And she hated lying, though had anyone observed her at a society affair of late, they’d find that impossible to believe. All she was doing was lying—to Patrick, to every person she complimented. Every time she acted as if she cared about the latest gossip.
She was used to frank honesty. Her father was a blunt man, and he had raised her to value the truth above all. It was the foundation of their existence; it was how you knew who you could trust in any environment. Now, to be thrust into a world that thrived on deceit and games felt like walking on a floor of glass—one that cracked with every step and threatened to shatter beneath her.
She settled into the carriage. She’d expected an uncomfortable ride into Lambeth, but as they crossed the Westminster Bridge toward Bridge Street, the lack of small talk hung in the air.
Lady Beasley had fallen asleep only moments after the carriage left, lulled by the bumps on the road and the rhythmic clops of the horse hooves. Little whistle snores erupted from her every so often.
And Patrick, who had proven on every other occasion to be nothing but charming and gracious company, was uncharacteristically silent.
He’s brooding, she thought. And Emily was correct—Aria had to be clear with him.
The fact that she remained focused on leaving London was all the answer she needed to know how she felt about him. She didn’t want to hurt him. But this wasn’t the time to be honest.
And finding her father was something she had to do alone.
The carriage began to slow and she peered out the window. The entrance to Vauxhall Gardens was up ahead, teeming with carriages and patrons walking down the street toward the crush of people at the gates.
They had missed the ritualistic lighting of the lamps, and by the time they made it to the entrance, strains of music could already be heard.
Despite how uninspiring the Gardens looked during the daylight, at night they became a place far removed from London. Exotic in ways that made her recall warm desert nights lit only by candles and lamps when one could step out of the tent and see nothing but the haloed lamps and stars. She’d read in a gossip rag that there were thousands of lamps lit in Vauxhall. They hung from trees, from posts, and turned every speck of ordinary dirt and rock into shimmering walkways. Plants and trees destined to be nothing but a common green by day shone with shadows and highlights, the reflections of the light dancing between the leaves.
Ironic that one of the few places in London she could relax was a fenced-in garden.
“Our box is over there,” Patrick said brusquely after they had entered, pointing toward the south end of the supper boxes, near the statue of Handel. Patrick’s fingers tightened around her arm. “This way.”
As he tugged her, Aria scanned the crowd. She saw a number of people she’d met recently, received an occasional nod of acknowledgement, and noticed more than one appraising glance at Mr. Wade. He was not one of them and they knew it—that was clear from the noses slightly raised, the eyes averted. Aria had suspected they tolerated her among their ranks because of her father’s fortune and perhaps because of his charm, but to have it so clearly shown was chilling. The unlikely crowd may mingle in one place, but people still separated themselves, hidden behind invisible walls.
She had always wondered why Patrick held such a loathing for the haute ton. One would almost think he was of noble blood, and they were but dirt under his feet, so acrimonious was his demeanor. Perhaps it was the way they looked at him. The way they looked through him.
And the vague hope Aria had of spotting one of the men on her father’s list tonight, perhaps even gain an introduction, grew dimmer by the moment. She refused to approach someone with Mr. Wade by her side, knowing they were likely to ignore and offend him. He didn’t deserve to be treated that way.
Even as she thought it, her breath caught.
Lady Ashton was here with an older woman and yes, there was Lord Merewood. Tingles of pleasure filled her, but she shifted her gaze past him. The duke wasn’t nearby, but Aria studied the faces around her. Three of the men on her list were here. Viscount Turleton stood at the end, next to a woman of a decidedly questionable virtue. Lord Barrymore stood with Lady Barrymore, back to back—which lent credence to the gossip Emily had passed on that they had ceased conversing with each other years past. Aria turned around to find Lady Beasley, wondering if the woman knew the couple of equal age, but their trusty chaperone had already disappeared from sight.
One last glance at Lord Merewood. She would ignore how handsome he looked, even with that permanent scowl on his face.
