“Who spoke to whom first?” Beau inquired.
“I introduced myself to her. She was reading Pride and Prejudice. How could I not?”
“How, indeed?” interjected Beau’s wife, Penelope, with a little laugh.
“I shall have to have her thoroughly vetted before you have anything more to do with the woman,” Beau said. “I do not suppose you found out what she is doing here?”
“She is visiting her uncle and aunt, Lord and Lady Ogletree.”
“In the middle of the war? She is paying a visit?” Beau asked, an elegant eyebrow raised. “I find that most unlikely. There is no legal way she could have obtained passage.”
“She is lovely,” said Arabella stoutly. “I nearly invited her to the opera with us tonight.”
“That would have been a pretty scene. Lord Castlereagh’s box is across the way. How perfect for the Foreign Secretary to see me consorting with an American.”
Tony watched the interchange with concern. Could there be anything to Beau’s suspicions?
Surely not.
But Miss Livingstone was very young and idealistic. He remembered the lady’s guileless smile and her passion for the abused dog she had named for an American patriot.
Who was he to think he could read a woman’s mind? He had erred badly with Pamela and paid the price.
As though he had conjured her, Pamela appeared at the door of the box, the charmingly ugly Earl of Sutton in tow.
“Dear Beau,” she said, ignoring Tony’s presence completely. “I do so want to meet your bride.”
Tony’s friend flashed him a rueful glance, then turned to his wife. “Penelope, may I present Miss Pamela Longhurst and her fiancé, the Earl of Sutton? Miss Longhurst, Earl, I am delighted to present my wife, Lady Wellingham, the former Miss Swinton.”
Discomfort brought heat to Tony’s face as the lady conversed with Beau’s wife about the opera. Seen closely, Lady Pamela would still be beguiling if he did not know her to be false. The scent of lilies, her trademark cologne, filled the air around her.
How perfect. I never thought of it before, but she is a true hothouse flower.
She had played him for a fool, and the feelings she had aroused within him for so long had cooled considerably but, unfortunately, not entirely. They still had the power to wound.
Doing little more than offering a perfunctory greeting to Arabella, she turned to Tony and his mother.
“Lady Strangeways, Viscount, you are both looking well.”
Tony noticed her color was high and the gaiety in her voice forced. Sutton’s hand did not leave her waist.
“As are you, Miss Longhurst,” said his mother with asperity. Of course, she undoubtedly guessed Tony’s discomfiture. He knew she had never liked the woman he had admired so ardently.
“So when is the wedding to be?” Tony asked Sutton.
“Ask my fiancée,” he said, his voice rough. “She will not decide on a date.”
Tony and the man had been rivals since college days when they had competed on opposing cricket teams. The viscount’s batting record, the best of all the Oxford colleges, was marginally higher than the earl’s, and Sutton had made their competition personal, carrying out a campaign of bitter personal attacks during all the years that had followed.
Tony was certain Sutton’s engagement to Pamela was the latest move in his years-long vendetta. It had occurred but recently, during a time when Tony had every reason to expect the woman was favorably disposed to his own addresses. Every time Tony had seen his bête noire with Pamela, the earl had gloated with a fierce possessiveness.
The lady kept her eyes fixed on his mother. “We have missed you at the duchess’s soup kitchen. I hope now that your mourning period is at an end, you will rejoin our volunteers.”
The Duchess of Ruisdell had begun a soup kitchen for wounded soldiers in the East End, often providing the men their only daily meal. It had become a very fashionable charity. Tony had erroneously supposed that Pamela’s participation indicated a charitable disposition.
“I believe I am almost ready to take up my duties again.” His mother’s voice contained a tone of reproach, as though Pamela had accused her of malingering.
Pamela smiled. “I know this has been an exceedingly difficult period for you . . .”
She stopped as the gong sounded, signaling the end of the interval. Only then did she throw Tony an arch look.
