by Lois Greiman
“Not much help there at all,” Milton said. “That could be any of a hundred ladies.”
“Perhaps I was a bit nervous. I admit, I was not expecting trouble in such a fine neighborhood as yours,” Drake said.
“One must be ever vigilant,” said Shellum.
“Indeed,” agreed Ella, and refrained from slapping him upside the head.
“Not all of us can be as brave as Mr. Shellum here,” Drake said. “Don’t you agree, Lady Lanshire?”
Likewise, she refrained from hitting him. Surely she deserved some sort of award for such restraint. “I hope you were not hurt, Mr. Shellum,” she said.
“My cheek is yet a bit tender,” Shellum confided, touching a bruise under his left eye. “From when they struck me.”
Or from when he’d fallen face-first into the flowering columbine.
“Good show I’ve been doing a bit of boxing down at Gentleman Jackson’s Saloon,” Shellum said.
“Have you indeed?” Milton asked. “I’ve been thinking of doing the same myself. How did you find it?”
“Well…were it not for that gentleman’s training, I daren’t think what might have happened to the lady last night.”
Maddy made a breathy sound in her throat and tsked.
May glanced at Ella curiously, then shook her head. “You were very brave, Mr. Shellum. Whoever the mystery lady was, I am sure she is quite grateful.”
He smiled at her, bowed, recovered. “Thank you. You are terrible kind.”
Behind them, the orchestra was playing the haunting strains of the opening minuet.
“Might I have this dance?” Shellum asked.
“Certainly,” May said, and reaching out, laid her hand on his arm.
The others watched them go.
“Horrible,” Milton said, shivering as he turned toward Drake. “And you say you have no idea who the poor woman was?”
“I should have been more astute.”
“I’m surprised you weren’t,” Milton said. “Being a military man as you are.”
Drake turned his gaze on the little man. For a moment the world seemed quiet, then: “My apologies to all and sundry,” he said, and bowed. “Now, Lady Lanshire, if you’ve no objections…” His eyes were dark, laughing at her. “I’d like to ask your friend here for a dance. Lady…”
“Redcomb,” Maddy said.
“Redcomb…” He reached out his hand. “Would you do me the honor?”
Madeline’s brows rose in surprise. “I’d be delighted,” she said, and grasped his fingers, leaving Ella alone with the stumpy little baron.
Chapter 6
“Where were you wounded?” Lady Redcomb’s voice was low and soft when they were reunited sometime during the minuet. She was pretty, dark-skinned, and quietly alluring.
He looked into her eyes. They were wide and bonny. But they were not as green as the endless hills of his homeland. Not filled with a humor and sorrow so deeply ingrained that a man could not extract himself. Not like the beguiling Ella’s. But it was more than Ella’s eyes that drew him. It was everything about her, the way her lips quirked up in an almost smile of mystery and allure, the way she lifted her hand, or turned, or walked, as graceful as a swallow.
But why the devil hadn’t she admitted her role in the drama of the previous night? In his admittedly limited experience, ladies of the ton reveled in being the center of attention. And the attack on her person would make a fine tale.
“Is it so obvious as that?” he asked.
Lady Redcomb smiled a little. “You dance very well, despite the injury.”
The memories were bitter, scalding. He pushed them into the dark compartment he kept for such things. He had not loved the sea, was not seduced by the swelling waves as some men were. But he’d had little say in the matter. “I was fortunate,” he said.
“Were you?” she asked.
“There were those who thought I would succumb to my injuries.” Captain Fowler for one, though he had seemed neither surprised nor notably disappointed at the thought of his “mongrel” lieutenant losing a leg.
Ensign Stewart’s impassioned tale of Drake’s heroics, however, had made a lasting impression. Perhaps it was the scrawny little ensign’s dramatization of Drake’s efforts to drag Fowler’s unconscious body from beneath the falling battle debris that had changed the captain’s mind. Perhaps the tale had convinced Fowler that even a mutt Irishman might be more valuable with two legs than one. Either way, it was probably best that young Stewart had neglected the portion of the tale that told how Drake had planned to do the opposite. Had planned to toss the bastard’s dead weight over the quarter while the crew was scurrying to escape the unexpected ferocity of the wounded French Bellone.
“I’m sorry.” Her words brought him back to the moment at hand. The moment with no squalls. No lightning storms in the midst of blackness, no bellowing cannons.
It was the second time in two days that a beautiful woman had apologized to him. Conditions were improving considerably. “That I lived?” he asked.
She smiled. “That you were injured.”
“As was I,” he admitted.
“But no more?”
He glanced over her head. The little lord named Milton was leading Lady Lanshire toward the dance floor. She wore a silver-blue gown that flowed around her like silken waves. Her hair was upswept, kept in place by some kind of magic only women understood, and adorned with long, golden pins from which a small string of beads swayed with her movement.
Milton’s stout form was garbed in mismatched yellows and opulent green. It was like pairing a Thoroughbred with a wild ass. Wrong on so many levels. The lady was made for dancing, as lovely as a dove in flight, as elegant as a swan. But there was more, something that made it impossible for him to look away. Who the devil was she? “Had it not been for the injury I would still be on the Sea Witch,” he said.
