Waltz with a Stranger

by Martha Lou Thomas

  Warrick had not realised it before, but the two of them had become pretty damned intimate—for polite society—in a very short length of time. Intimate enough for him to have been furious with her. He remembered the feel of her, a few hours ago, in the carriage, soft curves in his arms, the steady beat of her heart so close to his.

  And here came Amos, the charlatan, wanting to defend her, considering her as a possible bride. Most unsuitable, though wouldn’t she relish a connexion with the theatre! Give her over to the arms of the actor? Hardly. Just give the Ice Baron the Dacre ball, three nights from now, to launch her, and all would be well—as Shakespeare had it.

  Warrick sat at his desk in the study and placed the historical trinket by the inkstand before drafting letters for his secretary, MacAllister, to write in the morning. It was late when the baron finished. He stretched his arms. He must advise Bates to prepare for a Devon departure in four days time.

  14

  So ancient was the Dacre lineage, every inch of wall space in their Mayfair mansion’s Long Gallery was needed to display the gilt-framed portraits of illustrious ancestors. Tonight, in the flickering candlelight, all the forebears in all the paintings seemed to move in time with the dancers crowding the room’s great length for the last ball before the Regency Fete, now only a week away.

  At tall rectangular windows that reached to the ceiling, red velvet drapes matched the upholstery on gilded armchairs lined against the picture-laden wall opposite. Alcoves between the windows held green velvet chairs on green figured carpets where those not dancing conversed under chandeliers washed in gold. The orchestra’s music flowed from one of the recesses, tempting more than the usual number to the contradanse, the cotillion, the waltz.

  Warrick was struck by the furor as he entered the room’s brilliance. It was almost as if Death, instead of Prinny’s party, awaited the company on the nineteenth of the month, inspiring all to make the most of tonight’s merrymaking. Since His Royal Highness did, indeed, plan a never-to-be-surpassed affair, one might well assume the night’s gaiety prepared each guest for the ultimate social experience, after which, entertaining on a grand scale would forever cease.

  Roused from his usual ennui, Warrick was eager to find his target. Social custom certified as eligible for exile young women accepting more than two dances with the same partner—unless, of course, a marriage proposal preceded the indiscretion. Three dances with Quintilla Davenant, thought Warrick, should create no real scandal, while arousing the interest of bachelors on the prowl in the Dacre Long Gallery. Her piquancy could do the rest.

  He greeted his hosts before leading their elder daughter to join a country dance circle where Kitty Fairfield romped with a youth whose friendly look—rather like a King Charles spaniel—identified him as the Delaney son. Warrick and Miss Dacre eased into the circle, and when it was Warrick’s turn to step and glide with Kitty, he asked her, “Has Quintilla already abdicated in favour of the library?”

  Kitty shook her head, bouncing the embroidered blue taffeta ribbons which fastened her hair. “She did not come,” said the lively young girl, moving on to step and glide with the next man in the set.

  Surging disappointment gripped Warrick. He concentrated on the proper bows and glides, steps forward, steps back, but the Long Gallery’s brilliance had faded. “Why?” Warrick demanded when Kitty again danced opposite him.

  “She said it was dangerous, reading in strange libraries...” Kitty’s explanation trailed off as she again passed into the arms of the next partner.

  Bow, glide, step forward, step back. Determination replaced Warrick’s disappointment. He would not have it. He should have sent a note, in advance, requesting the pleasure of a dance. Would she have come, then? Whatever, he would not defer his plan. He would go get her—if he had to drag her here. What had happened to the fearless Quintilla?

  With the last bow, Warrick returned the Dacre offspring to her parents, expressed his enjoyment of the interlude, and began weaving his way through the assembly towards the exit via the conservatory.

  He almost crashed into Edwina and her Woodville cousin, dressed in the usual bridal white and carrying a new lace fan trimmed with pearls. To complete the group, a pale blond giant with a large pearl in his starched cravat hovered over her shoulder. His sizable physique successfully blocked Warrick’s forward motion.