“Are you looking for someone in particular?” Patrick asked.
Aria snapped around with a pang of guilt. Had he seen where she was looking? “Lady Ashton. I met her the other night. She was very kind to me.” Perhaps she could tell him. Maybe he would have some insights on the matter, suggestions on how best to proceed.
“You have been attending a number of events lately, haven’t you?” The words were casual, but the stone set of his jaw was not.
“Papa has always urged me to attend to his invitations.” Which was true. “I thought in his absence, I should make some appearances. He has made a number of connections in society, people who sponsor Papa’s work. It is good business.”
“It is admirable that you support your father’s efforts.” Patrick leaned in and his voice grew more intimate. “But as someone who cares a great deal about you, I caution you against becoming too close with anyone in that world. They are not your friends, Ariadne. They will use you and mock you for it.”
“What could they possibly gain from me?” she teased, but his expression didn’t lose one bit of seriousness.
“Your father is an extraordinarily wealthy man. There are many nobles who have bankrupted their holdings, and they would not think twice at wooing you for your money.”
“They could only do so had I any intention to marry them, and I do not.”
Her words appeared to mollify him only slightly. “I should hope not.”
No, Aria realized with a small thud of disappointment, she had been right to keep this to herself. Patrick would never understand and furthermore, he might try to impede her efforts.
“Why do you dislike them so?” she asked.
He turned his head sharply away, but the hard set of his jaw suggested he was far from unemotional. “Come. Let’s sit and eat.”
The dismissal was clear. Aria swallowed her irritation and followed him to their box. Rather than antagonize him now, she might as well enjoy a part of her evening. It was a three-sided box, the fourth side open into the courtyard. At the back was one of the many panels that decorated each box. Aria leaned in closer to get a look at theirs. Most of the paintings had been commissioned for Vauxhall and painted by Frances Hayman. This wasn’t one of her favorites. It was an image of children playing on a seesaw, but she found the copious use of brown a bit grim.
“One of my favorites,” Patrick commented, gesturing at the painting.
That wasn’t a surprise. She’d already surmised their tastes in art were vastly different. She liked bold colors; he liked things she thought of as moody at best. Gloomy at worst.
She turned and sat in the seat that provided the clearest view of the crowd. The Merewood family was no longer in sight, but Lady Beasley teetered her way over to them and plopped down on the seat.
“Such a lovely, lovely night,” she chirped. “Don’t you agree, my dear?”
“Mmmm hmmm.” Aria mentally ran down the names on her list, trying to gauge who else was here this evening that she could at least study from afar, if nothing else. One remained that she’d yet to see at any event. “Lady Beasley, have you heard of Lord Brandywine?”
“Of course, dear. Everyone knows Ol’ Brandy.” She lifted her cup in toast.
The “everyone” she referred to didn’t include Aria or,
from the black look that crossed Mr. Wade’s visage, him. And Lady Beasley did not seem inclined to expand. For a moment, Aria understood his sometimes irrational dislike of the nobility. They often acted as though no world but their small circle of exclusivity existed.
At that moment, Lady Ashton appeared.
And some of them, Aria mused, were quite friendly and kind.
“Miss Whitney!” A smile dawned across her face, as genuine as the squeeze from the hand she extended. “What a wonderful surprise to see you here.”
Aria smiled in return. “Same to you, Lady Ashton.” She glanced at Patrick. “Might I introduce Mr. Patrick Wade? Mr. Wade, Lady Ashton.”
Warm curiosity gleamed in Lady Ashton’s eyes. “Mr. Wade, hullo. Are you enjoying the evening so far?”
Unable to stand without Aria moving first, he offered a barely visible nod and a gruff “Yes, Lady Ashton. Thank you.”
“I love the Gardens. Always such a lovely evening.” Lady Ashton turned to her. “I thought a walk down the promenade would be lovely. Might I steal you for a few minutes to join me?”
