Let Me Be The One

by Jo Goodman

  North hadn't known that. He chuckled."That's very good of you."

  Southerton waved this off. "He must like it. At least he accepts the delivery and returns the empty bowl sometime early in the New Year. Mother, bless her, is none the wiser." He pushed aside his cold egg, his appetite for it gone, and buttered the other half of the muffin. "Have you seen Eastlyn?"

  "As a matter of fact, I have." Northam settled himself comfortably into the wide spindle-backed chair and began his account of the morning, starting with Lady Battenburn's bloodcurdling scream. Of necessity the entire interlude involving Lady Elizabeth was left out, and Southerton once again proved he was gentleman enough by not questioning certain holes in the story.

  "So you think the Gentleman made his escape through the window," South said when Northam wound down his tale.

  North didn't think any such thing, but it provided him with a reason for scaling Battenburn's stone edifice. "I needed to see if it could be done."

  South made a sound at the back of his throat that was wholly skeptical. Still, he didn't pursue that perhaps there had been other reasons for North to take to the outer walls like an arachnid. "A shame you didn't catch the miscreant," he said. "I should have liked to have my snuffbox returned."

  "It was uppermost on my mind, South."

  A dark brow kicked up. "Uh-huh."

  North was saved defending his white lie by Eastlyn's timely arrival. He opened the door without knocking, saw his friends in cozy conversation at the table, and let himself in.

  "Eh? What's this?" he asked. "North, I've been looking for you. How'd you get here?" He picked up a muffin from the tray on his way to take a seat on the bed. Sprawling across the rumpled length, he bit into the muffin with obvious relish. "Should have liked to have had breakfast in my room myself. Couldn't though, could I? I was sent off on some cork-brained chase after a thief who was no doubt already enjoying breakfast in his bedchamber."

  Southerton and Northam exchanged long-suffering glances.

  "I saw that," East said. "Ill-mannered of you both."

  South could not let that pass. "Pot calling the kettle and all that," he drawled. "I don't recall you waiting for an invitation to come in here. I might have been entertaining someone a great deal prettier than North." He glanced at Northam. "Sorry, North. No offense meant."

  "None taken."

  Eastlyn turned on his side and propped himself on one elbow. He swallowed the last bit of his muffin. "If you mean Lady Powell, you're sadly out of it there. She's wandering the gardens on Mr. Rutherford's arm. Saw them myself not above twenty minutes ago. Looking very enamored of each other, they were." He and North shared a chuckle at Southerton's expense and their friend's expression became perfectly disagreeable. "I shouldn't wonder if they haven't lost themselves in the maze by now."

  Southerton merely grunted, which gave rise to more knowing laughter from the others.

  "I suppose you'll have to find another partner for the baron's treasure hunt," Eastlyn said. "Mr. Rutherford's not likely to pass on the opportunity to ask her. Shouldn't have let him steal a march on you, South."

  "You know, East," the viscount said pointedly, "I'm not of a mind to take romantic advice from someone currently between Scylla and Charybdis himself."

  "He means Mrs. Sawyer and Lady Sophia," North said helpfully.

  "Actually I meant it the other way around."

  Eastlyn flung himself back on the bed again. "I know what he means."

  South warmed to his literary allusion. "Mrs. Sawyer always reminded me more of a seething whirlpool, the kind of female monster that would suck a man into her vortex and—"

  "I remember Homer," Eastlyn said, exasperated.

  "And Scylla... wasn't she a nymph or something equally naughty before her appearance was changed?"

  Northam nodded. "It does seem more fitting that Lady Sophia should be Scylla."

  The Marquess of Eastlyn sat up, glared at both of them, and said in clear tones, "I am carrying a pistol." He saw that had the immediate desired effect. "Deuced uncomfortable it is, too." He removed it from where he had tucked it in his trousers and laid it on the bedside table.

  "Bloody hell!" South said feelingly. "There are other ways to extricate yourself from an amorous coil that don't involve shooting yourself in the ballocks."

