A Lady's Guide to Improper Behavior

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Me? Have you looked at yourself lately?” He smiled. “I saw you dancing with Mayhew,” he said. “You’ve won the lemon ice, I think.”

  She chuckled. “I detest him, but he dances well enough. And he refused to say anything kind at all about you. Something about your gall in disputing the claims of an enterprise that’s made Britain great.”

  “Hmm. And to think, all I’ve done is get shot in the knee and not die. Wait until I actually have evidence to support my view.”

  “Have you found someone, then? Anyone to corroborate the danger of the Thuggee?”

  “Not yet. I’m to meet someone tonight. Hopefully I’ll learn something useful, then.”

  “Who?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  She frowned. “If you can’t even meet with this person publicly, how large a chance is there that he’ll say anything you can actually use to help us?”

  He sighed, running his thumb along her lower lip. She’d said “us.” “Not much. But it’s a chance.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” she said, twining her fingers into the sleeves of his red coat. “If no one else comes forward, perhaps you might write a book.”

  Bartholomew frowned. “A book? What the devil for?”

  “It’s just a thought. But everyone’s read the newspaper, if not the East India Company’s actual report. And then they see you, claiming to have been attacked but not providing anyone else to join their experience to yours. And they don’t know any of the details of what happened to you.”

  “You’re the only one who knows,” he muttered. “You and my commanding officers. I have no desire to advertise my mistakes, Tess.”

  “And what will happen to the next colonel who escorts a group of locals somewhere and is befriended by a jolly old monk who doesn’t want to travel alone? Especially if no one is allowed to breathe a word to that colonel about the Thuggee?”

  The jolly old monk was dead, and so were most of his men. From what Bartholomew had been able to discover, though, Parashar’s assassins had only been one clawed finger of the insidious beast called Thuggee. And Tess was absolutely correct; the other side of the East India Company’s attempt to increase trade and travel to India was that everyone would think they were safe.

  Soldiers would look for pickpockets and ham-fisted highwaymen, not pleasant fellows who befriended them and then slaughtered the entire trusting party en masse for their money and belongings. The murderers and their victims would all vanish—the killers back into the hills to wait for the next group of well-heeled travelers, and the dead into the dirt or deep dry wells or some lost, rocky ravine never to be seen or heard from again.

  “Tolly?”

  He blinked, then leaned down and kissed her again, hard and deep. “I’m very glad I met you, Theresa Weller. If nothing comes of tonight, I think I’ll try my hand at writing a book. I should be able to make it hair-raising enough that the East India Company can say whatever they wish. People will be afraid, and they will be wary.”

  “It’s not a perfect solution, you know,” she returned. “It might save lives, but not your reputation. The questions will be whether you wrote the book for profit, or if it’s full of lies just to save your own reputation, or worse yet, if you just intentionally wrote a novel.”

  “A novelist? I shudder at the thought.” Tolly favored her with a hopefully encouraging grin. “I suppose the reasons won’t matter, as long as it’s read.” Inside the ballroom, the waltz ended. She would have her next partner waiting for her. Letting her go, though, was another matter entirely. His heart skipped a beat. Silently Bartholomew tilted her chin up with his fingers. “What about you, though?”

  “Me? This isn’t about me, Tolly.”

  “Yes, it is. Could you…could you tolerate life with a crippled, disgraced novelist?”

  Theresa felt all the blood leave her face only to rush forth again, roaring in her ears. She tried to string together a logical line of thought—what she’d thought to make of her life, what had changed since she’d met Tolly—but everything crashed together in her skull, a mishmash of fears and guilt and well-hidden hopes and dreams. She pulled in a hard breath, trying to steady herself. “Are you asking—”

  “My apologies,” he interrupted, grabbing her shoulder before she could back away. “That was shabby of me.”

  Then he wasn’t asking? “Make up your damned mind about what you intend to say before you speak to me again,” she snapped, jerking free of him.