It was an opportunity Aria could not refuse. She could walk for a few moments with Lady Ashton, gain a very important introduction without worrying about Patrick. Aria immediately scooted from her position next to Patrick, but before she could slide out of the booth a hand fell upon her arm. She twisted to meet his very displeased visage.
“The intention was for us to spend time this evening,” he replied, his voice even and low.
“And we will. I shan’t be long.” She attempted to move out, but his hand held firm. A coil of irritation sprung inside of her. “Mr. Wade, I will be back shortly.”
Though it was clear he had no wish to do so, he let her go. Without a backward glance, she waved a goodbye and grasped hold of Lady Beasley’s arm to pull her up.
“Where are we going, dear?” The lady followed like a happy, docile lamb.
“To walk along the promenade, Lady Beasley.”
“Oh quite lovely!” With that, she did a sharp turn to the right and headed in the wrong direction.
Lady Ashton’s shoulders shook with silent mirth. “Is she always so...”
“Sauced?” Aria quirked a brow. “In the cups? Or in her case, I should say bottles.”
They resumed their direction out toward the pebbled walkway. Aria kept an eye for Lords Turleton or Barrymore, hoping they’d intersect. Or did it have to be a gentleman who provided introductions? In fact, she’d introduced Mr. Wade. Had that been wrong? Lady Merewood was too nice to say if it was.
Blasted rules. How anyone managed a season without blundering her way to a ruined reputation, she would never understand.
“Mr. Wade is quite handsome,” Lady Ashton said as they strolled along the wide pathways between the long columns of trees.
“Yes, he is.” A corner of Aria’s mouth quirked. She’d known Lady Ashton for a blink of an eye, but already she could sense a matchmaker in the making.
At that, Blythe’s hopeful expression deflated. “Are you quite fond of him?”
Not at that particular moment. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason.” She unlinked her hand and twisted about, looking to and fro. “Where is that knave, anyhow?” she muttered.
“We are expected to meet a knave on our walk? How exciting. Is it the duke?” Aria teased.
“No, he should arrive shortly. Our daughter was complaining a bit of a stomach ache this afternoon, so he said he would meet me here.”
“Daughter?” Aria echoed, startled.
Lady Ashton laughed. “My soon-to-be stepdaughter, Bethie. And I think she snuck too many sweets.”
“And who do you think she learned that from?” The deep voice belonged to Lord Merewood, who approached them with a long gait and determined set to his shoulders.
“Adam! How lovely. Would you care to join our walk?”
“Since you suggested I do that, not ten minutes ago?” He headed in their direction with long strides. “Miss Whitney.”
“Lord Merewood.” He was not happy to see her, and yet she felt this crisp energy flowing through her all of a sudden. Along with an inexplicable desire to annoy him. She turned to Lady Ashton. “Shall we go see if His Grace has arrived?” From the corner of her eye, she could see Lord Merewood bristle.
“He’ll find me. Let’s walk.” She grabbed Aria’s arm and threaded her own through it. She turned to lead Aria down the wide walkway, and Lord Merewood stepped in line next to Aria. Within moments, they fell into step. Even as he glanced at her with eyes slit into half moons, Aria wondered what he would do if she laced her fingers through his
“Lady Ashton, how did you meet His Grace?” Aria asked the other woman. “You mentioned a scandal the other night, and I envision a great tale.”
“Please call me Blythe. I am not for formality. And I was married to Ravensdale’s cousin, Thomas—although at that time, I hadn’t known Thomas had a cousin, much less a duke.”
“Blythe.” Lord Merewood’s low growl was some sort of warning.
Blythe shot him a sideways glance. “I am not telling anything Miss Whitney—”
“Aria, please.”
“—Aria would not hear in idle gossip.” The admonishment was light, but with a backbone of steel through it. “In any case, Michael came to my home a few months back to pay his respects to his cousin’s widow.” She shook her head. “Thomas had stolen money from a number of lords, and Michael had the ridiculous notion that I had something to do with it. Of course, I corrected that.”
