Waltz with a Stranger

by Martha Lou Thomas

  “Is this going to mean a Dhever Square, or at least a Crescent?” Edwina briefly contemplated the happy possibility of a Storr Street leading to Dhever Square.

  “If it is as profitable as other City ventures have been,” Warrick answered. Casually, “Edwina, one of your guests—”

  “Warrick, there was a rather singular occurrence at last night’s ball for which I need your advice. Storr is so busy, and you, always so kind.”

  Warrick observed her closely and waited.

  “There was a considerable amount of money in the desk in the library, and now it is gone. Do you suppose one of our guests—”

  “How much is missing?” The baron’s voice was cold.

  “Two thousand pounds.” That was not the extent of the debt, but she knew Warrick would view with suspicion a claim of any greater amount from a desk drawer.

  “From a desk drawer?” His cold voice was frigid now.

  “Yes.” She dared him to contradict her. “I do not want to ... I do not want Storr to know I was careless with funds left in my keeping ... nor do I want to accuse any guests ... or servants, so trustworthy, and most of them here at Eysley House so long.” Edwina stopped for breath. “You know how much is required to maintain this place in the perfect condition I know you expect me to insist on. I need funds immediately. What shall I do?”

  The baron spoke very quietly. “You think me unaware of town talk which has Storr losing a considerable sum to Lord Alvanley? Ten thousand pounds, was it?”

  Edwina looked straight into his eyes. “Five. I assure you, Warrick, this has nothing to do with Storr’s gambling debts. I turned to you to avoid my embarrassment at being so lax and thus finding myself ... pinched in the pocket, as they say. I have spent a great deal on my gown for next month’s fete to celebrate the Regency, though that does not signify, for we do have our position to uphold. What is relevant is, as of last night, I am missing two thousand pounds from the desk in the library. What do you suggest I do, report it to Bow Street?”

  The ensuing silence was unbearable. In quiet, measured tones, Warrick replied. “No.” His eyes never left Edwina’s, whose chin was slowly rising while she stated her position. “No, I believe I have a possible candidate for the thief.”

  Edwina’s chin lowered and her lips parted in surprise. “Who?” she almost shrieked. Careful, careful, she warned herself.

  “I went to the library last night. I had ... done the pretty for you in the ballroom, and wanted a cigar. In the library I encountered one of your guests who was just leaving the room. A young woman—about twenty. Not much over five feet tall ... Slender. Wore a blue—a pale blue dress that glistened, from tiny beads over it, I think. Who is she?”

  Margaret Guthrie’s niece! Edwina exerted every drop of willpower to keep her face from showing the dismay enveloping her. It was one thing to concoct a simple robbery for purposes of winning a little money from a man who rivalled King Croesus, but quite another to implicate an innocent in the concoction. Not to mention being caught in a lie. Her fingers covered her trembling mouth as she pretended to ponder the question. Recalling the radiant look on the little bluestocking’s face, she wondered what had actually occurred in the library last night.

  “Tell me, and I will call on her.” Warrick’s voice was implacable. “Perhaps I can get a sense of her guilt or innocence from her reaction when I tell her of the theft.”

  “With hundreds of people in attendance, Warrick, I simply cannot recall the one you describe.”

  “Think hard, Edwina. Go over your guest list. If you can lead me to her, we may well recover your two thousand pounds.”

  Edwina nodded. “In the meantime, Warrick—”

  “In the meantime, Edwina, I will see that ... five thousand pounds are made available to you immediately.”

  Edwina looked at her stepbrother impassively. It would not do to let any relief show on her face. “I knew you would assist me, Warrick.”

  Warrick rose from the green striped chair. “I really must be going.”

  Edwina accompanied him out the door. Pausing at the top of the stairs, she gave him a soft look that could still bring Storr to his knees. “Will you drop me by my dressmaker’s?”

  “I walked over. It is not that far from the Albany.”

  “But so common for the head of a family of such stature as the Dhevers to walk through the streets. Remember your position, Warrick.”

  “I do not find such accoutrements to position as carriages necessary, Edwina. I see things when I walk that I might otherwise miss.”

