Lord Haversham Takes Command

by Heidi Ashworth

  “Miss Crenshaw,” he blurted out in full Bertie-like glory, “it is so good, yes, so good to see you! What an honor that you have chosen to attend our little do over the dozens of invitations you must have received for tonight.”

  Mira saw how her brother’s faces fell, but she was not fooled. The emergence of Bertie was something Harry felt necessary, though she had no idea why. Meanwhile, she was much more impressed by his very natty attire of black suit and waistcoat over a crisp white shirt devoid of even a scrap of lace. He wore a single fob, the attached watch tucked into its pocket, and a diamond pin in his cravat. The lack of color accentuated the green of his eyes and the touch of sun in his cheeks, while it brought out the yellow of his hair. Mira thought she had never seen him look more handsome.

  “None other offered such promise,” she replied with expectations that she would receive no other evidence of his pleasure at her presence until later in the evening. However, in that she was happily wrong and was thrilled when he took her hand and allowed his lips to hover over it a bit longer than necessary.

  “Save a waltz for me,” he whispered with a puff of warm air that made its way through Mira’s glove to her skin. She gave her consent with a squeeze of his fingers in her own and moved away to join her parents as they made their ascent up the stairs to the drawing room.

  “It is passing strange that this house is not possessed of a ballroom,” Lady Crenshaw mused.

  “Oh, it is,” Stephen said. “Har … that is, Bertie and I have spent many an afternoon in it playing at cricket, bowling, and archery.”

  “Who knew his parents would have ever allowed him anything as dangerous as a bow and arrow?” Sir Anthony quizzed.

  “They didn’t. He filched it,” Stephen said.

  “He never did!” Mira cried. “He wouldn’t!”

  “You would be surprised at some of the things he has done, Mira,” Adrian said, his expression dark.

  “Adrian and Stephen,” Lady Crenshaw said, sotto voce. “You betray your friend when you speak of him thus.”

  Mira felt foreboding clutch her chest but knew it would do her little good to ask impertinent questions. Fortunately, they progressed only a few more steps up the crowded staircase before Stephen ventured a response. “I merely feel that Mira should have the truth. She speaks of him as if he were some kind of saint, which he very much is not,” he said with a snort.

  “I know he isn’t,” Mira riposted but she had to own she knew very little of Harry that would style him as wicked other than the gun she had seen on his person. In addition, she hated that he had lied to her and refused to tell her the truth even whilst admiring how he remained firm in his principles and admitting that the aura of danger he had recently acquired in her eyes made him infinitely more attractive.

  Then she recalled something her brothers had spoken of the other day. “Do you refer to the boating accident?” she asked, but the crowd was heavy and hot, the stairs treacherous to traverse, and no one paid her the slightest heed. She made a mental note to ask Harry himself later when they waltzed in each other’s arms.

  It took an unconscionable amount of time to reach the top of the stairs and the doors of the drawing room. However, Mira doubted there was a soul present who regretted the wait, for she stepped into the room just in time to witness how a gentleman in military red unwittingly snagged with his dress sword the hem of Lady Avery’s Greek Key robe. It was just what was needed for the punished seams of the too-small gown to give way altogether and collapse in snowy folds at her feet.

  At the same time, there came a commotion from the floor below. It seemed a guest had entered the house and was so eager to reach the festivities that he pushed his way up the stairs, a circumstance that caused more than one guest to stumble with shrieks of dismay. As he stormed across the hall and threw open the doors, Lady Avery screamed with alarm and shouted, “Oh, Eustace, it is exactly like the Rape of the Sabine Women!” whereupon she collapsed gracefully into a pile of white silk and dried mud.

  “My petal!” cried the newcomer, and with three long strides, he was at her side. Mira was amused to see how the men fell back and the women pressed forward to witness the scene. She was no exception and was vastly relieved to find that Lady Avery was entirely covered in the muddy substance that shielded her from almost utter nakedness. She was also glad to see that the guest who had burst on the scene was none other than Lord Avery and that he had the situation well in hand. It was clear he relished his role as rescuer as he whipped off his coat in a frenzy to protect his wife from prying eyes.