Lady Redcomb raised her brows. “I sincerely hope that was the name of your ship,” she said, and he couldn’t help but laugh.
Her mouth quirked up a little, reminding him of Ella, and though he knew the comparison was caused by foolish infatuation, he couldn’t help but inquire about their relationship.
“How well do you know Lady Lanshire?” he asked. It wasn’t as if the two women looked alike, but they had adopted similar mannerisms. How far back did their relationship go? he wondered, and searched the crowd for her, but his partner’s peeved tone snagged his attention.
“Sir Drake, have you been at sea so long as all that?”
“I’m not certain what you mean.”
“It’s quite unfashionable to be so obvious about your interest in one woman while you are dancing with another.”
He chuckled. They parted, reeling away with different partners. “My apologies,” he said upon meeting her again.
“I should think so.” She fell silent for a moment as they spun. “She’s not looking for a husband, you know.”
“Oh?”
A quirk of irritation twitched her lips, but whether it was real or performed for his entertainment, he couldn’t be certain. “A gentleman would have said, ‘Are you?’”
He really had deplorable social skills, but neither had he been a shining example of naval excellence. Indeed, he had advanced through the ranks mostly by the grace of attrition and the luck of misunderstandings, some of which were accidental. Still, he had been suited for little else and had nowhere else to go since his mother’s death and his estranged father’s move to London. Thus he had remained at sea for years on end. “Which is exactly what I would have said next, of course, had your charms not driven my manners clear out of my head.”
“Much better,” she said, and laughed. The sound was light and musical. He couldn’t help but wonder if Lady Lanshire heard it.
“Have you never been married, Sir Drake?”
“I fear I’ve spent too much time in the company of the Witch and her like,” he said.
A question flared in her eyes, but unders
tanding dawned in an instant. “Ahh, your ship.”
“Is there another witch about?”
“I see you’ve not met Lady Hamilton,” she said.
From across the room, Lady Lanshire was laughing, but he reminded himself not to glance her way. Not all strategy was staged at sea, after all. “Perhaps she only seems disagreeable in comparison to your pleasing temperament,” he said.
She gave him an approving nod. “Much, much better,” she said, and smiled. “You learn quickly for a military man.”
“It must be your irresistible presence.”
“Quite impressive indeed,” she said.
Lady Lanshire laughed again. He resisted the frown that threatened, but couldn’t quite manage to squelch the question. “Is it too early to ask how you first met her?”
“It most certainly is,” Lady Redcomb said, and gave him a disapproving glance as they walked a slow circle. “Hence I might just as well tell you so you don’t shame me by asking. As it happened, we met over a spirited game of whist some years ago.”
“Spirited,” he said. “Is that another term for dangerous?”
She scowled a little as if thinking back. “Threats may, in fact, have been issued. In the end I lost a small fortune and my dignity, but we became fast friends. We were, after all, both new to this country. Both widowed young.”
“She’s widowed?” She had said as much, but in truth, he had no idea what to believe. Lady Lanshire was lying about other things. Why did that intrigue him more than disturb him?
“For some years,” she said.
“What was he like?”
She gave him another tilted look from beneath her lashes. “Tell me, Sir Drake, don’t you wish to know if she’s sinfully wealthy?”
“Only a fool or a rich man would not.”
“And which one might you be?”
“I fear I’m not wealthy,” he said.
She smiled. “So honestly, why did you not ask her to dance?”
They twirled. “I thought that was what she anticipated.”
“And…”
“Surely you’ve heard of war tactics, Lady Redcomb.”
“Indeed I have. I’ve just never seen them employed on the dance floor.”
“I doubt that’s true.”
She looked at him, canting her head and concentrating. What would she see? A bitter man, hard used and bone weary? Or the less likely image of the elegant, newly knighted hero he hoped to project?
“So you’re planning a surprise attack,” she said.
“I’m still strategizing.”
“I believe she’s off her guard now.”
“You think so?”
She glanced to the right. “She’s speaking with Lord Milton. The most tiresome man in Christendom. She’s most probably out of her mind with boredom.”
“Just what I was hoping for,” he said.
The song came to an end. They bowed in unison.
“Go talk to her,” she said.
“Perhaps I’m shy.”
“Perhaps you’re a liar.”
“Perhaps.”
She laughed. The sound was a bit louder and more flirtatious than seemed natural. He lifted an eyebrow in question.
“It’s for Lady Lanshire’s benefit,” she explained. “She’s watching.”
He turned to find his quarry, but his partner stopped him with a tight grip on his biceps.
“Don’t look,” she hissed.
“My mistake.”
“I should say it is,” she said, then stretching up on her toes, whispered, “War tactics indeed, Sir Drake. ’Tis little wonder you were wounded.”
“If only you had been there to instruct me.”
“And defend you.”
“Are you so dangerous?”
“I can spread some wicked on dit,” she said, and linking her arm through his, gazed admiringly into his eyes as she led him back toward the object of his fascination.
“I’ve no idea what half the populace of this city are talking about most of the time,” he murmured.
