His Mysterious Lady, A Regency Romance (Three Gentlemen of London Book 2)

by G. G. Vandagriff

  “May we go to Hatchard’s? I need some more books to read.” It seemed she could never get enough of the bookstore. Books drew her like some people were drawn to gold.

  “Ah, a bluestocking, eh? Certainly, we may go to Hatchard’s, if you like.”

  “What is a bluestocking?” she asked.

  He looked her up and down, the light of condescension back in his eye. “A woman who takes up intellectual pursuits.”

  “Why do I have the feeling that you disapprove?” she asked.

  “I usually find such women uncomfortable. They feel they must improve things.”

  Anger stirred within Virginia. “And that makes you feel threatened?”

  He gave a small laugh. “Why should it?”

  She bit her tongue. This was not the time to get into a discussion of Mary Wollstonecraft and her ideas of women’s rights. But she was definitely not feeling friendly toward the Honorable George.

  Once they achieved their destination, the Honorable George sat by the fire, reading the Racing News in a wingback chair, while Virginia sought more books by the duchess.

  Would the lady remember her promise to invite her to luncheon? She wanted very much to tell her how she was enjoying her book. It would be interesting to hear how long the duchess had been writing and whether she relied on people she knew for her wonderful characters. Though she would never aspire to be published, Virginia thought that writing might be a pastime challenging enough to occupy her while she awaited the time she could achieve her independence and return to America.

  Dinner was a lively meal, with the Honorable George supplying them with all the news from the village where he and his aunt Lydia grew up.

  “Edgar Horton won the flower show this year, but there was such a to-do about it,” he noted. “It was said some of his varieties were foreign. And, of course, Colonel Bates did not think he ought to have won. He maintained it was unpatriotic at a time when England was at war.” He looked at Virginia. “Pardon, my dear. No disrespect intended. And then there is the vicar’s new horse. Rumor has it he imported the mare from a breeding operation in Ireland! Of course, her religious affiliation has been sorely questioned.”

  Virginia laughed. “How funny! Life in an English village sounds very different from my life in the country. Charlottesville was miles away from us.”

  The Honorable George gave his superior smile. “America is only newly civilized.”

  His aunt added, “Our village has existed for a thousand years at least.”

  Virginia felt the barb. “What do you enjoy most in London?” she asked the gentleman, choosing to turn the conversation.

  “Visiting my tailor, which I shall do quite promptly,” he answered. After taking a sip of wine, he added, “And my wine merchant.”

  “I am certain you will enjoy an evening at your club tonight,” said Aunt Lydia. “We are to have a quiet night at home.”

  Virginia thought again about the upper-class lifestyle she had been transplanted into. Her parents had been well bred, and she couldn’t help but feel that their interests in life were superior. She had grown up believing the American way was God’s way, and now she was living among people who had the strangest code. Even if they felt something to be of great importance, they would never speak of it in society. If her aunt and the Honorable George were to be taken as specimens, life seemed to be lived at a superficial level only.

  But then there were the others she had met—her uncle, the viscount, Lady Clarice, Miss Braithwaite, even the duchess with her soup kitchen. She couldn’t judge all English people by her aunt and the Honorable George. It was good of her aunt to take her in, she had to keep reminding herself.

  Though she intended to go back to America in five years when she came into her fortune, she knew her uncle intended that she make her debut in London society and find a husband. Virginia still wished very much that he had taken her with him to Dorset instead of sending her off to Lady Fotheringhill’s ball. She felt sure that five years was too long to live among the ton.

  * * *

  The following morning her aunt left alone to attend a Venetian breakfast being held by one of her particular friends. She bade Virginia not to venture out unless she was accompanied by her nephew. He, however, left to visit his tailor as soon as his aunt left.

  Tired of seclusion, Virginia told the butler that she was at home to visitors. A short time later, she was pleased when he announced Viscount Strangeways. Her heart gave a little skip in her breast, and she rose to greet him as he entered the sitting room.

