by Linda Banche
“Or the lad with her?”
“Her younger brother, I daresay. And no, I do not know him.” Wynne snorted. “I do not associate with children.”
“Mayhap we have a mutual friend. Anyone here you know?”
With a huff, Wynne looked around again. “For the second time, no. These mechanical types are not exactly my set.”
Well, lightning hadn’t struck twice. Had he really expected such luck?
The crowd thinned in the passage beside them. Laurence jumped to his feet. “Well, then, I will introduce myself.”
Wynne hoisted himself up beside Laurence. “Not proper, old chum.”
“Sometimes ‘proper’ does not get a man what he wants.”
A knot of people inched to the front against the flow of departing spectators to speak with the lecturer. Unfortunately, the lady and her brother were in the center of the group.
“Why couldn’t you have asked when the speaker called for questions?” The lad’s voice whined in the universal manner of adolescent boys irritated with their sisters.
“Because I did not think of this question until now.” Miss Palmer was only a few feet from Laurence, but barricaded by a solid wall of attendees. Hadn’t the members of the audience asked an eternity of questions already? Laurence pushed his way forward, smiling when the gentleman before him glared at him. He repeated the maneuver, smiling, and apologizing if necessary, until he stood directly behind her. He took a deep inhale. Lilacs. Her scent was of lilacs.
“Very well.” The lad stuck his hands in his pockets and thrust out his lower lip. “I suppose we will not be here too much longer.”
Time for the old handkerchief trick. Laurence pulled out his silk pocket square. His large, plain, monogrammed handkerchief looked nothing like a lady’s delicate one, but it would have to do. “Pardon me, miss, did you drop this?” Laurence bowed and held out the neatly ironed fabric.
A smile flitted across Miss Palmer’s lips, as if she knew the ploy and approved. “Why, no, sir, I believe you are mistaken.”
“Sorry.” Laurence pocketed the handkerchief. “My name is Mr. Laurence Coffey, and we spoke at Hookham’s this afternoon.”
“Yes, we did. I—”
“Do we know you, sir?” The voice of the stripling dripped icicles.
Laurence speared the irritating whelp with a glare that quailed mushrooms, horses and annoying children. “I am Mr. Laurence Coffey, young man. Now you know me.”
Unfortunately, the look didn’t quail the lady’s brother. “Never heard of you.” He pushed himself between Laurence and his sister. “Excuse us, sir. Ellen, ask your question and we will be off.”
She leaned around her brother, smiled and lifted her shoulder, as if to say she was sorry. Then she turned to the lecturer. “Mr. Galloway, please…
Laurence gave an inward growl, but he had to give her brother credit. The youth did a good job of protecting his sister from encroaching males, even when the encroaching male was older, taller and outweighed him. But he would outwit the lad.
Miss Palmer received the answer to her question and thanked the speaker. Her brother, after giving Laurence a dark scowl that dared him to follow, hustled her before him out the double doors.
Laurence grabbed Wynne’s arm and dragged him along after the retreating pair, the boy’s height making them easy to follow.
When they emerged onto the street, Wynne guffawed and clapped Laurence on the back. “Where is your vaulted charm when you need it?”
Laurence craned his neck, searching for the lady. “Just my luck she has a bulldog of a protector. And you can stop laughing.”
Wynne subdued his chuckles to a few minor snorts. “Quite effective, for such a young lad.”
Miss Palmer and her brother walked down the pavements a short distance away, the boy, eyebrows lowered, looking back once or twice.
Hackneys lined the curb outside the building waiting for fares. The youth stepped up to one and called out an address which Laurence unfortunately couldn’t hear over the clatter of voices and footsteps. Then he assisted his sister inside before hopping in himself. As the coach pulled away, the vehicle’s window opened and a wisp of white fluttered to the ground.
“Wynne, grab a hack!” Wynne nodded as Laurence dove for the linen. She wanted him to follow! He snatched up the lacy fabric and ran back to the vehicle Wynne held. Wynne jumped inside as Laurence called up to the driver. “Follow that carriage. Double your fare if you stay with them.”
The jarvey touched his whip to his cap and then pulled into the road almost before Laurence could vault into the conveyance.
The vehicle lurched forward and Wynne grabbed the strap on the side wall to prevent himself from tumbling over. “Where are we off to?”