  “There there, my love, did we not discuss how inadvisable it is for you to entertain without my knowledge?” He drew her towards the door, the crowd most pleased to give them a wide berth.

  “Yes, Eustace, you have said so on many occasions, but Herbert asked if I would not throw him a party, and I could not say him nay,” she wailed as the dried mud cascaded from her skin like a shower of dying stars. “I so wanted to prove that I could be understated as well as elegant!”

  “Understated, my foot!” exclaimed a woman with a formidable amount of gray hair piled high on her head and held in place with a garish enameled pin. She gave a tsk and turned away.

  “If it weren’t for such scenes, I would never attend her parties,” another woman remarked to her neighbor, and they, too, turned their backs on the Averys as they made their humiliating progress across the room.

  By the time Lord and Lady Avery had neared the door, every single one of the guests had cut dead their hostess with the exception of Mira and her mother who took Lady Avery’s free arm and went with them. At the landing they met their son as he obtained the top of the stairs. Mira could not fathom what he was thinking. His face was as inscrutable as a night with no moon, and he remained entirely silent as he followed his parents up the next set of stairs to their private rooms.

  Mira hardly knew where to look. She burned with shame exactly as if she were the one whose gown had fallen in a puddle at her feet. She wondered if further disasters such as this were something she had to look forward to if she married Harry, for he had been present and catastrophe had not been averted as she had supposed. Worst of all, she wondered if enduring such social debacles on a regular basis would cause her to blame Harry or think less of him, or, even, love him less.

  These were sobering thoughts indeed. When she felt a touch at her elbow and turned to see Harry, his face set in rigid lines even while his eyes beseeched her, Mira’s heart quaked within her.

  “Harry, I … ” she began but could think of not one thing to say that would address both his pride and his pain all at once. The necessity of a cogent reply was made pointless when he dropped his gaze to the floor, executed a deep bow, and strode away. When he instructed the orchestra to play, and the strains of a waltz filled the room, she began to move towards him, determined to find the right words as they danced, but was brought up short when Harry stepped up to Lucy Sutherland and waltzed off with her in his arms.

  Mira felt as if she had been slapped in the face. Lucy’s coy behavior towards Harry as they danced did nothing to mellow Mira’s feelings. A kind and genial girl, Lucy, if one were to judge by the alarming frequency with which she batted her lashes and wielded her fan, appeared to have had her head turned by the invitation to partner her host for the opening dance.

  Mira, resolved to appear as if she hadn’t noticed and, furthermore, shouldn’t care a farthing if she had, joined a cluster of women in conversation but could not refrain from monitoring the proceedings from the corner of her eye.

  When Lucy leaned in too close, quite purposefully brushing her bosom against Harry as he made some remark, Mira felt her own bosom heave with indignation. When Lucy emitted a trill of delight, Mira wished for nothing more than the opportunity to thrust her fan down the raven-haired beauty’s throat, the one with the fetching mole set against skin of alabaster white. When the music stopped, and Lucy joined Harry in a promenade about the room and twisted a glossy ringle
t around and around her finger whilst giving him an arch smile, Mira nearly choked on the apple slice she had forced into her mouth.

  Finally, music for the March began, and Mira was gratified when George entered the room and lost no time in claiming her hand for the dance. “I thought you would never arrive,” Mira said in a voice designed to rise gracefully above the music and into Harry’s ears.

  George lifted a brow in surprise. “I am fortunate to find you unengaged. I had thought, surely, you would be on the dance floor this far advanced in the evening.”

  “There was a bit of a contretemps tonight, and it delayed things,” Mira said, taking his proffered hand and all but dragging him onto the dance floor. “But all is well now.

  “Of course,” George replied in a wry voice. “One might always count on a contretemps at an Avery event.”

  Mira wanted to skewer him with her fan, but instead risked a glance at Harry who danced close enough to catch George’s remark. Harry, his jaw tight with tension, gave no other sign he had overheard the insult and bent his full attention on his partner who, to Mira’s annoyance, was once again the besotted Lucy.

