by Anita Mills
“She did.” Unwilling to discuss his fortune or supposed lack of it with anyone, Tony changed the subject abruptly. “Tell me something,” he asked casually, “either of you ever hear of a Leah Cole?”
Hugh furrowed his brow for a moment, then shook his head. “Don’t think so. Why?”
“Gil?”
“Not that I recall—who is she?”
“The fairest Cyprian of them all, by the looks of it. I cannot remember ever having seen a lovelier creature,” Tony declared solemnly. “I mean to have her.”
“You want to enter it in the books? Three to five that Lyndon mounts—what’s her name … Leah Cole?—that Lyndon mounts Leah Cole for his next mistress?” Hugh asked Gil.
“You must think me a veritable babe,” Gil retorted. “A man’d be a fool to bet against it, and well you know it. If she’s female, Tony’ll have her set up snug in a week.”
“Your confidence reassures me, but I’d as lief not have it bandied about,” he warned Hugh. “I have a distinct aversion to being the latest on-dit, thank you. I am not, however, against supper,” he added, his disclosure about Leah Cole at an end.
“Egad—there’s Rotherfield!” Gil hissed.
A ripple of silence traveled before the tall, austerely clad man, and a low murmur followed him. That he was immensely unpopular with the gentlemen of his class never seemed to weigh with the earl. Tony watched him with grudging admiration, an admiration not shared by many members of the haut ton, and wondered how it was that he had the courage to show his face. He’d killed not one man, but rather three, and all over someone else’s wife, an unpardonable sin, and then to compound his error, he’d returned to England, expecting to go on as though nothing had happened. At first, there’d been a cry to ban him from the clubs, but there were none foolish enough to tell him. It had been decided more or less amongst everyone that the best course of action was simply the cut indirect, although there were those who argued it was as dangerous to ignore him as it was to speak to him.
When he drew even with them, his black eyes met Tony’s for a moment. “Your servant, Lyndon,” he murmured in that cold voice of his.
“Hallo, Marcus,” Tony answered easily while Gil and Hugh drew back perceptibly, their distaste for Rotherfield all too plainly written on their faces.
“It surprised me to see you about today. I’d more than half-expected you to take a repairing lease in the country after I read the Gazette. But then one cannot always believe what one reads, can one?”
“Not much of it, anyway, and almost none of what one hears,” Tony responded.
“How true. You know there are those who have you three-quarters of the way to Newgate already.”
“I never dignify gossip, Marcus. Did you come to play?”
“Actually, I had thought to observe your game. I do not suppose you have discovered the fair Leah’s direction, have you?”
“No, and I would not share it with you if I had. As for my game, ’tis my intent to sup first, but you are welcome to join me later,” Tony offered.
“Not tonight.” With a slight inclination of his black head, Rotherfield moved on, leaving Gil to mutter, “Can’t think why they let him in—fellow’s as cold as they come. By the looks of it, he’d as lief run a man through as talk to ’im.”
“ ’Tis what he would have you think,” Tony retorted, his eyes still on the earl’s back.
“Deuced unpleasant sort, anyway,” Hugh decided. “But then he don’t waste his breath talking to me. Wonder why he came if he didn’t want to play?”
“To discover if I found La Belle Cole,” Tony guessed.
“Talks to anyone when it suits him—whether they wish for the discourse or not.” Gil shook his head as he turned from contemplating the earl to Tony. “Deuced silly to offer to play him—nobody comes about at his expense, you know.”
“I have played him before.”
“But under different circumstances. Now you cannot afford to lose—gives him the edge, you know,” Hugh observed dryly. “And the man is dangerous when he calls the tune.”
“Thank you, Hugh—I will try to remember that,” Tony muttered sarcastically. “Your belief in me is comforting.”
“It ain’t that, Tony—’tis just that you got a hot temper, and I’d hate to see—”
“I know very well what you mean to say, and I’d as lief not hear it. If you think me foolish enough to call him out, you are empty in the cockloft, my friend. Now, do we sample the lobster patties or not?”