  He wore a light-jade waistcoat with a forest-green topcoat that stretched perfectly over a large pair of shoulders.

  “At last, I find you at home!” he said. “I was ready to despair.” Though he smiled a charmingly crooked smile, his eyes did not quite meet hers, and when she seated herself, he began to stroll aimlessly about the small room as though he were not at ease.

  “Yes. Quite at home,” she said, trying to speak with a British accent.

  “Miss Livingstone, you should not attempt that,” he said with a laugh. “I find your native accent charming.”

  “I sound so awful and flat in my own ears,” she said. “My aunt wants to cure me of it.”

  He smiled at her and seemed to shed his uneasiness. “Are you enjoying London?” he asked.

  “It is very different from what I am used to. But I have met some more charming women and finally was able to visit Hatchard’s. I also discovered Gunter’s. Yesterday I went to see the Tower and the Royal Menagerie.”

  He sat down opposite her and studied her face. “Well! You have made a good start.”

  Their conversation had become stilted—not at all what she expected after his rescue of her the other day.

  “Do they grow cotton and tobacco where you are from?”

  “They do. I grew up on a cotton plantation.”

  To her irritation, the Honorable George entered the sitting room.

  “What is this, my dear? A visitor?” Turning to Lord Strangeways, he said, “I am afraid my aunt is not at home, sir.”

  The viscount stood and held out his hand. “Viscount Strangeways. I have come to call on Miss Livingstone, actually.”

  “George Tisdale,” her aunt’s nephew said, his voice sharp. Her aunt’s nephew portrayed the bantam cock to perfection.

  Her visitor towered over the Honorable George as they shook hands.

  Virginia decided it was her role to ease the situation. “It was the Honorable George—uh, Mr. Tisdale—who took me to visit the Royal Menagerie and the Tower of London.”

  “Let me guess,” said her caller. “You wanted set those poor lions free.”

  “Well, they did look very unhappy and ill-treated,” she said. “Have you made any inquiries about Mr. Hale?”

  “I have not, I’m afraid,” said the viscount.

  “Never mind,” she said. “I will ask Lady Clarice and Miss Braithwaite at the balloon ascension tomorrow. I am looking forward to it.”

  Her aunt’s nephew’s face went rigid. “What is this?”

  His lordship answered, “Some of us are staging a balloon race tomorrow. Miss Livingstone will be selling refreshments there as part of a benefit for Literacy for the Poor.”

  “Does your aunt know of this?” the Honorable George asked.

  “Uh, I thought I would tell her tomorrow. She may like to come.”

  “I have a balloon going up,” said Lord Strangeways. “I hope you will be there to see it, Mr. Tisdale.”

  “It sounds thrilling,” Virginia interrupted in her desire to smooth the situation. “I have never seen one before. Is it very dangerous?”

  “The tricky part is the landing. You do not want to get caught in a tree or come down in a body of water.”

  “I shall accompany you, if I may,” said the Honorable George to Virginia, his face still stiff.

  The viscount turned to him with a smile. “Should you like to ride with me in my balloon? It is jolly good fun.” />
  She watched incredulity war with eagerness on the short man’s face. “You do not even know me,” he said.

  “It is clear you have an adventurous spirit,” Lord Strangeways told him. It was plain to Virginia that the viscount knew exactly how to appeal to Mr. Tisdale’s vanity. The viscount had realized very quickly that involving the Honorable George in the project was the way to win her aunt’s approval. She suppressed a smile.

  The Honorable George preened. “I accept.”

  They discussed the time that he would come for them in the morning in his barouche. After settling these details, Lord Strangeways turned to Virginia.

  “I bid you au revoir until tomorrow, Miss Livingstone.” He bowed over her hand and was gone. In her estimation the visit was far too short.

  * * *

  She heard raised voices in the hall.

  “I am not a child minder, Aunt. And Virginia, though headstrong, is not a child!”

  “Ruin my reputation and the Ogletree name . . .”