  “Like the refuse of humanity?”

  “Or a thief with two thousand pounds sticking out of his pocket.” He smiled at Edwina, then trotted down the stairs.

  Edwina watched him. He collected his hat and gloves from the footman, turned, and called up to her, “Go over the guest list—and Storr, Edwina.” The Baron Eysley was out the door.

  Such arrogance. Paying no heed to the social behaviour expected of him. Did he know he was called the Ice Baron? Probably. He could afford not to care. Great wealth excused great idiosyncrasies. Yes, she would see to Storr. As for the bluestockinged chit at the Guthries’, Edwina could not recall her name—the Davenants’ crippled daughter—there was little likelihood Warrick would ever encounter her. The Guthries did not usually attend large affairs. Sir Ian was impatient at social functions, as was Warrick, who doubtless would be returning to the country soon.

  It probably would have been easier to ask outright for the five thousand pounds. No matter! She had the money! When one’s husband had a gambling propensity the equal of Lord Alvanley’s without Alvanley’s funds to draw on, one had to be careful. It would not do to revive the family ill will.

  Making a deep curtsey to the door through which her stepbrother had departed, she turned, pointed her toe, and did a jubilantly stately minuet back to her salon.

  And it was the fifth child for Beauchamp Dhever, not the fourth!

  That was one bloody little drama. Warrick chortled over Edwina’s attempts to hide her emotions. Why this refusal to identify the thief? If that enchanting creature from the library was a thief, he was the king of Spain. Warrick’s purposeful strides brought him almost to the Albany before he abandoned all the complicated solutions to the puzzle in favor of the obvious one. Edwina was too Machiavellian to ask outright for the funds, and too moral—and for this he was grateful—to involve an innocent in the imaginative farce of a two-thousand-pound theft from a desk drawer. His problem, therefore, was to coax from Edwina the identity of his enchantress—a formidable task in the face of Edwina’s long list of unmarried female cousins. His alternative was to track down the unknown lady. Edwina had high cards in this silly game they played, but he would have the last trump.

  3

  “I have heard from Mama,” Edwina informed her stepbrother Wednesday night at Almack’s, London’s most exclusive club and matrimonial mart.

  Warrick looked down at her but did not reply before turning away to resume his surveillance of the room’s assemblage.

  “She acquiesces to your decision about William’s future.” At her stepbrother’s silence, she continued. “Virginia is perhaps the best place for younger Dhever sons. After all, Champ found ... great happiness there. William, too, can assist in managing your American properties.”

  “He is at sea now?” Edwina was determined to converse.

  “Who?” Warrick had sighted no heart-stopping smile under ash-brown hair, and turned his attention to his stepsister.

  “Who have we been talking about! William! Has he sailed?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Oh ... Eunice Woodville is visiting, and with me here tonight.”

  Amused, Warrick’s questioning look stopped just short of a sneer. “Another cousin?”

  Edwina interrupted his move to leave. “She is perfectly beautiful, and you will want to meet her.”

  Warrick paused. “Have you remembered the name of your guest whom I encountered in th
e library, the one who might possibly shed light on the theft from your desk?”

  “No, I have not, Warrick. She could have been any one of a number ... many seemed to wear blue that night.”

  “Then, I find I have no time to meet your beauteous cousin—when I have other social obligations this evening. You will excuse me, Edwina.”

  From the balcony above, the orchestra enthusiastically attacked its repertoire. Two of Almack’s Lady Patronesses exchanged mystified glances at the Ice Baron’s abrupt exit. He had not danced at all!

  Indeed, the Ice Baron’s socialising to a degree not hitherto witnessed rivalled only the impending Regency Fete and the now-life-threatening illness of the Grosvenor heir as a major topic for speculative conversation. Much of it centred on Eysley’s behaviour.

  He would arrive at the height of festivities, staying only long enough to reconnoitre the ballroom or drawing room, and the library. A dance or chat with his hostess, and he would be on his way. During Lady Treward’s rout, that hostess became indignant when he enquired of her the location of her library. She resented the implication that she was a bluestocking.