Both of them murmured a hasty assent, with Gil attempting the role of peacemaker. “No sense quarreling about what ain’t going to happen, is there? I say we eat and hear more about this Cole female.”
Tony let himself into his town house quite late, or early, as the case could be argued, depending on whether the one counting the hour was master or servant. The hall was deserted and the candles in the sconces nearly guttered. Loosening his cravat, he groped his way to his library, where he lit the brace of candles on the table. One of these days, he was going to have to consider gas lighting, he supposed as he sorted through the papers left by his secretary. Usually John Maxwell was a prince when it came to doing almost everything, and Tony hoped for success in his quest. Squinting in the flickering light, he read and discarded half a dozen sheets of paper until he discovered what he looked for—the Scotsman’s bold scrawl fairly leapt from the page beneath the heading “Leah Cole.” But as he read further, Tony was destined for disappointment. The usually thorough Max wrote merely:
Cannot determine anything about a Miss Leah Cole, a Mrs. Leah Cole, or anything similar beyond what is already known to you. She has a subscription to Hookham’s library, but the proprietor refuses to divulge her direction or any information about the young woman. A clerk there did make it known to me that it is Miss Cole’s custom to frequent the establishment weekly, usually on Thursdays, but that she missed today.
I also took the liberty of inquiring of the various theaters and opera companies, but there is no one of her description amongst them. Aside from that, there are Coles too numerous to note amongst the lower classes, and she could be relation to any of them. It is my considered opinion that the greatest likelihood of encountering this person again is at the library itself.
Y’r obedient, etc.
John Maxwell
Crumpling the paper, Tony threw it in a ball across the room to vent his frustration. It was impossible that any female who looked like Leah Cole could be unknown. A girl like that had to have other pursuits besides reading. The image of her floated before him as clearly as if he were seeing her now, and he felt that dryness of mouth he associated with desire. Moving to a sideboard, he poured himself a glass of sherry from a decanter and contemplated his next move. He could not, would not, let Leah Cole elude him. Not even if Rotherfield were interested in her himself.
Finally he took a seat at the table and reached for the inkstand. Leaning close to see in the yellowish light, he dipped his pen and instructed Max:
I do not care if it becomes necessary to employ runners—I would have Miss Cole found. You have my leave to do all that is necessary to the search, and as you are a resourceful fellow, I quite depend on a satisfactory conclusion. Perhaps discreet inquiries of solicitors may yield information as to whether anyone has recently settled money on her or whether a house has been let for her.
Lyndon
It would be like looking for a particular grain of sand on a beach, he knew, but he had to find her. And a female like that simply could not disappear without a trace.
Draining his glass, he leaned back in his chair and contemplated the problem. Already there was a faint rosy glow of dawn filtering through the crosspanes, a reminder that he ought to seek his bed. But he was strangely exhilarated at the mere thought of another meeting with the lovely Leah, and he had to admit he’d not felt such a strong and immediate attraction for any beautiful woman before—the feeling was as intense as the
first calf-love of his salad days.
5
Despite his best efforts, it was a full week before Tony saw Leah Cole again, and then he had to haunt Hookham’s on a Thursday morning to do it. Lingering over a subscription card, he kept an eye on the door, hoping she meant to come despite the light gray drizzle that enveloped the city. Impatient, he checked his watch several times in the course of an hour, until he was certain the rain had dissuaded her. Reluctantly he tucked his first selection under his arm and gave up. Feeling quite foolish about having wasted his morning, he emerged into the street to whistle for his driver just as the elegant black-lacquered carriage pulled up to discharge its passengers. He congratulated himself on this stroke of fortune and turned back, adjusting his beaver hat jauntily on his head as he waited for her to step down.
A glimpse of a slim stockinged ankle came first, followed by a lithe body clad in one of those simple muslin dresses whose very simplicity denoted expense. She twitched the narrow skirt down over slim hips and reached to straighten an altogether fetching chipstraw bonnet over the honey-blond curls that peeped from beneath its brim. She saw him then, and her eyes widened a fraction before meeting his coolly. She spoke first. “Good morning, Lord Lyndon.”