  “That’s why I apologized,” he retorted, cutting off her retreat with apparent ease, despite his bad leg. “Asking something that…important shouldn’t be done so badly that you can’t decipher what I’m saying.”

  She glared at him. “And?” she prompted, trying to ignore the furious pounding of her heart.

  “I can’t kneel,” he said quietly, dropping his cane and taking both of her hands in his.

  “I don’t care.”

  “No, you don’t, do you?” he murmured, his gaze mesmerizing even in the dim, flickering torchlight. “I have to put a condition on this,” he continued after a moment. “If everything collapses and I end up arrested, I won’t hold you to anything. I know your sensitivity to—”

  “Ask me the question, will you?” she broke in again, beginning to wonder whether he would talk himself out of it. If the question he was attempting to ask was the one she wanted to hear, that was.

  “When I returned to England,” he said slowly, “I had already given myself up for dead. You are my miracle, and I can’t imagine any sunrise without you in my life.” He cleared his throat. “Would you do me the very great honor of marrying me, Theresa?”

  Now that was a proposal. “Before I met you,” she returned, “men followed me about because I’m wealthy and had impeccable manners. I wouldn’t have married any of them, because they wanted someone I wasn’t.”

  “And?” he prompted, much as she had a moment ago.

  “And then you brought me back to life, Tolly. I love…I love you. And it would be my honor—and my pleasure—to marry you.”

  For a long moment he just stood there, gazing at her. Then Tolly wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her into the air. “Thank you,” he whispered, kissing her. “Thank you.”

  Theresa flung her arms around his neck. She wanted to thank him back again, but between the kissing and the laughing, she couldn’t muster enough breath even to speak. Then abruptly she was tumbling to the ground, Tolly swearing and then twisting her around so that he went down beneath her.

  “Apologies,” he grunted, wincing even as he continued to grin at her.

  She steadied herself across his thighs, still holding on to his shoulders. So many people were angry or about to be angry at him, it didn’t seem fair that all on her own she could add a dozen thwarted beaux to the list. “We shouldn’t say anything about this.”

  Tolly tilted his head at her. “If you’re ashamed of me at this moment, the next few weeks are going to be intolerable,” he said carefully, his amber eyes going distant. “Perhaps you should change your answer.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” she retorted. “Montrose, Henning, Lionel Humphreys, Henry Camden—they’ll all be out of sorts. You don’t need more enemies.”

  “Ah.” His expression eased. “Nor do you.” Reaching back, he found his cane. “Help me up, then, and we’ll keep this our secret. For the moment.” Slipping his free hand to cup the nape of her neck, he kissed her again. “Though I mean to remind you on every possible occasion.”

  Thank goodness. “I do hope so.” Standing, Theresa straightened her skirt and then offered him a hand. He nearly pulled her over, but between her, the cane, and a nearby tree trunk he managed to climb to his feet again. “Who are you meeting tonight?”

  He glanced sideways at her before offering her his arm. “I’ll tell you tomorrow, if I can. It’s a bit of a sticky situation.”

  “You can trust me, you know.”

  “I know that. It
’s not my secret to keep.”

  “Oh.” Leaning into his arm while they still had the privacy of the garden, she walked with him back toward the terrace. “It’s a matter of honor, then.”

  “Somewhat. I owe this person a favor.”

  “Is this the person with whom you stayed before you returned home?”

  His jaw tightened. “I wouldn’t have you be less bright than you are, but you’re going to have to be patient. And stop asking so many damned questions tonight. I just proposed to someone, and I’m a bit…disconcerted.”

  Theresa laughed. “Good. I was beginning to think you were Achilles, with your knee your only vulnerable spot.”

  “Achilles,” he repeated, grinning back at her. “I like that.”

  “Hmm. You would.”

  The moment they stepped back into the ballroom, the noise and smells and sights rushed back in on her. Compared to this, the garden seemed a veritable Eden. Her partner for the cotillion was pacing the side of the dance floor, looking for her, and with a sigh she squeezed Tolly’s arm and left him.