  Virginia’s toes curled inside her slippers.

  “Cannot keep her hidden . . .”

  Her aunt’s nephew was acting as her champion. She owed the viscount another debt for engaging the Honorable George in the enterprise.

  Chapter Five

  Tony found the situation at Shipley House interesting. Having been turned away at the door several times, he agreed with the duchess that Lady Ogletree was trying to keep Miss Livingstone hidden away. After his visit with her today, he was even less inclined to feel that she was a spy. And he felt as though he was the worst of double-dealers, cultivating her acquaintance to aid Beau.

  The attraction he felt was still there in spades. It made him deuced uncomfortable. Not only did he wish to know the lady with the interesting face and dainty figure, but he was also physically drawn to her. He found himself longing to hold her close again as he had during moments of the reel and to kiss her renegade freckles.

  Tony punched his right hand into his open left palm, angry with himself. He must banish these desires. His heart had led him astray before. His personal history notwithstanding, he owed it to his country to be objective in his assignment from Beau.

  No matter how he talked to himself, however, the fact remained that he was looking forward to Saturday. He wished it was Miss Livingstone and not the disapproving Tisdale he was taking up in his balloon. He wondered if the man was her suitor. The idea made him clench his fist.

  That evening was the Longhursts’ ball to celebrate Pamela’s engagement. To say he was dreading it was a severe understatement. But he must put in an appearance, or it would appear that he still carried a torch. His pride would not allow that.

  His mother didn’t wish to attend the ball, but he managed to talk his brother into accompanying him. Howie would be very attractive to the ladies with his silver waistcoat and dark plum topcoat, his fair hair worn à la Brutus. Tony cut a more conservative figure in dark blue, with his curly brown hair barely tamed by his valet. The last thing he wished to do tonight was draw attention to himself.

  “If I were you, I’d give this night a miss,” said Howie. “Don’t know why you’re going.”

  “You would have all of London thinking you have a broken heart? Become the major topic of gossip at Miss Longhurst’s ball?”

  “I don’t care a fig for what ‘all of London’ thinks, and neither should you. What happened, anyway? I was sure you were to marry her.”

  “She found an earl more to her taste than a viscount.”

  “It sounds as though you were well out of that, then.”

  Tony felt his brother’s words. “You’re right, of course. Any fool would have known something was amiss when she kept me dangling for the better part of a year.”

  He tried to appear indifferent as Howie studied his face. “I say! She really wounded you, didn’t she? I’m sorry, old fellow. I had no idea it was like that.”

  “Never mind. I have convinced myself that I shall live. Are you coming up in my balloon on Saturday?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it!”

  * * *

  Tony found himself wishing that Miss Livingstone were present that evening. The receiving line had been torture, with Pamela’s eyes boldly seeking his and Sutton looking just as Tony had expected—as though he had won a trophy.

  Was the man marrying her just to best him? What a self-consequential little tick! For the first time, Tony found himself pitying Pamela.

  Howie had gone off to the card room, so Tony employed himself by searching for Bertie. Instead of his friend, he came upon the Duchess of Ruisdell. She was smiling, a welcome lighting her midnight-blue eyes.

  “My dear Tony, I hope you will dance with me. I particularly wish to waltz, and the duke had a meeting in the House tonight. Tiresome thing, Parliament.”

  He wondered if the duchess was motivated by pity for him. He and Pamela had spent many a soiree or dinner coupled together at her home.

  “I should be happy to partner you for a waltz. In the meantime may I bring you some champagne or punch?”

  “I would adore champagne. I shall be over there with my aunt.” She indicated her aunt Clarice, resplendent in purple taffeta with matching plumes in her turban.

  When he joined the ladies with a glass of champagne for each of them, they met him with bright smiles.

  Lady Clarice said, “Good evening, Lord Strangeways. My niece and I were just discussing Mr. Hale. You may tell Miss Livingstone that he is settling in quite well. He is holding his own against Queen Elizabeth and Henry Five. By the way, I was very taken with the gel.”

