by Erica Ridley
And if Heath had been born a second son, or a third, or a fourth, there would be little chance of him inheriting the title. He could not wish away the barony, but nor could he shake his longing for a freedom he could never have. To make decisions for himself, rather than duty.
What would he do with freedom such as that? Would he give into his desire to sweep Miss Winfield into his arms? Lower his mouth to hers and plunder—
“What are you smiling at so wolfishly?” Camellia asked.
He glanced over at her with a guilty start, then realized her words were not directed at him, but to Bryony.
“Gossip columns.” Bryony held up a sketch with a caption beneath. “Have you seen today’s caricature?”
“Ugh, I despise them.” Camellia pulled a face. “Why do you insist on having them delivered?”
Bryony grinned back. “To see if I’m in them.”
Heath’s heart stopped. Bryony’s flippant words might be in jest, but he wasn’t so certain the idea was far-fetched.
Having a beloved family member appear in some mocking caricature was his worst nightmare. Not just as the problem-solver famed for quieting ton scandals, but as elder brother to three unwed sisters. How was he supposed to protect them from the damage a printing press could do?
He reached out a palm. “Give it to me.”
Bryony handed it over without comment and turned her attention to the rest of her mail.
Good God. Heath could not look away from the ghastly caricature. That this rubbish was sketched with a deft hand did not signify. Every visage was instantly recognizable. Not just the poor saps being mocked in the foreground. All the faces. The footman in the background was just as familiar as the salon in the sketch.
His breath caught. This wasn’t some outsider’s biting commentary on the perceived iniquities of aristocratic life. This was Lady Carlisle’s ballroom. A real place. A real moment in time. Real quotes emanating from jauntily drawn mouths.
Worse, Heath didn’t just recognize the room. He recognized the exact soirée. He had been there. And if London’s newest critic had been there as well…
Heath crumpled the drawing into a tight ball. Small wonder these savage works of “art” were unsigned. The mystery caricaturist was a member of their class. Shamelessly betraying his peers for a penny. Too cowardly to spew his poison to their faces.
Heath tossed the crumpled sketch into the fire and watched it burn.
When Lady Caroline Lamb had written Glenarvon last year as a thinly veiled attempt to exact romantical revenge after being jilted by Lord Byron, the viscountess had lost far more than permission to attend Almack’s. She had been ostracized from Society completely.
The caricaturist deserved no less harsh a fate.
Chapter 7
Nora perched self-consciously on a pristine carriage squab and wondered if she would ever become accustomed to parading about Hyde Park in Lady Roundtree’s landau.
Even with one leg jutting stiffly forward, the baroness looked as confident and elegant as ever. An exquisitely crafted gown hid the splints well out of view, and a smart blue hat towering with fresh flowers and a false parakeet drew one’s eye toward Lady Roundtree’s regal visage.
Not that anyone would be distracted by Nora’s presence. She sat backward in the landau, her spine to the plush wall separating the groom from the passengers. Her lace-trimmed bonnet was the finest headpiece Nora had ever owned, even if it lacked both flora and fauna.
Her awkward posture was also due to her twin responsibilities of keeping Captain Pugboat inside his wicker basket, while also ensuring passers-by did not fail to notice his adorably wrinkled presence.
Every afternoon was exactly the same.
Or at least, it had been until she found herself spending every free moment drawing sketches of herself and Mr. Grenville in situations that could never happen. Standing up with her to dance at a ball. Skating with her across the frozen Thames. Presented to his friends and family as a diamond of the first water, rather than a mouse that belonged in the shadows…
Even when she was far from her sketchbooks, she could not quit the wistful images from her mind. What would it be like to feel her hand in his? Better yet, to taste his lips on hers? To parade down the busy streets in an open carriage as if he was proud to have her by his side? To—
“Captain Pugboat needs to be petted!” Lady Roundtree ordered with a sudden start.
Nora lifted the wicker lid at once. “Shall I lift him to your lap?”