“Miss Palmer’s house.”
Wynne raised his eyebrows. “Are you sure she wants you to follow?”
Laurence smiled and dangled the dainty bit of linen in front of his friend. A whiff of lilac scent drifted from the delicate folded cloth. “I must return her property.”
***
Laurence threw up the hackney window and hung out the opening, keeping Miss Palmer’s carriage in sight as they clattered onto the Strand. He almost fell out as the driver took the curve around Charing Cross and Cockspur a little too fast. Then, they raced along Haymarket to turn west onto the long straightaway of Piccadilly. The horses’ hooves pounded on the cobblestones as the street merged into Knightsbridge Road, Hyde Park an oasis of silent darkness on their right. He braced his hands on the window frame as they turned south onto Sloane Street.
Wynne sniffed. “Hans Town. Cits and parvenus live here.”
Laurence leaned farther out the window. “And so does she.”
The jarvey slowed as he guided the conveyance onto Hans Street to emerge onto the east side of Hans Place.
Laurence waved at the driver. “Stop here and wait.” The horses snorted and stamped as they pulled up at the south end of the oval park in the center of Hans Place. They halted directly before the entrance to the Pavilion, the mansion Sir Henry Holland, the builder of Hans Town, had erected there.
Ahead around the curve, about halfway up the west side of the park, the lady and her brother exited the carriage. The lad paid the jarvey, and then the pair entered one of the townhouses that ringed the greensward.
But which one? From this angle Laurence couldn’t be sure.
After the door shut behind Miss Palmer and her brother, Laurence swung down from the carriage. The sign nailed to the side of the end townhouse listed the house numbers as 23 to 43. He counted off as he ran to the building he thought was hers. Number 34.
Like every other house in the row, this residence was flat-fronted, its door opening onto a few steps that descended directly to the pavements. Beside the portal, an iron area railing, the meager light from the infrequent street lamps glinting off the metal, guarded the steps to the kitchen below street level. The ground floor window was lighted, although drawn curtains prevented him from peering inside. A feminine laugh wafted from behind the drapes. Hers?
Stomach knotted tighter than his cravat, he stepped up to the front door. Would he meet her now?
He lifted his hand to the door knocker…
The light in the window went out.
Devil take it. Laurence fisted his raised hand. They were probably about to retire for the night. He lowered his arm and stepped back. Well, he would return tomorrow, and if this house wasn’t hers, he would try the others until he found her.
Satisfied with his plan, he retraced his steps to the hackney. He called up his address before he hopped inside.
Wynne yawned. “What now?” The carriage lurched and he again caught the strap at the side. “Cursed driver likes to make a fast start.”
“Why, I return the lady’s handkerchief.” Laurence fingered the scrap of lace. Something knotted within crunched. He unraveled the knot and a small, crumpled piece of paper fell into his lap. He angled the sheet to the bars of light beaming in at interval
s from the passing street lamps. “Well, well, well.”
Wynne yawned again. “And what does that mean?”
Laurence held up the note and grinned. “I am now certain of her address.”
Chapter 5
His name is Mr. Laurence Coffey.
Ellen scowled at her neatly penned mathematical equations. Drat. She had made an error, but had yet to find the discrepancy. She brushed a stray piece of pencil lead off the paper. Well, she would check again. And again, until she found the mistake. Or she would have Mama take a look.
Unfortunately, thoughts of a handsome young man with gold-tinged hair and a captivating smile intruded on her concentration. She sat back in her chair and gazed unseeing out the parlor window.
Whatever her brother’s opinion, she wanted to see Mr. Coffey again. Which is why she had tossed her handkerchief with her name and address within out the hackney window. While she was grateful for Tom’s protectiveness, that same protectiveness had made dropping her handkerchief any earlier an impossibility.
Her stomach had fluttered when Mr. Coffey scooped up her handkerchief, and then again when he caught the next hackney. As Tom muttered over and over about insolent gentlemen, she pretended to watch the darkened city pass by outside, but kept Mr. Coffey’s following carriage in sight as well as she could.
When they arrived home, another conveyance stopped farther down the street. His? Ears pricked and breath bated, she lingered in the front parlor, awaiting the thumping of the door knocker.
Her shoulders slumped. He hadn’t come.