  "Have a care," Eastlyn said. "I still may shoot you there." Eastlyn propped the heels of his boots on the bed frame. His glance at his friends finally took in Northam's bandaged hands. "What happened to you?"

  North told him, giving the same abbreviated account as he had given Southerton. Eastlyn was equally dubious about some of the particulars, but likewise he asked no questions. "I take it your search was also without results," said North at the end of his summary.

  "Completely lacking," East said. "And I'm here to tell you I am off for London. Damned convenient to find you both in the same place. My carriage is being readied now."

  "You will inform us, will you not, how it goes with your ladybird and your lady?" South asked.

  Eastlyn sighed. "I shouldn't be at all surprised if rumor reaches you before I do, but yes, I will take pains to keep you abreast of my love life, since yours is so sadly lacking."

  South chuckled. "Give me a moment to find a jacket and I will see you off."

  North held up his hands. There were pinpricks of scarlet at the fingertips where blood had seeped through. "You'll understand if I bid you farewell now."

  Smiling, Eastlyn nodded. "I would not have it any other way."

  * * *

  Northam was not surprised when Elizabeth continued to avoid any situation where she might find herself alone with him. Her evasion was not as blatant as it had been and therefore did not invite comment from the other guests. At least no one felt obliged to remark on it to him. Elizabeth did not immediately absent herself from a discussion if he joined her group. On occasion, when he had been engaged in conversation with the baroness and her friends, Elizabeth came to the circle and participated in the discourse. She was seated beside him at dinner at two different times, once on his left and another at his right, and she proved to be an entertaining and relaxing companion, treating him no differently than she did her dinner partner on the other side.

  Lady Battenburn's encounter with the Gentleman Thief was the subject of considerable speculation and a certain amount of exaggeration upon the retelling. She made much of the point that the thief was every bit the gentleman he was purported to be, and the fact that she had screamed should cast no reflection on his manners. It was just that he absconded with her favorite necklace and she had been overcome by the loss of it. There were those who quite naturally believed the Gentleman might have tried to be more intimate in his attentions than the baroness recounted, but they refrained from mentioning this within the lady's hearing.

  There was conjecture about the possible identity of the thief, but an accusation was never leveled at anyone's head. Southerton's name was whispered about, a rumor that brought Lady Powell flush to his side again. Other names were mentioned in a good-natured way and no offense was taken. Indeed, the fact that the Gentleman Thief seemed to be among the invited guests at Battenburn did much to raise the social standing of the gathering. After all, it was reasoned, the Gentleman could certainly choose quality.

  Other than starting the rumor about Southerton, Northam kept his theories to himself. The baroness's description of the thief was not helpful. In her overwrought state her accuracy was suspect. She sounded very certain of herself at one moment then questioned her own memory of each detail. He was tall, certainly. But perhaps he was wearing lifts in his boots. His hair was dark, though she was not at all sure it wasn't a wig. He was broad of shoulder, yet because of the way his coat hung she could not say with confidence that it was not padding that made him seem so.

  Tall. Short. Husky. Narrow. Fit. Fat. And so it went.

  Northam sighed, reining in his horse. He let her slow to a walk along the stream and finally pick her way ca
refully through a shallow pass. On the other side he dismounted and allowed her to wander while he sat on the bank and chewed thoughtfully on a blade of grass. It was not his best thinking posture because he had nothing to lean against, but he reasoned it would serve him well enough.

  Battenburn Hall stood like a fortress on the rise of land in the distance. Looking at her gray stone walls, nearly mirror-like in the bright sunlight, Northam could hardly credit that he had managed to inch his way along them. The proof that he had done so rested on his fingertips, now protected by soft leather riding gloves. If the Gentlemen Thief had been able to make a similar exit, then he had had the foresight to wear gloves. While taking pains to hide his own injuries, Northam had made a point to examine the hands of all the guests. It had proved no easy task, and he was reminded of the truth of Southerton's observation: They attended too many gloved functions.