“Dear one,” said Sutton. “We must get back to our box now.” He nodded curtly at Tony and his mother, then took leave in a more cordial manner from Beau, Lady Wellingham, and Arabella.
“I detest that man, Tony,” his mother said under her breath. “He treats Miss Longhurst as though she were a possession.”
“He was her choice,” he replied. Turning to Beau, he inquired, “Meet you at White’s for lunch tomorrow?”
“Excellent,” said Beau. “We have urgent business to discuss, as it happens.”
But as Tony and his mother went back to their box, he was not the least bit curious about what Beau had to say. His heart was still thrumming at a faster pace after the encounter with Sutton and Pamela. She had been uncomfortably familiar with his mother. What had been the meaning of that look she had given him?
The devil. Perhaps he should not have burned her letter. During the third act of the opera, his thoughts wandered.
He had first met Pamela at a ball where she was surrounded by beaux. Last year she was the undisputed Success of the Season.
He hadn’t been interested. Women who drew men like flies to honey were invariably vain and petulant. To his surprise, however, she had pursued him.
He first noticed it when she turned up at his curricle races. She gave him a favor—her handkerchief—to take with him during the race. Startled, he didn’t know what to say. He simply looked at her.
“Say something!” she had said with a tinkling laugh. “I am wishing you Godspeed.”
“Then, thank you,” was all that stumbled out.
He still had the handkerchief somewhere. It was a scrap of delicate lace, carrying the scent of lilies.
Days later he had received a note congratulating him on winning the race and asking if he could be of assistance to her in choosing a new mare. He was unused to such forward gestures. In order to rob the incident of anything personal, he met her at Tattersall’s with Bertie and his brother, Howie, in tow. He explained to Miss Longhurst that these men were far better versed at choosing livestock than he. Between them they chose a lovely Arabian with a beautiful head and a perfect gait.
It was to him she had written her letter of thanks. He wasn’t even sure that she had really been in the market for a mare.
If only he had left it at that. If only the proceeding months hadn’t seen him fall under her spell.
Attempting to wrench his thoughts away from the woman, he tried to concentrate on the opera. It was hopeless.
What had ultimately drawn him into returning her regard was her talent as a vocalist. He remembered the evening clearly. She was performing Mozart at a musicale at Lady Clarice’s home one evening. Her contralto voice was unusual and inviting, reminding him of warm syrup. Admiration for her slowly crept over him. He found himself fantasizing about taking the pins from her golden hair and kissing that lovely throat. Tony became completely enraptured.
Afterward, when expressing his admiration for her singing, he found himself holding her hand a bit too long. Now he knew it had been victory that had lit her eyes.
* * *
When Tony and his mother returned from the opera, she bade him join her in her sitting room.
“Did you enjoy being out tonight, Mother?” he asked.
“I did. It has had the effect of reconnecting me with society. Were you not very fond of Miss Longhurst, my dear? However did you allow her to become engaged to that awful man? I have never liked him.”
He stirred uncomfortably in the chintz-covered chair he occupied. “All that was over last Season. She took up with
Sutton during the winter, I believe.”
“Whatever does she see in the man?”
Tony could no longer hold back his bitterness. “He is an earl and has one of the biggest incomes in the country.”
His mother looked at him sharply. “She wounded you, did she?”
“She accepted an offer from me but urged me to keep it quiet. Her father and I had come to terms, but it was never announced. She kept asking me to hold off. I never knew why. This winter, right before I was to journey to visit her, I saw the notice in the Post that she was to marry Sutton.”
His mother’s eyebrows rose. “I suppose you kept it from me in an attempt to spare me. She is nothing but a jilt, Tony, whether it was announced or not. You are well rid of her.”
Later, in his dressing room, he frowned at his reflection in the cheval mirror. When would this nagging sense of betrayal subside? Not having an answer, he downed a whiskey and went to bed.