  Lady Fulke personally escorted Baron Eysley to her library, having considerably higher hopes than were realised. A brief glance in the room and the baron whisked her back to the dance floor before one tongue could wag.

  After several hostesses compared experiences, conclusions were drawn. Eysley sought a certain rare book. Perhaps it was time the Dhevers began collecting other than beautiful mates, up to now the only Dhever connection to fine art.

  In another year, the baron’s beautiful quarry might be named Incomparable, easily identified by all. For the season of 1811, however, tall and blond was the absolute. This avenue of investigation did not serve, in any event. Warrick’s town-wise servant, despatched to query fellow servants, discovered from Edwina’s footmen that the lady in question had limped across the Great Hall before dashing up the stairs. As near as they could remember, Lady Storr had called her a niece of Margaret Godfrey, or some such name as that.

  Warrick’s beautiful lady—flawed? This might explain why she was alone in the library. The only lame members acceptable to the ton at the moment were Lord Byron, and Lord Barrymore—called Cripplegate. As for Margaret Godfrey, no one of that name was located in any fashionable part of town.

  The search palled. As days passed without success, the baron admitted to the inadequacy of any trump card he might have held. It was time to throw in his hand for another deal.

  On this afternoon, Warrick’s mood matched the grey day—another in a long series, and unusual for the season. He stood on a small rise of ground overlooking fields stretched out from London’s southwestern boundaries. He had been asked to consider joining Earl Grosvenor in making these lands the next Mayfair. Marshy, they needed to be drained before any construction began.

  A slight breeze from the Thames beyond carried the musty smell of fish and decayed reeds mixed with the tangy scent of wild blooms. Warrick took a deep breath. Did he want further involvement in the City land development? His deep fondness for the family seat near the uplands of Devonshire made him loath to abandon the rhythms of country life in pursuit of more wealth when pursuit no longer carried excitement.

  Unaccustomed to indecision, Warrick started to walk. Where did happiness lie? He was like a general who had won his war and looked for the next one.

  The mud clung to his boots. Where in hell was he going? He gazed to the west, past St. George’s Hospital, where mellowed red brick Georgian houses reigned over country villages. One of the houses had a brick outbuilding sheltered by an ancient tree of just such a size as successfully hid a fleeing Prince Charles in centuries past.

  On one of the lower branches barely visible over the red brick wall sat a blond creature in fluttering white. Back and forth she moved her arm lifted in greeting. Laughing at the incongruity of the massive tree with its wisp of a wood sprite, Warrick waved before turning back towards the City.

  His ... lady of the library. If he were to see her again, would he even recognise her? He remembered only an animated face, that smile ... and his pleasure watching her pure delight while they danced.

  He was committed tonight to the Cravenhursts’ ball. Perhaps in their library ... Bah! A fruitless search, and he had lost interest in the challenge. It was time to return to home base at Eysley Court.

  Perched comfortably on a limb, Kitty Fairfield shivered in her thin white muslin dress, appropriate for the season but hardly for the weather. This old tree at the back of the garden had always been a wonderful haven for visiting Guthrie nieces and nephews. Climb to the top and you could see the Thames River in the distance. All had outgrown the fun of sitting amongst its rustling leaves. Aunt Margaret would insist Kitty had outgrown it, too. Guiltily, she looked over her shoulder at the garden where moisture dripped from trees and clung to boxwood hedges. Aunt Margaret was not in sight. Probably she was compiling more instructions to aid Kitty’s acquisition of the town bronze deemed so necessary to her future success in life. Spell success mar ... age. Kitty did not want to marry. She wanted to have fun.

  No one else stirred in the damp day, no one but the solitary figure at the far side of the open fields. He had ignored her waves, so she waved again. There! Finally he saw her and waved before turning away. Satisfied with the stranger’s response, Kitty jumped down from her branch to the stones of the terrace. Left behind was the green sash matching the ribbons around her sleeves and the edge of her skirt. Kitty yanked at the sash to no avail. It slowly moved in the heavy air to mark her afternoon escape from the bronzing process.