  Northam removed his gloves now and laid them at his side. His beaver hat joined them. Unbuttoning his frock coat, he leaned back on his elbows and crossed his Hessians at the ankle. Sunshine was pleasantly warm on his face. His mare snuffled in the tall grass nearby.

  He applied himself once again to the consideration of the Earl of Rosemont's daughter. He could not recall the slightest hint of scandal attached to her name. Quizzing Southerton, after he learned of his friend's slight connection to Elizabeth through his sister Emma, had provided no more useful information.

  Lady Elizabeth's first Season had not taken. She had had some admirers, but none of them had apparently come up to snuff in either her eyes or that of her father's. Northam reasoned that having to face William Penrose, Earl of Rosemont, would inspire sufficient terror in the breast of most potential suitors. Elizabeth's choices might have very well been limited to the desperate and the foolhardy.

  Northam's own acquaintance with Rosemont was limited to passing him in White's or observing him in the House of Lords. The man took his responsibilities to provide leadership and rational debate in the Parliament seriously. His opinions were oft-quoted and he had the ear of the Prince Regent. It was said that he was in support of Wellington as the next Prime Minister, the inference being that he would not consider himself as a candidate for the same post. He was rather stiff of bearing, not stuffy, but invariably correct. Appearances seemed to mean a great deal to him.

  From the colonel, Northam knew that Rosemont had been a widower for a number of years before remarrying. It had been his beautiful second wife, the former Lady Isabel Milford, youngest daughter of an earl herself, who had taken Elizabeth in hand and guided her through the balls and entertainments of that Season. Northam also knew Rosemont's much younger wife had delivered him an heir some six years ago.

  The relationship that existed between Elizabeth and her father could not properly be categorized as an estrangement, the colonel had told him. Elizabeth was in residence at Rosemont twice a year and stayed for several weeks each time. Neither was she a stranger to his London home and had been known to visit his properties far to the north. She was unfailingly respectful and brooked no public argument with him, making Rosemont the envy of every father who had known the frustrations of a rebellious child. Because she was the very model of rectitude and good sense, the earl gave her his leave to spend a considerable time in the company of the most amiable and unexceptional Lord and Lady Battenburn. This was all well and good, the colonel had said, his tone indicating the very opposite, but over the years Elizabeth had also become less known to him.

  Her letters were infrequent, her visits few. He was not fooled by Elizabeth's denials of a strain between herself and her father—it had existed at some level since the unfortunate death of her mother—but Blackwood would not countenance that strain when it began to unsettle his own connection with her.

  Had her accident at Rosemont been the source of the odd cutoff with her father? The colonel had certainly placed no significance to the event. He had not even mentioned the fact of her limp, leaving it to Northam to discover for himself.

  "Tell me what she is about," the colonel had asked instead. "I cannot shake this dread I carry on her behalf."

  Dread. It was a good description, Northam decided. In spite of the pleasantness of the day, he felt considerable tension in his neck and shoulders. A muscle worked rhythmically in his cheek. He turned over on his stomach, discarded the blade of grass ground at one end between his teeth and plucked another, promising himself he would treat it more delicately.

  He tried to imagine using Elizabeth's own words to explain how things were to the colonel. He could not. How would he say it? "I regret to inform you, sir, but the daughter of your beloved cousin Lady Catherine has announced in no uncertain terms that she is a whore." Northam could almost feel the pain of the pistol ball that would surely pass through his heart if he delivered that message. No, it wouldn't serve.

  Even less palatable would be admitting his intimacy with her. "I have firsthand knowledge of that fact, sir." But did he? Northam's experience with whores had been limited to camp followers. He had mostly made it a point to avoid them. In his early days in London he had set up a succession of mistresses, all of them intelligent, gracious, and skilled in bed, but ultimately found himself dissatisfied with the arrangement. He made each of them a generous settlement when he ended it, and inadvertently attracted the notice of a goodly number of other women with similar reputations and an eye for the main chance. He had bedded several but had never been moved to offer his protection, and he had never thought of them as whores.