* * *
“What did your bride think of Somerset Vale?” Tony asked Beau as they conversed over their luncheon at White’s. His friend was dressed all in cream today. Beau’s habit of turning himself out like a dandy had risen during their Oxford years. As the two of them had learned jujitsu from one of their tutors, it had amused Beau to camouflage his deadly abilities with his dress. It hadn’t surprised Tony in the least when his friend took up with the Foreign Office, involved in their most clandestine affairs.
“She was very taken with it. Penelope is a country girl, you know. And she just lost her childhood home to a distant cousin because of the entail.”
“Do you think she will adjust to London?”
“She is determined to. As you know that was not always the case, so I am grateful she married me despite the fact that we must live here much of the time. She is a plucky little thing. Her aunt, Lady Clarice, maintains she is destined to be an Original.”
Tony sipped his claret. Due to a largely sleepless night, he was in an indifferent mood today. “You had some business to discuss with me?” he prompted his friend.
Beau’s features tightened in a grim look. “You have met this Miss Livingstone Arabella has so unwisely befriended?”
“Yes.” Tony’s defenses rose instinctively. “She is a very kind person, Beau. You can’t seriously believe she is a spy!” He told of their adventure with Mr. Hale. “She wears her feelings on her sleeve.”
“Hmm. She could have been trying to take you in, you know.”
“Impossible. The lady was engaged to the point of endangering herself before I arrived on the scene.”
Beau swilled the claret in his goblet. “I have looked into her family connections. Her grandfather was the present Lord Ogletree’s brother. He would have been the baron had he not emigrated. It would have been easy enough to insinuate herself into their family.”
“In the middle of a war?” demanded Tony. “I don’t imagine any part of her arrival on these shores was easy. In all likelihood her uncle is her guardian, and her parents are deceased.”
“Has she said as much?” Beau’s eyes were hard in a look Tony recognized. When pursuing his job his friend was implacable.
Tony ran his mind back over his encounters with Miss Livingstone. “No. I must confess she hasn’t, but perhaps she doesn’t wish to speak of that which gives her pain. Her aunt is very protective of her.”
He told of their meeting when Freddie had been about to compromise the lady and Lady Ogletree’s almost panicked insistence that they leave the ball.
“Freddie the Flyer?”
“The same. I believe I rescued Miss Livingstone from a ruined reputation. He was literally taking her down the garden path when I claimed a dance.”
“So she is in your debt. That is good. I confess I am worried about this friendship Arabella and the duchess have struck up with the lady.”
“You truly believe she may be a spy?”
“She is young; she most probably idolizes so-called Patriots. Who knows what terrible things she has been told about Mother England? You must admit her arrival here is deuced odd.”
Tony stared into his wine. Again he remembered the lady’s actions of the day before. It would be false to say they hadn’t endeared her to him. If Miss Livingstone was a spy, she was a very good actress. Of all the women he had met, it seemed to him that her most obvious trait was sincerity.
“You think she somehow contrived the meeting with your sister?”
“I cannot know for sure. That is why I would like your assistance.”
“Let me guess,” said Tony. “You would like me to cultivate the lady’s acquaintance and give you my opinion.”
“Yes. And keep an eye on her while you are at it.”
Tony felt uneasy. “That will entail spending some time with her. I should not like to give the lady false hopes if she is innocent.”
Beau frowned. “Think of it as an assignment from the Foreign Office.”
“You have spoken to the Foreign Secretary about this?”
“This morning. Let us say he is concerned and would greatly appreciate your cooperation.”
“King and country, eh?” Tony didn’t want anything to do with the idea. He felt a horrible cad just thinking of it. It put him in a false position.
“Not such a terrible assignment,” Beau said. “Now, tell me how you’re getting on selling your studs. Any bids for Ares yet?”
Their conversation thus switched to horses.
Chapter Four
“I have sent for my nephew’s son, the Honorable George Tisdale,” Aunt Lydia told Virginia over breakfast. “He should be arriving today. You will like him. All the ladies do. He is very handsome, and you are no blood relation.”