  The duchess said, “We are convinced she must have a very interesting story.”

  “It is my theory she is being held a virtual prisoner by her aunt,” said Tony, “but I finessed a way for her to come to the balloon ascension, I think.” He told the women about George Tisdale, whom he had convinced himself was Miss Livingstone’s keeper.

  “Oh, good! I shall look forward to seeing her again,” said the duchess.

  “What is your speculation about how and why she turned up in London during a war?” Tony asked the ladies.

  “Heaven only knows,” said Lady Clarice. “I heard gossip that Lady Ogletree does not want her here.”

  “She is an unpleasant woman, to be sure,” said the duchess. “I have asked Miss Livingstone to join my reading circle. We shall have our monthly luncheon in a couple of weeks. Between the three of us here, maybe we can solve the Mystery of Miss Livingstone.”

  “She certainly dances very well. She knew all the steps to the Scottish reel,” Tony informed them.

  “I believe they dance in America too,” said Lady Clarice with a laugh.

  “I cannot believe that landing here in the middle of a war was her choice,” said the duchess.

  “Do you not think it suspicious that among the first things she did here was form an acquaintance with the talkative sister of a member of the Foreign Office?” Tony ventured.

  For a few moments, there was silence.

  “Surely you don’t think her a spy!” said Lady Clarice.

  I’ve gone too far. I’m devilishly bad at this!

  “No, of course not,” he said. “Just curious. Beau has to be cautious, you know.”

  “And you know how unguarded dear Arabella is,” the duchess said and bit her bottom lip. “But to me Miss Livingstone appeared very open and pleasing.”

  “Well, I agree and don’t think anything like that for a moment,” said Lady Clarice. “She is a charming gel who has agreed to help us with our literacy work. I don’t believe a spy would have any interest in educating the poor.”

  “You have to admit it would make a good cover,” said Tony. “Were she a spy, that is.”

  “And here we were hoping that you would take a romantic interest in the lady,” said the duchess.

  At that moment Tony was glad to hear the orchestra strike up a waltz. “Will you please excuse us, Lady Clarice? I have promised this waltz to the duches
s.”

  He enjoyed their waltz. Tony had been one of her admirers before she was married, and he had long wished to find someone like her for himself. Pamela had not been that lady.

  * * *

  After supper Tony was approached by his brother. “Somewhere we can talk?” Howie asked.

  “Not if you want an advance on your allowance,” said Tony.

  His brother put on an injured look. “I have done very well tonight, as a matter of fact. No, this is something different. How about the conservatory? It is private. I am told there is a hall behind that screen that leads in that direction.”

  Puzzled by such a need for secrecy, Tony nodded and followed his brother. When they reached the conservatory, the puzzle only deepened.

  “Wait here,” Howie said. “There is someone who wishes to speak with you in private.”

  “What the devil?”

  “Sorry,” his brother said. “A favor for a lady.”

  “A lady?” Alarm flashed through Tony. He did not like the sound of this at all. Confound Howie!

  His brother was gone in a second. Deciding he would have no part of this melodrama, Tony made to follow him when Pamela stepped out from behind a giant hanging fern.

  “Tony, stay, please,” she said, her voice soft and urgent.

  “Pamela?” Shock shot through him.

  “Did you not receive my letter?” she asked.

  “I received it,” he told her. “I did not read it. There is nothing left to say to each other.”

  “If only that were true, Tony.”

  She looked at him with such pleading that he found himself shoring up his heart.

  “What is it, Pamela?”

  “I have made a dreadful mistake. I cannot marry Lord Sutton. I do not love him. He is not you.”

  There had been a time when such words would have been an answer to prayer. But he was surprised—and glad—to find that time had passed. Until this moment he hadn’t realized he no longer wanted her.

  “Pamela, you should not be here talking to me like this.”

  She threw herself against his chest and clutched his lapels. “If I cry off, will you renew your addresses?”