  Evidence to the contrary, he did not think that of Elizabeth Penrose either. She had set forth her best arguments to send him on his way, had even charitably offered him an exit by staging her own retreat to her dressing room. He had ignored it all.

  Northam knew there had been no force involved in what he had done to her, yet he believed the thing had been done against her will. She had not fought the battle with him, but with herself. Her surrender had caused no anger to be directed toward him. What he had seen in her eyes, the tears making them almost painfully bright, was self-loathing.

  She had not spoken of a parade of men through her bedchamber. She had made mention of only one. No, that was not quite true. He sought the memory of her exact words... there was at least one other before you...

  He groaned, wishing his memory would have played him false. At least one other could mean only one or the veritable parade he now feared.

  Northam sat up suddenly, feeling restless and edgy with ill-defined frustration. With little provocation he could smash someone's face. He spit out the blade of grass and whistled for his mare. She sidled over while he jammed his hands into his gloves and put on his hat. He mounted, swinging his leg hard over the saddle. Every bit of his aggressive temperament was communicated to his mount and in moments they were flying across the meadow, trying to outrun the demons of doubt.

  * * *

  "I believe we are to be partners, Lady Elizabeth."

  Elizabeth turned and found herself having to tilt her head up to Viscount Southerton. She smiled warmly. "Indeed, my lord, it appears so. I begged Lady Battenburn to place you with someone more quick-witted than myself, but she could not be swayed. I must tell you at the outset that I am not good with riddles."

  "It does not matter," South said graciously. "I wager you have more familiarity with the twists and turns of this house than anyone but our hosts and perhaps a few of the servants. Since the latter haven't been invited to play and of necessity the baron and his wife had to excuse themselves, you are my very best chance to recover the treasure." His light gray eyes danced. "What is it, by the way? The baroness is being uncharacteristically closemouthed and his lordship would not divulge anything last evening, even when he was well into his cups."

  "Do you mean you tried to get him foxed so he would tell you what it was?"

  "I don't believe I encouraged him unduly."

  Elizabeth laughed. "I should think not. Harrison enjoys his brandy." She tapped South's forearm with her closed
fan. "As for the treasure, I haven't the least idea. I have not been privy to any of the planning regarding this hunt, else I would have had to excuse myself as our hosts have."

  Southerton feigned disappointment. "Well, I suppose I shall have to endeavor to be brilliant. It strains the gray matter."

  "It strains the imagination."

  Startled, South's mouth clamped shut. When it opened again it was to let loose full-throated, hearty laughter that was not easily contained in the drawing room.

  "Sh," Elizabeth chided him, trying to temper her own smile. "You are attracting attention."

  On the other side of the room, Lady Powell snapped her wrist and her fan opened with a flourish. She used it to hide her frown as she watched Southerton try to check another bout of laughter. "I shouldn't wonder that he injures himself."

  "Indeed." Northam was also listening to his friend. His eyes, however, were on Lady Elizabeth. Her humor was in every way the opposite of his own, and the more she tilted her radiant smile in South's direction, the more he felt like breaking something, starting with Lady Powell's ivory fan and ending with his best friend's nose. If, somewhere in between he caught Lady Elizabeth's fine chin, all the better.

  It was all a fancy, of course. He wasn't going to hit anyone. It wasn't done. Not by him. Not ever.

  Lady Powell tapped his shoulder with the tip of her fan. "The best revenge is winning, don't you think? There is nothing for it but that we should take the prize."

  Northam looked pointedly at the fan beating a tattoo against his arm. She removed it hastily. "Of course," he said. Turning his back on South and Elizabeth and blocking the same view from Lady Powell, he gave her his mostly undivided attention. The widow was an attractive woman, very much in her prime, with cocoa-colored hair and large brown eyes. Her figure was trim, her smile knowing, and her temperament was most politely described as mercurial. She wed young and had been, by all accounts, a faithful wife to her older husband throughout their marriage. After observing the requisite year of mourning in solitude in the country, Lady Powell had rejoined society at the urging of family and friends. Northam knew he could have drawn a much less desirable partner.