  “There you are,” Lionel said, scowling as he looked past her at Tolly. “Not still lending an ear to that fool, are you? You know they’re saying that he led his men into the wilderness, got lost, and then was the only one to find his way out.”

  She kept her charming smile carefully on her face. “You never fail to make me laugh, Lionel. Though I’m not certain the stabbing, strangling, and shooting deaths of eight soldiers should be the subject of a jest. I’m certain the soldiers’ families don’t think it’s amusing.”

  He stammered. “They found his men?”

  “Of course. Didn’t you read the newspaper when he returned? His commanding officer praised his courage and intelligence. It’s just a shame now that his brave deeds fall contrary to the East India Company’s pocketbooks.”

  “Yes,” he said uncertainly, following her onto the dance floor and taking her proffered hand. “A shame.”

  As she turned and dipped and hopped in time with the music, she kept half her attention on Tolly. Most people who passed by ignored him, or even went out of their way to pretend not to notice him. He was definitely a striking presence, but also a very direct one. No, this time she had the advantage. She had spent years learning precisely how to be the most charming. And everyone knew that more snakes had been caught with a smile than with a sword point. Or some saying like that, anyway.

  But that very realization worried her where Tolly was concerned. He’d been too hurt to be easy on anyone. And if this mysterious person he was to meet felt the same, things could get very dangerous. Which left her, she supposed. A very nervous, very unskilled, very loyal her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Men are stubborn creatures who make unilateral decisions they claim are for the best—which means, the best for them. I will wager that for every time a man says something is ‘for the best,’ you will find a better solution. Then make him think the new solution is of his own making, and you will have much more successful results.”

  A LADY’S GUIDE TO PROPER BEHAVIOR, 2ND EDITION

  Tom hadn’t been happy to be roused from sleep well after midnight and sent to saddle Meru, but if Sommerset was feeling secretive, Bartholomew had no intention of hiring hacks and attracting attention both by his limp and his person if the rumors had begun to spread outside the circles of the ton.

  The leather cuff he tied around his leg wasn’t the most fashionable accessory, but he’d never much cared about that. And the support it provided more than made up for the wrinkling of his trousers. Of more interest was the way the binding didn’t hurt quite as much as it had the last time he’d worn it, and the way he had to lash it tighter. That meant both that the swelling in his knee had gone down, and that the break was beginning to heal.

  In his imagination, it meant that perhaps one day he might be able to walk normally again, and that sometime in the unforeseeable future he might be able to waltz with his wife. His wife. He couldn’t quite believe that she’d said yes. He hadn’t even planned to ask her until he’d resolved this damned mess, but out in that garden with her dressed all in emerald and her eyes shining like twin stars, he hadn’t been able to resist. And she’d said yes.

  Most of the ton’s parties were ending at this hour, and the street rang with the sound of hooves and tack and carriage wheels. Bartholomew took a deep breath. Since he’d returned home to James House, the only time he’d ever been truly alone was when he’d been asleep—and he hadn’t been alone there since India and the nightmares he’d brought back with him, so that hardly counted.

  In all that time, though, he’d felt alone no matter who surrounded him—unless it was Theresa. During the mess he’d made in India and the careless way he lived his life before that, he must have done at least one good thing. Otherwise he couldn’t explain why he deserved her.

  Sommerset must have alerted his stable that a guest would be arriving, because Harlow came jogging around to the front of the house the moment Meru set hoof on the front drive. “Colonel,” the groom said, moving around to take Tolly’s weight as he stepped to the ground.

  Bartholomew, though, waved him back. “I’ll give it a try,” he said, swinging down right leg first. Thankfully Meru knew by now to tolerate all sorts of nonsense, and the gelding didn’t even flinch as he grabbed onto the cantle to steady himself. By God. He made it to the ground and onto his feet by himself, for the first time in nearly a year.

  “Well done, sir,” the groom said, grinning.