“Just follow my lead,” she said, still smiling as Lord Milton scurried into the crowd. Lady Lanshire glanced up, eyes widening before she jerked her gaze toward the little lord as if hoping to draw him magically back.
“Damn,” Lady Redcomb whispered, smile tightening a bit.
“What is it?” Drake asked.
“Harrison Sutter approaching from the starboard side.”
“Sutter?” He glanced casually to the right. “The man with the perfect nose?”
“I think he’s quite enamored with her.”
He failed to stop his frown. “What are her feelings for him?”
She glanced up, smiling flirtatiously. “I’m surprised you lasted a day at sea.”
“I was too pathetic to dump overboard.” They were drawing close. He could feel her nearness in the very air she breathed. As if it had somehow been energized.
“I’ll get rid of him,” she murmured.
“I’ve got nothing against the man, of course,” he said, remembering the perfect nose. His own had been broken. Twice. Once by a loosed jib and once by an ensign. The same one who had so dramatically portrayed the saving of Captain Fowler, in fact. “But if you feel the need to kill him I’ll help you be rid of the body.”
“Good Lord,” she murmured, then turned with a smile to the man with the perfect profile. “Mr. Sutter, how good it is to see you.”
“Lady Redcomb, you look resplendent.”
“As do you.”
It was true. He wore the costume of the ton as if he’d been born to it. The perfect match for Lady Lanshire’s mind-tingling elegance.
But the introductions were beginning. Drake gave Sutter a nod, but Lady Redcomb was already reaching for the other’s hand.
“A waltz,” she said. “How lovely. Will you favor me with this dance, Mr. Sutter?”
Sutter delayed an instant before bowing with elegant grace. “I would be delighted,” he said, and escorted her back onto the floor.
Drake clasped his hands behind his back and watched them go. “On the grand scale of things, how obvious was that ploy?”
“Ridiculously,” Ella said, not bothering to glance at him.
He nodded, agreeing. “Why did you not tell the others about your troubles in the garden?”
Milton was bobbling through the crowd toward them. Neither turned to watch, but he was certain she was aware.
“Are you intending to ask me to dance or not?” she asked.
Still watching Lady Redcomb, he canted his head the slightest degree toward Milton. “I thought he was your chosen one.”
“I said I wanted to sleep with him. Not talk to him.”
“You saw my efforts.”
She gave him a tilted glance from the corner of her eye.
“On the dance floor,” he explained. “If you still wish to accompany me, you must be rather desperate.”
“I’ve seen worse attempts.”
“You are kind,” he said, and thrust out an elbow.
“Not generally,” she said, and took it.
The lilting waltz flowed on. Thank God for the scandalous Viennese, he thought, and took her in his arms.
There was almost a glow about her. An illumination he could neither quite substantiate nor dismiss, but it seemed to cast everyone around her in muted darkness. Perhaps she was not beautiful. He couldn’t quite tell, for she was enchanting.
“The truth is,” she said, “I have yet to decide whether I wish to sleep with Shellum,” she said.
He focused on her words, but it did little good. “I’m not certain I understand.”
“If my contemporaries know he saved me from those fiends in the garden…” She shivered a little. “They will surely expect me to be grateful.”
He thought about that as they spun across the dance floor. “Grateful enough to sleep with him.”
She gave him an abbreviated nod. “Especially once I become promiscuous.”
She scowled. “In truth, I’ve been quite busy. But I shall get around to it soon enough.”
“Might soon mean tonight?” he asked, and raised a brow.
She lowered hers. “Don’t look so hopeful.”
“Procrastination is one of the seven deadly sins.”
“No it’s not.”
“But its status might be elevated at any moment so—”
“I’m not going to sleep with you, Sir Drake.”
She was mesmerizing. “Even if I plead.”
She cocked her head at him. “Pleading might be interesting.”
How easy it would be to become lost in her eyes. “Please,” he said.
She waited, looking expectant, then disappointed, then downright peeved. “That, my good sir, is the most pathetic pleading I’ve ever heard.”
“My apologies.” They twirled again. His leg throbbed, but it could hardly compete with the thrill of holding her. “So you don’t want people to know he saved you lest they expect you to share his bed.”
“Exactly.”
“Perhaps you could simply tell them you’re not attracted to him.”
She scowled. “Since I have every intention of sleeping with Milton, I hardly think that will make a great deal of sense to them.”
He chanced a glance over her shoulder. The little man was watching them, brows lowered like a burrowing rodent’s. “And why was that again?”
“Some might think him less attractive than—”
“I meant to say, why are you planning to sleep with him.”
“Oh. Because I am quite certain I won’t get attached.”
“Of course.” He spun her past an aging couple. Her neck arched gracefully with the motion. Her gown flared like the tail of a falling star, but he caught her gaze and held it. “And why, my lady, are you pretending Shellum saved you instead of the other way around?”
Chapter 7
Ella held his gaze. Smiled a little. Remained calm. That was, after all, what she had been trained to do.
“Tell me, Sir Drake, might you have been eating Hull cheese?” she asked.
He scowled.
“The ton’s jargon,” she explained, “for drinking.”