“You are out early, Miss Cole,” he acknowledged with his most winning smile.
“But of course. I have it on strictest authority that no lady dares venture into Bond or St. James Street after noon, my lord.” There was the barest hint of a challenge in her low voice.
“And why do you think that is, Miss Cole?” he quizzed her.
“It is obviously because gentlemen of fashion seldom rise before noon—or so I am told. This way there can be no untoward discourse between the sexes. That, I suppose, is reserved for soirees, routs, and balls—and Almack’s, of course.”
His smile broadened. “You cannot have ever been to Almack’s if you think that.”
“I have never been to Almack’s,” she admitted candidly. “And I cannot quite think I should like the place.”
He thought he detected a hint of defiance in the jut of her chin. “I am sure you would not—I think it rather stuffy myself.”
“Yes, well … you remember Annie, do you not?” She turned to her abigail, murmuring, “Are you quite ready? Do you have the books?”
“You do not appear to have suffered any injury from young Hawkins’ wreck,” he hastened to add, unwilling to let her go.
“I did not.”
“You look well.” He felt as green as a boy just come down from Oxford for the first time.
“I am never ill, my lord, nor am I given to taking to my bed with imagined ailments. Now, if you will excuse us, I am determined to obtain a book that Mr. Parkins has reserved for me. Good day, my lord.”
For the second time in as many meetings, she had coolly dismissed him, something that never happened to him. Moving with alacrity to get the door, he bowed slightly. “After you, Miss Cole. Actually, I just took out a subscription myself—perhaps you could recommend an edifying book?”
“Edifying?” she appeared to consider, then shook her head. “No. It is not likely that our tastes would be similar in the least.”
Piqued—and even more intrigued than ever—he let her pass. Nearly every other female of his acquaintance would have artfully batted her lashes, spoken archly, fanned herself prodigiously, or otherwise flirted with him, but Leah Cole was obviously unimpressed, a singularly unexpected circumstance. Telling himself she could be merely seeking to whet his interest by her indifference, he decided to persevere.
He was surprised by the obsequious treatment she received from the proprietor, who came out from behind the desk to greet her personally. As he watched, three volumes were produced from a shelf and handed to her. Tony moved closer to peer over her shoulder.
“Glenarvon? My dear Miss Cole, ’tis naught but a thinly veiled pack of lies written for revenge. Caro Lamb—”
She stiffened and her expression grew a trifle pained. “If you do not mind, Lord Lyndon, I would very much rather read it myself. Since I do not personally know any of the principals, I shall merely be diverted.”
“You read romances then?”
“Actually, I read anything.” Turning back to the old man, she spoke in that low, husky voice Tony found so pleasing. “Thank you, Mr. Parkins. Annie wishes to borrow Mansfield Park again, if it is available.”
“Oh, miss!”
“Nonsense, Annie—’tis my treat for you.”
A clerk approached Tony with an offer of help, and for want of any other excuse, he ordered a volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets, and tried to overhear Leah Cole as she spoke pleasantly with the proprietor. This time, he was going to learn her direction if he had to follow her home.
“Good day, Mr. Parkins,” he heard her say. “And good day, my lord.”
“Wait!”
He grabbed his books and started after her, catching up with her on the sidewalk. When she turned around, he favored her with another smile. “Actually, Miss Cole, I came in hopes of seeing you again,” he admitted.
He was rewarded with a faintly skeptical lift of her eyebrow. “But whatever for? You do not even know me, sir.”
“Ah, but I have hopes of remedying that. Indeed, I thought perhaps I might call on you now that you are recovered—unless of course you fear my doing so might displease your …” He paused to make his meaning clear without saying it. “And if ’tis impossible to meet there, I’d take you for a turn around the park, where none need know of it but ourselves.”
“I do not think—”
“If not today, then perhaps tomorrow—or Saturday even. I pray you will not be hasty until you hear my offer.”