“That must have been quite a shock.” Aria aimed for a casual response, but her heart sped up. “And when was this?”
“Oh, he appeared on my doorstep a few months back, in March I believe, with all the innate arrogance of a duke. Such a devastatingly handsome visage,” Blythe recalled with a sigh. “I was done for.”
Lord Merewood muttered something under his breath and shook his head.
But Aria zeroed in on the time frame. If Ravensdale had been with Blythe in March, then he...
It wasn’t Ravensdale. He wasn’t involved.
Relief slackened the tension in her body, and Aria’s step faltered. Since she still held on to Blythe’s arm, it yanked Blythe back. Lord Merewood immediately placed a hand at both their backs, which brought him closer to Aria. Blythe laughed and smacked a hand on Lord Merewood’s arm to steady herself.
“Aria, are you all right?”
Aria gave her a smile, and guilt smashed into her with the force of a runaway carriage. “I stumbled, that is all.”
She didn’t want Blythe and her duke to be involved in her father’s disappearance. She was happy they weren’t. How did that even matter? How did anything matter but finding her father? This wasn’t about her, or them, or Patrick. It was about her father.
“In any case, it wasn’t long after Michael appeared that—
“Blythe, I do believe we should turn back now.” Adam stepped forward, his hand on Blythe’s arm. “We are venturing into the darker lanes now, and Miss Whitney might have injured herself.”
Aria looked up at him. “I am fine.”
“Nonetheless.” His brisk, do-not-argue-with-me tone raised her temper and she stood taller, squared her shoulders.
“I am perfectly content walking with—”
“Lady Ashton!”
“Mary,” Lady Ashton said, walking urgently toward the young woman trotting over. “What are you doing here? What is wrong?”
“It is Miss Bethie, my lady. She’s sick and askin’ for you. His Grace sent me to find you.”
“I am glad you did.” She looked at Adam. “Please forgive me for abandoning you so soon. I thought we’d get at least an hour. But my angel needs me.”
Lord Merewood coughed. “An ange
l? Perhaps with her halo askew.”
Blythe stuck her chin up. “She is spirited, yes. But she has a good heart, and she adores her father.”
Aria’s heart tugged a bit at the obvious affection. “You love her very much.”
“I’m as honored to become her mother as I am to become Michael’s wife.”
Pain touched Aria with a surprising pinch. Blythe’s love for her stepdaughter was palpable. And at this point, Aria did not expect any sort of companionable relationship with her stepmother, much less one that breathed such open affection. They were too close in age, or too different.
Or if Aria was blunt with herself, perhaps she couldn’t bear the thought of anyone replacing the cherished few memories she held of her mother.
She gave her head an abrupt shake. Becoming melancholy over the past wouldn’t bring her mother back, and it certainly wouldn’t help her find the man who could bring her father home.
“Lord Merewood,” she said suddenly, interrupting the talk between the siblings. “How has the season progressed for you? Have you enjoyed it thus far?”
Both Blythe and Lord Merewood turned their heads, matching looks of odd surprise on their faces.
Yes, her question had come out of the fog, with no relation to anything whatsoever.
“Well, on that note,” Blythe said with a wry smile, “I must be going. Adam, perhaps you might keep Miss Whitney company?”
“Yes, might you?” This time, Aria would not waste the opportunity.
With a wave of goodbye, Blythe hurried off with the servant close at her side.
Immediately, he turned his head toward her, even though his body was poised for flight in the opposite direction. “I want to know what you think you’re doing.”
“It is called strolling the promenade. You should try it.”
“I want you to stay away from my sister.” He placed his hand under her elbow.
“I like your sister. I foresee us becoming friends. And furthermore, you have no right to dictate to me, Lord Merewood.”
Cloaked in Danger Page 6