  “How fortuitous, Warrick,” Wide ruffles accented the very low neckline of Edwina’s amber gauze dress. “Eunice has saved a dance for you.”

  “A pleasure I must forgo. I was just leaving,” Warrick announced.

  “You are too restless, Warrick,” his stepsister chided. The Woodville cousin’s wide eyes shone as she stood silently observing the matrimonial prize she had been promised.

  “No doubt, Edwina. Miss Woodville.” Warrick nodded to the giant and endeavoured to continue on course.

  “We count on you to escort us to the Regent’s Fete, Warrick,” Edwina’s shrill voice followed him.

  He turned briefly to answer, “Don’t.” She was beginning to sound like that inveterate gossip—what was her name? “I leave for Devon in the morning.” He pressed on through the milling guests. Mallow! Warrick remembered. Edwina begins to sound like Lady Mallow.

  He had reached the relatively subdued conservatory, where earlier the reception line had flourished. Now, a few people lingered there to admire the horticultural achievements.

  “Warrick.” Edwina’s hand on his arm stayed his progress. “You owe it to family solidarity to take us to the Fete,” she proclaimed.

  “Edwina. You know my dislike of ton excursions,” Warrick admitted in a low voice.

  “I have not noticed much dislike of late. There has not been a ... a foursome of whist that you have not attended.”

  Warrick studied her face before answering. “I happen to enjoy a good game of whist.”

  Edwina sniffed. “Why this sudden distaste for society’s best?” Edwina challenged, then changed tactics. Releasing his arm, she strolled companionably by his side. “Can you afford to ignore our monarch? ... to ignore ... Eunice?” Now it was Edwina who silently studied Warrick’s face.

  He stopped, and returned her stare. Seeming to come to a decision, he led his stepsister to a bench almost hidden in the shadow of a large tropical plant.

  “Edwina. Stop trying to foist that infant on me,” he requested frankly.

  “Infant! She is of marriageable age!”

  “Just barely.”

  “Darling Warrick. She is perfect for you. You have not given it careful thought,” Edwina suggested.

  “Edwina.” Warrick rose from the bench. “I must be going.”

  “I hope you remember the barons of Esyley do not choose the inadequate for life partners,” she snapped.

  “Exactly. Which is why I would never agree to a marriage with Eunice Woodville.”

  “She is not inadequate!” Edwina hissed.

  “Have you tried to converse with her for any length of time? See that someone gives that poor thing some education—to augment her mastery of the fan.”

  “You could,” Edwina insisted, “teach her what you wanted her to know.”

  “I am no governess.”

  Edwina rose from the bench to stand before her stepbrother, impervious, always, to her pleas and her wiles. “Are you a man?” she demanded huskily.

  A grin lost out to the shrewdness infusing Warrick’s face, lighting his dark eyes. “Oh, Edwina. You will just have to take my word for it.” With his forefinger, he chucked her under the chin and left.

  In his carriage, riding to Sloane Crescent, Warrick reflected on Edwina’s remarks. He kept forgetting that Quintilla was classified as inadequate. How annoying to be immediately pigeonholed always. Did the bachelors who roamed the Dacre Long Gallery share his stepsister’s view? If he sponsored Quintilla, danced with her, would that make any difference? They would never know unless they tried.

  Rundle promptly answered the door at Number Seven. His polite gre
eting was punctuated by the muffled sound of pianoforte music from behind the closed doors of the rose drawing room. The melody was familiar, but the tempo varied. A wildly fast waltz when Warrick entered had changed to a slow lament.

  “Thank you, Rundle. I will announce myself.”

  It was the “Drunken Sailor” sea chantey that Quintilla played so mournfully now. Her eyes filled with tears for the death of dreams—all the unfulfilled dreams of all the people in the world. Dr. Jenner’s dreams for his country, postponed again. The household had waved him off this morning as he returned to Berkeley and his family.

  What—? The opening doors shattered Quintilla’s musings. Joy reigned immediately—until caution could take over, fairly quickly. How heartwarming, when doors opened to reveal Warrick Dhever! Especially Warrick Dhever handsome in black evening attire. Dark hair waved back over his ears. Enigmatic eyes held a surprising warmth.