“And let his dirty fur stain my skirt?” The baroness stared at her, aghast. “You are to do what I cannot.”
“Of course,” Nora murmured.
She slid her hand into the basket and gave Captain Pugboat a good rub behind the ears.
“Not too much,” Lady Roundtree snapped. “A pet mustn’t be spoiled.”
Nora nodded and slid her hand from the basket.
She had quickly learned how much the baroness loved to “promenade” in an open carriage in order to see and be seen. Even prior to breaking her leg, Lady Roundtree had taken her late afternoon walks from atop a high carriage to make certain she was glimpsed by everyone of import. Nora was half-convinced that the primary reason the baroness had hired her as companion was to resume her daily gossip fests in Hyde Park.
After the injury, Lady Roundtree had only become more popular. It seemed every fashionable person in London made a point of pausing beside the landau to wish her well, even if they had conveyed exactly the same sentiment just the day before, and the day before that.
Between well-wishers, the baroness kept up a low running commentary on the lives and loves of everyone within sight. Currently, the carriage was strategically paused halfway around the circle so lords and ladies on foot, on horseback, or in carriages could more easily stop to enquire about Lady Roundtree’s health.
“That was Major Blackpool,” the baroness whispered. “He used to be the most dashing rake in Town until he lost his leg at Waterloo. I’m sure you noticed the horrid clapping sound it makes when he moves.”
Nora blinked. She had not noticed any strange sounds, or anything odd about the major’s limbs at all. He sat astride one of the finest stallions Nora had seen in her life.
“I thought he seemed nice,” she said.
Lady Roundtree sighed at the major’s retreating back. “He still cuts a fine figure, wouldn’t you say? How he ended up with a vicar’s daughter, of all creatures…”
A vicar’s daughter might seem scandalous to a baroness, but such a situation was still far above Nora’s station. She knew gentlemen of the ton were outside her reach. Of course she did. But she could not help but fantasize about one particular gentleman. No man in London cut as fine a figure as Mr. Grenville. His tousled brown hair, his warm hazel eyes, the way he looked at her as if he’d forgotten the rest of the world existed…
If an Army major could not wed a vicar’s daughter without scandal, no wonder a future baron could have nothing to do with a farmer’s granddaughter. Mr. Grenville did not make the rules. He was forced to follow them just like Nora.
Yet more and more each day, an ache in her chest made her wish there were no rules. That she could dance with anyone who wished to invite her, kiss anyone her heart begged for her to kiss.
No… not anyone. Who she longed for was Mr. Grenville.
Even though she knew it could never be.
“Oh, here comes Lady St. John!” the baroness squealed. “Amelia’s a viscountess now, when we’d all been so certain she’d never settle for less than a duchy. Still the biggest busybody this side of the Thames.”
Nora jerked her gaze toward a striking couple smiling and waving from a mind-bogglingly extravagant carriage. Between the couple’s obvious wealth and the equally obvious lovestruck glances they exchanged between conversations, Nora doubted the viscountess had “settled” one whit.
Nora was unable to hide the wistful note in her voice. “She looks happy.”
“She’s related
to a duke,” the baroness replied. “Of course she’s happy.”
“I meant they seem like a well-matched couple,” Nora clarified. “A love match.”
Lady Roundtree was no longer listening. “Make certain she sees my puppy. She’ll be beside herself with jealousy, and with a memory like hers, she won’t be able to forget it. Captain Pugboat’s sweet face will haunt her for days. Don’t be surprised if everyone you see suddenly starts bringing pugs with them to Society events.”
Nora did her best to ensure she stayed in the background and Captain Pugboat in the foreground as the endless parade of dandies, debutantes, and aristocrats streamed past the landau to pay their respects to her patroness. Her visitors were quite the colorful lot.
Lady Roundtree wasn’t always ill-tempered, Nora decided as she watched the conversations unfold. Perhaps she simply liked to hear herself speak.