  Tolly inclined his head as he freed his cane from its restraining straps. “Thank you.”

  He considered pounding on Sommerset’s front door, because this time his business concerned the man rather than his Adventurers’ Club. But the duke also represented his best chance at finding a fellow survivor. Angering him for no damned reason other than contrariness didn’t strike him as being very wise. And he was attempting to be wise. Wiser.

  Pulling the club key from his pocket, he limped to the half-hidden door and let himself inside. It was crowded tonight; nine men sat about the room, four of them at the same table and playing faro. “Welcome back, Colonel,” Gibbs said, coming forward. “A drink?”

  “No, thank you. Where’s Sommerset?”

  “He’ll be down in a moment. You might wish to go have a seat by the inner door.”

  The inner door. The one that led into Ainsley House proper and out of the Adventurers’ Club. He hadn’t been inside the duke’s private residence since the day he’d been invited to join Sommerset’s odd little mix of outcasts. With a brief nod to the footman, he limped across the room.

  “In the nine months since Sommerset began this,” damned Easton’s voice came from one of the tables, “not a one of us has been asked to leave the club. What do you think of that, Colonel?”

  Bartholomew ignored him. This place had helped keep him alive when he’d first returned to London, and it would be worse than a shame if the duke decided he didn’t deserve to take his ease behind its walls any longer. But at the same time, he had other concerns, and he couldn’t turn from the path he’d chosen without losing something. He might lose it all anyway, but he’d discovered a reason to take a chance.

  The inner door opened. The Duke of Sommerset stood there, taking in the occupants of the room. Then he angled his head toward the inside of the house. “In here,” he said, barely sparing Bartholomew a glance.

  “Goodbye, Colonel James!” Easton called, chuckling.

  “Sapskull,” Sommerset muttered, closing and locking the door once Tolly limped through it.

  Bartholomew took a breath, reminding himself to keep his temper in check. “Thank you for agreeing to see me to—”

  “Do you think I meant to give you my word and then do nothing?” the duke interrupted.

  “It had occurred to me that you might have stronger ties to the East India Company than to a troublesome member of your club.”

  The duke glared at him. “‘Troublesome
’ is a damned good description. I knew how much money this could potentially cost me before I made the offer to assist you. Now stop impugning my honor and sit down before you fall down,” he said, leading the way past the stairs and into a small sitting room.

  “Does all that mean you have information for me?” Bartholomew asked.

  “Have some bloody patience, will you?” Sommerset snapped.

  “I was called a coward by General Mayhew this evening. It made me angry.”

  “Mayhew’s a fool,” another male voice stated.

  At the sound of an additional speaker, Tolly looked toward the back of the room. “Ross,” he exclaimed, unable to keep the surprise from his voice.

  Major-General Anthony Ross stood at the far side of the fireplace, his expression supremely somber. “Tolly.”

  Ironic as it seemed that Bartholomew wore his uniform while the serving officer was in dark civilian clothes, under the circumstances it wasn’t that surprising. “You’re Sommerset’s source at the Horse Guards?” Tolly asked aloud.

  “I am no one’s damned spy,” Ross snapped. “I tried to call on you days ago. You wouldn’t see me.”

  “I—”

  “After the report became public, I couldn’t very well go looking for you. When Sommerset mentioned his friendship with you, I asked him to set up a discreet meeting.”

  Tolly finally took a seat in one of the sitting room’s comfortable chairs. “I apologize, Anthony. I haven’t been very social since my return.”

  Ross cleared his throat. “Understandable. But you saved my skin in Belgium, and I wanted to repay the debt. It’s too late now to warn you about the East India Company’s report, but I can at least tell you that Hadderly consulted with the Horse Guards before publishing. You are the only known English survivor of a reputed Thuggee attack. Don’t look for allies at the War Office, Tolly. We’ve been warned against aiding you.”

  For a long moment, Tolly looked at him. “Why? I’ve served honorably for ten years.”