  “Lord Eysley. What brings you here ... so elegantly arrayed?” Quintilla rose from her bench to welcome the visitor. She drew a deep breath to keep from revealing what she must never reveal. How would he react if she were to race to his arms demanding a kiss, a passionate kiss? None of these milk and water pecks that had been her lot! She had to laugh at what she knew would be astonished surprise at such untoward behaviour—though he had danced with her without surprise, that evening at the Storr ball. Her cheeks grew warm. If he could read her thoughts! Her pink muslin gown, the one decorated with the covered buttons along the shoulders and around the high waist, of a sudden felt too confining.

  “I need a dance partner at the Dacre ball, Miss Davenant.” He kept his eyes on Quintilla as he circled her.

  Quintilla quashed the hope that tried to defeat her caution. “I know there are hundreds there.”

  “Not the right one.” He ceased his stalking to stand near her.

  “Quintilla, I want us to do right by your widower strategy. Come dance with me in the Dacre Long Gallery. We will set the tongues wagging enough to bring you the attention you need. Tomorrow, this room can be filled with eligible males—enough to eliminate Blumpton and Pomfret-Page and their ilk from your matrimonial list. Now let us go. Do you wear that?” Warrick indicated the pink dress of many buttons.

  The astonished surprise was Quintilla’s. “I have abandoned the widower strategy—any strategy—to snare an unsuspecting male into marriage with me,” she declared staunchly, her chin raised high.

  Warrick looked at her intently until she turned away to rearrange roses in a bouquet on a nearby table. “You yourself said—,” she stopped. She could not face him, quote him.

  He approached her back. She felt his warmth. “What did I say, Quintilla?” His low voice was tenderly stern.

  She moved away to stand against the pianoforte where she could lean against it the better to face him with resolution. “You said it was dishonest, for me to try for money through marriage.” Her voice was controlled. “And you were right, Warrick—Mr.—Lord Eysley.”

  “Quintilla! When did I ever say that?”

  “In the library, with that actor ... who was dishonest. You lumped us together in deceit, and you were right.”

  Warrick moved to the end of the pianoforte. “Quintilla, you misunderstood me. Whatever I said to you that day was ... was said in error.”

  “No, Warrick, not in error, not if I can so perfectly understand the aptness of your words.”

  Warrick began pacing in a half circle around her. “Well, Quintilla, you can continue here, firm in your belief you have no right to happiness with a man. You can read your life away, no longer dealing with people and their prejudices. Or you can come with me, to show half of London how attractive you are ... to me ... and to others.”

  “I am not reading my life away! That is not fair!”

  “Where did you get the idea life was fair, Quintilla?” He stood in front of her and smiled. “Now come with me, and we just may find you a good husband.”

  “We are more liable to find notoriety.”

  “Do you care?” His fingers moved to the buttons at her shoulder. “Do you wear this, or must I dress you, too?” Quintilla stood, unyielding, eyes daring him—until they began to dance with mischievous delight, the longer he fumbled with the buttons, which served only to decorate, not fasten.

  Exasperated, Warrick saw the imp buried in the rigid figure before him, and began to laugh. “Quintilla, you must wear this. I am not as experienced with women’s clothing as I thought I was.”

  Without a word, she marched across the room until Warrick’s words of warning halted her at the double doors. “Ten minutes, Quintilla, before I come up to escort you down.”

  Waiting in the marbled entrance hall, Warrick stood at the foot of the stairs to look up when Quintilla came down to pause at the first landing. Her flushed cheeks were one with the pale pink blush of embroidered white roses ringing the low neckline of her smoky green mull dress, cut high in the waist. More pink-tinged white roses spilled down the skirt. She carried a soft cashmere shawl of the same spring green. A small pearl necklace circled her throat. Her short ash-brown hair was unadorned.