Although she was fairly certain Lady Roundtree held no ill will toward any of her contemporaries, Nora could have filled dozens of sketchbooks with biting caricatures based solely on the baroness’s pithy “hasn’t a shilling to her name” or “cuckolded him with his own brother” gossip between each visit. Or the shockingly candid comments the well-wishers themselves made, as if a companion’s presence was no more consequential than a lamp post.
Indeed, Nora yearned to have her sketchbook handy. But not for drawing caricatures.
When the idea of leaving for Hyde Park had occurred to the baroness, Lady Roundtree had noticed that Nora was in the middle of drawing the scene outside the sitting room window, and had graciously suggested that Nora bring her book and pencil with her. How she wished she could!
She longed to faithfully capture the beautiful clothes, the towering bonnets, the prancing horses, the ducal carriages. At night before bed, she did her best to illustrate all the finery she’d witnessed over the course of the day, and hated that many of the small details were lost forever.
But she could not risk other members of the ton taking note of any particular artistic tendency. At present, High Society did not tend to notice Nora at all, and while their complete disinterest did little for one’s personal esteem, her relentless invisibility was the gift that allowed her to earn desperately needed funds for her grandparents’ struggling farm.
If that meant a month or two of awkwardness and discomfort for Nora, then so be it. Family was worth any sacrifice.
Besides, it was no hardship to be draped in warm, fashionable gowns, served sumptuous meals with multiple courses, to be seated on a comfortable carriage cushion with an adorable pug wagging his curly puppy tail. She was blessed.
Nora slipped her gloved hand into Captain Pugboat’s wicker basket. She couldn’t snuggle his soft, wrinkly face against her cheek with the baroness right in front of her—Lady Roundtree frowned on such unseemly behavior—but surely no one could object to her giving the very good puppy a quick rub behind his floppy, coal-colored ears.
When he rewarded her with an instant tail wag so emphatic that he nearly lost his balance, Nora forced herself not to laugh out loud. He was adorable. When the weeks were up and it was time to move back home, what she would miss most was not the exposure to finery, but silly moments like these with her best and only London friend, the delightful Captain Pugboat.
“It’s Dorothea!” Lady Roundtree’s spine snapped even straighter and she motioned for Nora to do the same. “Sit up, sit up! You mustn’t hunch over the basket. Straighten your shoulders. She’s almost here!”
Nora wiped the smile off her face and snapped up straight.
An even fancier open carriage approached.
It had been less than a fortnight, but she had quickly learned that “Dorothea” was Lady Pettibone, ruler of the ton. That the society matron and Lady Roundtree were related did not afford the baroness any exemptions to the consequences of her displeasure. One cross word from universally feared Lady Pettibone, and the life of even one as lofty as a baroness would be ruined.
Nora dutifully affected what Lady Roundtree referred to as “solemn but subservient” composure, as befitted a paid employee. She tried not to allow the subtle reminders of how expendable she was wear her down.
That Nora was also the baroness’s cousin had merely landed her this opportunity. Only by never disappointing her patroness could Nora hope to maintain her post.
She could not help but note the irony as the baroness affected a similarly false posture and expression. A wry smile curved Nora’s lips. At their core, she supposed they weren’t so different after all. Everyone’s position in Society depended upon the whim of someone else.
“What’s this I hear about adopting some animal?” Lady Pettibone barked in lieu of a greeting.
Her companion, a blindingly bejeweled lady, gasped and clutched a hand to her powder-pale throat. “Never say there’s a filthy cur in that carriage. How did such base animals suddenly become all the rage?”
“He’s not filthy,” Nora protested without thinking. “Captain Pugboat is bathed twice daily.”
The fine lady’s nose wrinkled as if Nora, and not Captain Pugboat, were the filthy cur. “And who, pray tell, is this unfortunate creature?”
Nora clamped her teeth together. The back of her neck flamed with heat at the question.
Whoever this stranger was, she’d somehow known at a glance that Nora was no young lady in Town for her come-out, but rather some poor servant playing at dress-up.
Her cheeks burned. These were the richest clothes she’d ever worn. But though they might make her feel a princess, her betters still knew her for a pauper. Small wonder most of them ignored her.
