miss Asherwood closed her eyes for a moment. Now, she thought, all will be well. Relief washed over her.
They were dancing a Maid’s Morris, and Elizabeth stepped through the chassé and then turned her back on her partner for the jig. As she did so she saw Geoffrey, standing at the side of the room with Viscount Marbrey.
Lord Winthrop did not look pleased.
“Perhaps we should discuss your sister’s situation a bit further,” suggested Lord Blakeley, when it was clear that the Maid’s Morris was drawing to an end. “You will need to write a letter—in French, of course—”
In French!
The dismay must have shown on her face. He stopped for a moment, then continued.
“After that, we shall see. Monsieur . . . Rabaillat has been quite helpful to our government in the past, and I’m quite confident he will be able to assist us in this matter.”
There it was—‘us’, again.
“Of course,” she said. Joy began to build in Miss Asherwood’s heart, an emotion that she could not justify and could not resist. She was aware of the strength in Lord Blakeley’s hands, felt her skin burning through the fabric of her gown at each place that they touched her. She was aware of the intensity of his gaze, not the usual calf-eyed look that some men assumed, but something indefinable in his expression that Elizabeth felt only she was able to see.
“If I might call on you—perhaps at the end of the week—I would be happy to take the letter myself, and ensure that it is sent to the proper direction. C’est bien?”
“Mmm . . oui. Merci.”
He would call on her. Elizabeth’s mind flew to her wardrobe, and she bit her lip absently as she mentally discarded one morning-gown after another. Perhaps the soft yellow muslin, with the embroidered forget-me-nots, and surely Cook could be prevailed upon to make her cinnamon scones, the ones that smelled so heavenly fresh from the oven—
“Alors. Dans l'attente de notre prochaine rencontre.”
Oh, heavens. Recontre . . . our next meeting? She took a wild stab, and answered, “Ah. Bien sûr.” It seemed to be the correct response, she noted with relief.
They had returned to her group of friends. Lord Blakeley kissed her hand and left.
Miss Asherwood was still worried about Marguerite. She still took it as given that Lord Blakeley had no real interest in her, and she knew there was no need for him to call. A servant could be sent with the letter.
But if ’twas an excuse, what harm was there in it? She would have those few minutes, a morning’s call, she would pour tea for Peregrine Blakeley, and have him sit next to her on the settee, and they would eat scones. And she would pretend, just pretend, that he was her suitor.
Rakes do not fall in love, Lizzie reminded h
erself. The thought sent a shiver through her, and she saw Lord Blakeley’s eyes turn questioning.
“Miss Asherwood?”
“I’m . . . I’m fine,” she assured him, even though she was not.
* * *
Chapter 18
Geoffrey Gets Advice
Lord Winthrop was in truth a pleasant-enough young gentleman who, under differing circumstances and from most points of view, would have made an acceptable husband for Miss Asherwood. He was handsome in a fair, blue-eyed way, and possessed of a decent fortune. He neither drank nor gambled to excess, at least as a rule, and was willing to admit the existence of intelligence in females. He loved children.
But Geoffrey did have certain friends, whom—to give him the additional encomium of loyalty—he remained faithful, even after he had begun to grow up, and they had not.
“That’s the ticket,” said Viscount Joseph Marbrey. “Let her know what’s what.”
“No need for the little misses, anyway,” added Lord Jonathan Rose. “Trollops, every last one.”
Peter Matthews looked up vaguely from his glass of port. “Atta boy, Jonathan. You tell ’em.”
Lord Winthrop was at his club, in the company of several young gentlemen whom he had known since school. They had been drinking for some time, and Geoffrey was currently seated on the carpet, his head leaning against the viscount’s chair. The viscount tended to gesture wildly when he talked, spilling not only his drink but occasionally the glass that held it. Lord Winthrop’s head was already aching from several blows.
Joseph Marbrey was the leader of the group, not so much by virtue of his title as his personality. The viscount was intelligent, but he was also restless and energetic, and ‘one scrape after another’ did not quite do justice to his past few years. Without his family connections and money Marbrey might have ended up in considerable trouble with the Bow Street Runners; as it was he was obliged to rusticate every so often at the family estate in Derbyshire and wait for his latest antics to fade in the memory of the ton. He was just returned from the country, in fact, after being held responsible—quite justly—for the disappearance of a fabulous rope of pearls belonging to the Countess of Berresford.