  Softly, Warrick began to sing his version of the drunken sailor’s sea chantey. “What shall we do with a balky female, what shall we do with a balky female...?” His eyes, gleaming wickedly, held hers.

  Quintilla slowly descended. Before the last step, when her eyes were even with Warrick’s, she sang her words to the chantey. “Waltz her in the ballroom till she’s happy, dance her in the ballroom till she’s happy ... and the dawn is breaking.”

  Laughing, they entered Warrick’s carriage and continued to invent new and increasingly inappropriate verses to the trifling tune, until the roistering sounds of revelry in the distance gave Quintilla a start. She reached out in dread to touch Warrick’s arm. As quickly, she withdrew it.

  “No riot, that,” Warrick reassured her.

  She shuddered. “I know I am foolish.”

  “No. Once burned, twice shy. It will pass.”

  “Hard to forget so many people misled.” Quintilla wrapped the cloud of cashmere closer around her.

  “Dr. Jenner has left town?”

  “Yes. He will take his family to Cheltenham for the waters.”

  “What have you been stirring up since last we met?”

  Quintilla hesitated, remembering yesterday’s unusual afternoon call. “Have you heard of the Newtons, in Chester Square?”

  “No, but the tone of your voice alerts me.”

  “Mr. Newton’s wife is a fine musician. Plays the pianoforte as I wish I could. I called on her yesterday, and oh, the music we made!”

  “I wish I could have heard it.”

  Quintilla’s accord was reluctant.

  “Tell me about Mr. Newton,” Warrick urged.

  “He has some strange theories.”

  “Such as?”

  “Oh, he believes eating meat is unnatural.”

  “Umh. I would hate to give up a good beefsteak, but I see nothing too strange there.”

  “Mr. Newton also believes one of mankind’s unnatural habits is the wearing of clothes. He and Mrs. Newton follow custom, but their children, all very healthy, and all adorable, scamper entirely naked about the house. It takes some getting used to, to go there.”

  Through his laughter, Warrick agreed. “I imagine it does.”

  “Quite a shock, the first time. Then, it makes me want to—”

  “Makes you want to what?”

  “Makes me want to—start a school, to teach them.”

  “How to put on clothes? Oh, Quintilla. I am going to miss you in Devon, your forays into scientific stories,” Warrick explained through his laughter. “I leave for my country home in the morning. I had not intended to stay in the City for such an extended period, but ... circumstances got in the way.”

  So there it was, Quintilla thought with dismay. The last time to be together. The last time she could watch his bright eyes behind his imperturbable mask, hear his low voic
e, feel the touch of his hand. “I wish you a safe journey,” she managed to say calmly. For the rest of her life, she must only dream about him. “I shall miss you,” she dared to admit.

  Warrick broke the silence that followed. “Amos, the actor, came to see me. He wanted to assure me of something I already knew.”

  “What?”

  “What a real and honest lady you are.”

  “I suppose he thought I was special, too,” Quintilla remarked softly, with more than a little sarcasm.

  The carriage stopped between flambeaux flanking the door to the Dacre mansion. Alighting from the carriage’s dark interior, Quintilla and Warrick wended their way across the expanse of well-lit hall into the shadowed conservatory.

  “As a matter of fact, he did,” Warrick continued, “and wondered about the size of your dowry.”

  As Quintilla chortled, Warrick completed his account of the visit with Amos, concluding, “So, I am the one with the stolen goods on my hands, for I do not believe the silver historical memento belongs to my family.” Quintilla halted in the dappled shadow of a vine beginning to cross one of the ceiling beams of the garden room. “I thought you might be a thief.” At Warrick’s look of astonishment, she hastened to add, “But I knew if you were, there was a good reason.”

  “And offered me your help, didn’t you, before we entered your uncle’s library to cope with Amos?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did the possibility of my ... criminal proclivities ever enter your head?”

  “I had heard rumours of a theft from the Eysley House library the night of the Storr ball, when we first met. Not knowing then of your Eysley connexion, I remembered seeing in that library the beautiful music stand you had passed on to us, and thought maybe you ... you know you did ask me to leave the room that night.”