  The March seemed to go on forever. The fact that George was an admirable dancer, almost as skilled as Mira, did nothing to further her enjoyment. Try as she might, her gaze would stray over and over again to Harry and Lucy, and Mira was struck each time by how well they looked together. Lucy’s black hair and eyes and snow-white complexion were the perfect foil to Harry’s golden coloring, and it was clear that others in the room had noticed the same, the least of which was far from Lucy’s mother who blushed and nodded constantly as well wishers paid their compliments on her well-favored daughter. With a sigh, Mira tried to remember why it was she had been so eager to attend.

  She was never so glad when a dance came to an end and looked forward to a rest when Harry caught her eye, made his bows to Lucy, and made his way to Mira’s side.

  “I was hoping we might speak in private.”

  “Of course, I was wishful of the same,” Mira said in a rush, as if he would walk away again if she wasn’t entirely clear that she wanted nothing more than to be with him.

  “My apologies, Miss Crenshaw, I mean no disrespect, but I was addressing the Duke.”

  She had forgotten that George still stood at her side, and, for the second time that evening, Mira was robbed of words. Why on earth should Harry wish to speak to George? She felt that something was quite wrong, and then there came a stir from the far end of the room. Lady Avery, adorned in a gold gown bearing puffed sleeves so large she was forced to hold her arms out at her sides, entered, remounted her plinth, and announced in a voice that sounded very much like doom: “I have returned.”

  Chapter Ten

  Harry was aghast. Why hadn’t his father kept his mother confined to her rooms? Surely one fit of fainting and nudity was enough for anyone’s evening. He wanted to drop his head into his hands; he yearned to sink into the floor; he wished his mother to sink into the floor, but, in spite of the intensity of his desires, none of these things transpired. After a moment of stunned silence, all returned to what had been: the orchestra resumed its melody, the couples returned to their dance, and Harry stood, stock still and silent, quite incapable of summoning a Bertie-like chuckle or bon mots to save his life.

  The expression on George’s face proved that he thoroughly enjoyed Harry’s plight, but it was Mira’s reaction that undid him. She looked a question at him, her magnificent blue eyes sparkling with tears, and when he would not, or rather, could not, speak, she gave him a tremulous smile and walked away. Harry should have been glad of this chance to speak to George alone but knew his voice would betray him. Instead, he watched, his throat aching, as Mira approached his mother.

  “Lady Avery,” she said, brightly. “Your gown is stunning! Wherever did you have it made? I must be sure to patronize her shop the next time I am in need of something quite this spectacular.”

  “Oh, Miss Crenshaw!” his mother cried, bending towards Mira and clapping her hands.

  Harry admired the deftness with which Mira dipped in order to avoid being clouted in the head with an enormous sleeve. He admired her sapphire blue eyes and the variety of colors that made up her fiery hair. He admired her kindness to his mother and longed to tell her so, but first he must deal with George and the missing orders. With an effort, he pulled himself away from the pleasant scene, cleared his throat, and returned his attention to the still-smirking Duke.

  “She has a way with clothing, does she not?” George drawled.

  “Yes,” Harry snipped, “though, they have been rather up and down of late.”

  George raised a bewildered brow, and Harry realized the Duke had not been present during Lady Avery’s scene earlier that evening.

  “It is of no consequence,” Harry said, momentarily thrown off balance. His plan to gauge where George’s loyalty lay through a carefully orchestrated conversation about the young Queen now seemed as transparent as his mother’s cries for attention. “Perhaps we had best retire to the library for a glass of something,” Harry suggested and led an inquisitive George out of the room. However, once they were ensconced on the sofa in the book-lined room, brandy snifters in hand, Harry still hadn’t any idea of how to initiate a conversation that would lead to the recovery of his missing orders.

  The Duke swirled the brandy around in his glass and waited, while Harry, suddenly aware of how potentially dangerous his situation was, reminded himself of the letter he was duty bound to deliver, the failure of which might mean the life of the Queen.