  Tilla and Dr. Jenner had been working in Sir Ian’s library all afternoon on the smallpox vaccination report. It was time to rescue them. Kitty rapped on the window-pane as she passed. Two heads in close consultation, one with ash-brown tresses and the other with hair of sandy grey, reared in startled wonder. Laughter, barely audible through the closed window, welcomed Kitty. Dr. Jenner greeted her at the door, and escorted her to one of the mahogany cross-framed chairs at the large table under the window.

  Blue eyes twinkling, the physician indulged in one of his great pleasures. “A pity dear Kitty has startled us so. We persist to insist she desist,” he rhymed.

  “Our report on Ceylon is incredibly long,” Quintilla chimed in.

  “Just one twist of its gist ... and we’ve missed!” Beaming, the good doctor completed his doggerel.

  Kitty cocked her head as she regarded the stocky figure neatly garbed in his coat of green Bath cloth and buff-coloured pantaloons. “You have rhymed worse and you have rhymed better, Dr. Jenner.”

  “The question is whether Edward Jenner will be remembered through the ages for ridding the world of smallpox, or for filling the world with his rhymes.” Quintilla mimicked the speaker heard in Parliament during the proposal of Dr. Jenner’s vaccination law.

  “For my rhymes, Miss Tilla, I do believe.” The kindly man’s voice was suddenly wistful.

  “Never, Dr. Jenner! If Ceylon, at the end of the earth, is free from the Red Death because everyone was vaccinated—even Napoleon recognises the value of vaccination, and he is our enemy—then a civilised nation like ours will soon follow suit.” Staunchly, Quintilla supporter her family’s long-time friend and Berkeley neighbour.

  It was as cold as winter inside the library. The dull crimson of the Axminster carpet could not offset the sense of pervading chill. Fear of fire for Sir Ian’s rare books precluded any provisions for heat in the structure, separated from the main house by an extensive formal garden.

  The hour chimed, and from a clock on a shelf otherwise filled with books, a tiny bronze monk moved out to mark the event. Kitty bounced from her chair to watch closely. The Leroi et fils timepiece had fascinated her since childhood, and at this point, was her only incentive to marry. Aunt Margaret had promised it as a wedding gift.

  Dr. Jenner commented, “Kitty, you must come with me to visit my Catherine when I return home. Since
her brother’s death ... You two are of an age, and she will enjoy your liveliness.”

  Kitty turned to reply politely, “With great pleasure, Dr. Jenner.” In truth, she hoped for a prompt return to the rural isolation of her home. As the pretty daughter of the local squire, Kitty had the adulation of every swain on foot and on horseback within miles. Was there anything better than wild horseback riding with friends over fair fields?

  “Miss Tilla, we should adjourn. We have a good afternoon’s work behind us.”

  “Return to the house and rest, Dr. Jenner, before Aunt Margaret expects us all to report to the rose room for tea.” Quintilla gathered the papers scattered over the table. “Do we work tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow I see Lord Boringdon. I have additional provisions for the law which I must discuss with him. And there are further advantages of vaccination over inoculation to cite.” Dr. Jenner was now definitely drooping.

  “Is it close to being passed, then?” Quintilla enquired.

  “No, indeed. All serious business in London is at a standstill while preparations advance for the Regent’s Fete on the nineteenth.” Dr. Jenner rubbed his hands over his face.

  “Well, all will be in order when you wish to resume,” his editorial assistant encouraged him. “We should be ready for the printers by the end of the week.”

  Kitty asked, “Do you accompany us to the Cravenhursts’ ball tonight?”

  Dr. Jenner paused at the door. “After one of Lady Guthrie’s substantial teas, I ought to be good for at least two country dances, if I might have the honour.”

  Both young women smiled fondly and bowed their heads as Edward Jenner quietly closed the door behind him. Quintilla then exploded. “Just think! To be free from the fear of smallpox! Yet his own country gives scant attention to the one who makes it possible. There is trouble passing his law, reluctance to recompense him for any of his money spent in research and experiments, no knighthood! And he is such a sweet, dear man, a benefactor to all humanity!”