She had not the least notion of his meaning, but she knew full well that gentlemen did not offer to take ladies up without paying calls on them first. And she could not quite forget the positively brazen way he’d looked at her earlier.
“I am sorry, my lord, but—”
“Look, I do not know what arrangement you have with your current protector, but—”
“Lord Lyndon, I believe you must be mistaken,” she cut in coldly as she caught his meaning. “I have no wish to further this acquaintance. Good day, sir.”
She’d spoken so abruptly that he wasn’t certain he’d made himself quite plain. The chit had rejected him before he could even make the offer! Moreover, she’d wasted no words in dismissing him in no uncertain terms. Surprised, he snapped, “Perhaps ’tis you who are mistaken, Miss Cole. I am interested in making you a generous offer, and, unlike your current protector, I would not be averse to showing you about—taking you to the opera, theater, that sort of thing. A woman of your looks should not be hidden away. You are meant to be admired, my dear.”
Mistaking her outraged silence for consideration of his offer, he moved closer and reached for her hand. She flushed to the roots of her hair when he touched her, and jerked away angrily. Beside her, her abigail gasped at his effrontery.
“Are you offering me carte blanche, my lord?” Leah Cole demanded awfully. “For if you are, you have entirely exceeded the bounds of decency!” Biting off each word and spitting it at him, she concluded with cold fury, “Let me make myself quite plain, sir—I neither wish for nor welcome your protection. So you see, you have quite wasted your time waiting for me when it could have been spent searching the gutters. Come on, Annie.”
Angered by the finality in her voice, Tony grasped her arm. “On your high ropes, eh, Miss Cole? Do you think I cannot tell what you are? And do not be trying to pass yourself off as Quality, for it won’t fadge! This is Tony Barsett—I have seen your kind before. Now, let us be reasonable—”
“Reasonable? Listen to me, you insufferable oaf! I was prepared to assume you merely offensive, but now I think you are escaped from Bedlam!”
“How much do you want?”
“And you are obtuse in the extreme! If you do not unhand me this instant, Lord Lyndon, I wi
ll set up such a screech that you’ll regret it. I do not know what sort of loose screw you are, but you are definitely empty in the cockloft!”
“Coming it too strong, Miss Cole!” he snapped. “I am making you a reasonable offer—what will it take to get you?”
“Do you understand plain speaking, sir?” she demanded angrily. “I am not a Cyprian but a Cit!”
“Mr. Parkins! Mr. Parkins!” The woman Annie ran back into Hookham’s for help while a small crowd of interested bystanders gathered. Two coachmen jumped down from Leah’s carriage and advanced on Tony. Feeling the fool, he dropped his hand and stepped back, trying to regain his lost dignity. “Your pardon then. I have obviously mistaken the matter.”
“Obviously.” She looked down to where he’d held her arm, and her voice grew even colder. “I am a Cit,” she repeated, “and a proud one at that. For the last time, good day.”
“Miss Cole—”
“Good day,” she repeated firmly. “James, hand me up, if you please.” When one of the coachmen looked as though he’d like to take his fancy lordship down with his fives, she shook her head. “No, leave him be, Thomas—Lord Lyndon is dangerously deranged.”
Once home, Tony relived every moment of the humiliating experience until he could stand it no longer. He’d made a cake of himself, and for the life of him, he could not quite decide how he’d come to do it. He’d meant merely to discover her direction, to converse with her, and to pursue her in leisurely fashion, but some devil in him could not wait, and he’d blurted out his intent like a green youth. He, Tony Barsett, the accomplished flirt, had succumbed to those gray eyes like a boy in the first throes of summer love.
And for the life of him, he could not fathom why he’d done it. If only she’d played the game—played the coquette a little—then there would be less to blame. But she hadn’t. She hadn’t encouraged him in the least. And in his eagerness to have her, he’d overlooked the obvious: he did not know her because she was a Cit. Drinking deeply of a glass of sherry, he stared morosely into the empty fireplace.