“Are you trying to arrange my marriage, Aunt?” asked Virginia teasingly.
“Humph,” answered Aunt Lydia, going back to reading the gossip in The Morning Post.
Obviously teasing was the wrong approach. Was the Honorable George her aunt’s answer to keeping her away from the wagging tongues of the ton?
A handsome man. Well, he would not be interested in her with her straight brows and uninspiring coloring. It had not taken her long to see that blondes were all the rage in London. Her dark-brown hair and matching eyes were not the mode. Not to mention the faint freckles that peppered the bridge of her nose.
She wore a simple dark-blue muslin today with a gray satin sash. Aunt Lydia had promised to take her to the dressmaker to have more modish clothes made, but the idea had come to nothing as yet. All her gowns had burned, and she had only the clothing she had bought ready-made in America.
Virginia went along to the library—her favorite room in the house, reminding her as it did of her uncle and her father—sat in the window, and began her novel, The Curious Affair at Staley-in-the-Wold. It was very witty, and before long she had forgotten the dreaded Honorable George, and her homesickness was temporarily at bay.
She heard people calling at the front door, but her aunt was still not at home to visitors. It was clear she did not want to explain her husband’s niece. What was lacking in her nephew that she did not mind throwing him away on Virginia?
The gentleman did not arrive until after luncheon. Her first impression was that he was very short—even shorter than she was. He reminded her forcibly of a bantam rooster fluffing his feathers. Other than that he was handsome with chestnut curls and blue eyes that appraised her with obvious interest.
“I do not suppose you could call us cousins, could you?” he asked.
“At the best we are shirttail relations, I think,” said Virginia. “I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Tisdale—or do they call you the Honorable George?”
He laughed with a forced gusto. “We shall have a merry time with that wit. Have you been to see the Royal Menagerie yet?”
“I have been scarcely anywhere,” she told him. “I would love to see the Menagerie.”
“Your accent is abominable,” he said. “I see that I shall have to teach you proper English.”
“There, now,” said his aunt. “That would be a good service, George dear. Americans are not very popular in London just now.”
The Honorable George took her to the Tower of London to see the Menagerie. First they had a tour of the enormous white stone structure—the largest in all of London. Their guide was one of the beefeaters in fancy red-and-black dress. Virginia had no idea what their official function was other than feeding the flocks of ravens—about which there was some elaborate tradition—and giving tours.
She saw the block where Queen Anne Boleyn and Mary Queen of Scots lost their heads and the tower where the young princes were held during Richard III’s tyrannical reign. Her shirttail cousin condescended to explain all the history to her, but Virginia found it quite unpleasant and more than a bit bloody.
“Up until your grandfather’s time, English history is your history! How can you be so ignorant?”
Virginia drew herself up and looked down at him. “The ins and outs of British royalty have never interested me. I am far more moved by Bentham and Locke and the Age of Enlightenment. That is the part of English history that helped to form my country.”
Her scorn visibly wounded him. “And from where did you get the charming tradition of slavery?” he asked.
“You needn’t act so superior. The British have been running slaves in the West Indies just as long as the Americans. I disapprove heartily of both our countries in that regard.”
He pursed his lips in irritation. “Let us cry peace, then, and go to view the Royal Menagerie.”
Virginia felt sorry for the animals in the Menagerie. The lion, especially, seemed thin and ill kept.
“Surely there is somewhere more suitable for them to be held,” she said. “Here, it is like they are prisoners awaiting that chopping block.”
“Prinnie doesn’t have much use for the Menagerie. I don’t think he will spend any Royal funds on moving it anywhere, though there has been a bit of an outcry. It has existed in the Tower for hundreds of years.”
“Prinnie?” she asked.
“The Prince Regent’s nickname.”
They left the tower after that. “What else should you like to see?” he asked as they mounted his curricle once again.
His Mysterious Lady, A Regency Romance (Three Gentlemen of London Book 2) Page 4