Lady Roundtree waved a gloved hand in Nora’s direction. “Winfield is my companion.”
“Oh, thank heavens.” The bejeweled lady gave a delicate shiver. “I dreaded to think how any debutante intended to find a match with hair that… red. The pink gown makes the garish hue clash all the more.”
Nora sucked in a deep breath. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The Society lady hadn’t mistaken her for a servant, after all. She’d simply recoiled at Nora’s repulsive appearance. Apparently her wild red mane was so monstrously offensive, no fine gentleman could ever possibly condescend to withstand the presence of such an eyesore.
Thank God Nora would soon be going home, where hardworking, country-born men had better things to do than rate women’s worth based on the color of their hair.
“Petty insults do not behoove a future countess,” Lady Pettibone informed her companion coldly.
The fine lady’s porcelain face blushed just as red as the rubies encrusted in her gown.
Or as red as Nora’s hair.
“And you.” Lady Pettibone turned her sharp gaze toward Nora. “We have discussed proper comportment. Your first position will be your last if you fail the simple task of minding your silence unless spoken to.”
Nora gulped and nodded. She held this post because Lady Pettibone herself had ordered the baroness to acquire a companion. Nora could not afford to lose it by jumping to the defense of a small, innocent, extremely clean puppy.
Probably cleaner than the heavily powdered future countess sweating to death under the weight of so much satin and jewels.
“And I would beg you,” Lady Roundtree replied with obvious nervousness, “not to publicly reprimand my employees.”
“Then do so yourself.” Lady Pettibone swung her imperious gaze toward Nora. “Well? Let’s see it, then. Or is the mutt confined in that basket because it has rabies?”
Nora startled into action, flipping both wicker lids wide and tilting the basket toward Lady Pettibone’s carriage.
With a rebel yip, Captain Pugboat immediately leapt into the air, front paws reaching toward the ornate carriage, nails first.
Lady Pettibone’s eyes widened in surprise.
Lady Roundtree buried her face in her hands.
The bejeweled countess let out a bloodcurdling scream as if the hounds of hell had been unleashed upon them all.
&n
bsp; Nora released the basket and snatched the flying puppy from the air before his little paws could reach the forbidden coach.
Saved.
She clutched Captain Pugboat to her chest in victory.
The tumbling wicker basket made contact with Lady Roundtree’s broken leg.
The baroness’s resulting shriek of agony drowned out every other sound in the entire park.
Nora yanked the basket away, trapped Captain Pugboat inside, and knelt in abject horror on the carriage floor beside Lady Roundtree’s trembling, broken limb.
Lady Pettibone motioned to her driver. “I’ll leave you to your reprimanding.”
The coach shot away as if fleeing a losing battlefield.
“I’m so sorry,” Nora babbled, unable to wait until directly addressed before apologizing profusely to her wounded patroness. “What can I do to help?”
“Nothing.” Lady Roundtree’s elegant shoulders slumped back against her satin squab in clear relief. “Sit, sit. You didn’t harm me. I just wanted them to go away.”
Nora blinked in confusion. “You wanted Lady Pettibone to go away?”
“Both of them.” The baroness fluttered her eyes skyward. “You cannot imagine how tiresome it is to be constantly judged by those who outrank you.”
“That… must be dreadful for you,” Nora managed to choke out as she forced her still-shaking hands to relax.
“You have no idea.” Lady Roundtree lowered her voice. “Did you know they call her the ‘old dragon?’”
Nora did know.
Her patroness had informed her of this and every other aristocrat’s nickname countless times, along with allegedly verbatim stories about how each reputation had come to be earned. The baroness’s enthusiastically repeated tales were the source material for almost all of Nora’s caricatures.
“Oh?” she said aloud, as if the moniker was surprising news.
If her patroness did not recall her many mindless confessions to a companion, Nora saw no need to draw attention to the matter.
“Even my husband says she’s a tyrant.” Lady Roundtree pursed her lips. “And my husband…”