  George gave Harry a dubious look and sipped some of his drink. “Very smooth,” he said shortly, leaving Harry with the distinct impression the Duke did not refer to alcohol.

  “I believe the best are meant to be,” Harry countered.

  His guest took another sip and rolled it about his mouth. “There’s better out there.”

  “Doubtless true, but none other so close to hand,” Harry replied with a careless shrug then cursed himself for having let slip the fact that he was entirely alone; unless, of course, it were brandy under discussion.

  “One must contrive when the prize is so dear,” George drawled.

  It was Harry’s turn to raise a brow. “I hadn’t known you cared so much. Should I count you an admirer?”

  “What else should I be?” the young Duke asked. “It would hardly do to upset the apple cart at this point.”

  His reply was non-committal at best, and Harry felt nowhere closer to the truth as to George’s loyalties to the Queen as he had at the outset. But were they discussing the Queen or were they still on the subject of Harry as a secret service agent? He stood and went to the credenza to pour another drink, this time mostly water.

  “It’s not as if I don’t know what you’re up to,” George claimed.

  Harry froze, the decanter of water in his hand, and shifted to block George’s view of the proceedings. “Whatever can you mean?”

  “What else can I mean?” the Duke said with a snort. “You think yourself quite clever, I imagine.”

  Harry, still unsure of exactly what was under discussion, suddenly thought of a means of finding out; when at Eton, George had quite the reputation for having no tolerance for liquor whatsoever. Harry took up the brandy and splashed a double into George’s snifter. “No, Your Grace, not clever. I’m simply a man with a mission.”

  “Exactly what might that mission be?” George demanded.

  “The pursuit of the best brandy, what else?” Harry replied and downed the contents of his snifter. Suspicious, George did the same. Harry poured the Duke a robust refill, then turned his back, and filled his own snifter once again with water.

  “You can’t be serious!” George scoffed. “Get to the point and tell me what this is all about.”

  “It’s about a lovely young woman,” Harry said.

  “That tells me nothing,” George grumbled into his snifter. “There are more than a few of those about.”

/>   Harry drank deeply of his water and continued. “One whose impending nuptials have caused a bit of a stir.”

  “Your sham of a pretense makes me laugh,” George said, but it seemed the brandy was not a matter for derision for he held out his snifter for another.

  Harry smiled, delighted in more ways than one. “The question is, are you for or against it?”

  “For or against what?” the Duke demanded in a voice that had started to slur.

  “The marriage!” Harry retorted.

  “It depen’s on whom the bridegroom is, o’course,” George mumbled.

  Harry allowed the brandy decanter to hover over George’s snifter. “German or French?”

  George stared at the stream of brandy as it poured, glittering, into his snifter, his brow furrowed with concentration. “Neither!” he said emphatically.

  Harry was taken aback. He was not aware there was a third option. Victoria could hardly marry a British prince, as there were none suitable to be had. A Russian prince would hardly be viewed as more favorable than a German one, and the prince of Sweden was already married, while the prince of Denmark had recently been through a scandalous divorce. No, he would never do.

  Harry thought of the plan to assassinate the young Queen over her choice of bridegroom and decided to put the question to George that mattered most. “It’s certainly not a killing matter for you, though, is it? Am I wrong to believe that you, as Duke of Marcross, are above that sort of thing?”

  “I’d put a bullet in anyone who got in my way,” George said with a slur of his words and a wave of his snifter that resulted in brandy sloshing up over the sides.

  “Your Grace, I own I am a bit appalled,” Harry insisted as he attempted to fill up the Duke’s wildly bobbing snifter. “I’ve never seen you as a blood-thirsty man.”

  “You said it yoursel’. I have my position to think of. I’m the youngest duke in the land. Were you aware of tha’, Haversham?” George asked and followed it up with a thorough draining of his snifter. “I shall be a peer of the realm for a long time to come and I shall have matters arranged to my satisfaction. Mine!” he said, hammering his chest with his free hand.