Not for the first time, a little sliver of ice slipped down her spine. What if he were a murderer or a thief? Had she made a mistake giving him her name and address? She didn’t think so, but she was safe here. One or the other of her parents was always at home, and her brother never failed to escort her when she went into London.
She clasped her pencil tighter. Well, if Mr. Coffey didn’t come today, she would go back to Hookham’s tomorrow and quiz the clerk about him.
“Ellen!” Tom bounded into the room. Fifteen years old and a bundle of energy. Would that he always remained so lively. “Have you finished with those calculations? Father and I need them so we can start testing the latest version of the steam engine.”
“No, give me a few more minutes. I have had a little trouble.”
He leaned a hip on the edge of the table and pressed his hands to his heart. “What, the all-knowing Miss Ellen Palmer having trouble with a mathematics problem? What is the world coming to?” His wide grin belied the brotherly teasing.
She tapped her pencil on his leg and pursed her lips to prevent them from quivering upward into a smile. “Never make fun of my mathematical prowess, brother dear, or I will leave you to the mercy of your own calculations. And you know where you would be then.”
He gave a mock shudder. “Spare me, O Great One. Father and I would never build that steam engine if we had to rely on ourselves. Good thing we have you and Mother, or, no matter how good we are at mechanics, our steam engines would never work.”
“Or, even worse, might blow up.”
The smile dropped from her brother’s face. “Please, never say that, even in jest. A steam engine explosion is a horrid thing.”
“You are right. I did not—” The sharp rapping of the front door knocker cut through the air. “Now, who could that be?”
Tom leaned back over the table to draw the window curtain aside. “A man.” He stiffened. “Blast! That’s the chap who pretended you had lost your handkerchief last night. How did he find us?”
Ellen’s heart leapt. He had come! At last, at last!
“No matter.” Her brother dropped the curtain and jumped up. “I will get rid of him.”
Ellen caught his arm. “No, let him in.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed. “You really want to see this fellow?”
She nodded.
His lips pressed into a thin line. “You should not have talked to him.” He shook her hand off and then crossed his arms over his chest.
God spare me from overprotective brothers. Although he does mean well. “Oh, come now, he intended no harm. And I saw him at the library yesterday afternoon. Surely, he cannot be a complete scoundrel.”
Her brother’s stance remained rigid. “Scoundrels read books, too.”
“But Pride and Prejudice? I think not.”
“Well…” He drew the syllable out as if he didn’t want to let the word go. His hesitation meant that she had won. She bit her lip to suppress her glee. “Listening to him for a few minutes will not hurt anything.”
Light footsteps scampered down the corridor as the maid ran to the front of the house. The door scraped opened and deep, masculine tones floated to their ears. The maid entered and curtseyed. “A gentleman to see you, miss.”
Tom’s eyes narrowed. “A gentleman? We don’t know any gentlemen. We don’t want to know any gentlemen. Useless leeches.”
“Tom, be quiet.” Ellen’s pulse racketed up. Now that Mr. Coffey was here, she wasn’t about to let her brother chase him away. She waved a hand at the maid. “Please show him in.” She smoothed her skirts to hide the trembling in her hands.
A dark thundercloud of a scowl creased her brother’s face. “What are you doing? Your opinion of gentlemen is exactly the same as mine.”
“In most cases, yes, but not all gentlemen are blackguards.” I hope this one isn’t. “In any case, we will find out straightaway.”
Booted footsteps tramped on the passage floor and the maid ushered in a tall young man garbed in a dark blue tailcoat, dove grey trousers and black half boots before she left. Those blue eyes she had dreamed of last night sparkled as he bowed. “Miss Ellen Palmer?”
She inclined her head.
“I believe I have something you lost.” He pulled her neatly folded handkerchief from his pocket.
“Ellen, how did you lose your handkerchief?” Tom’s black look darkened further.
“It probably fell out of my pocket.” She took the lacy linen square and made a pretense of examining the fabric. “Yes, this is indeed mine. Thank you for taking the trouble to return it. Mr. Coffey, I believe?”
“Yes. Mr. Laurence Coffey. Happy to be of service.”
“Would you care for some tea, Mr. Coffey? You deserve a reward for coming all the way here.” Oh, please, stay.
“The tea would be welcome, but no reward is necessary.” His smile said he had always intended to remain.
Tom, hands fisted at his side, stepped in front of Mr. Coffey. “How did you find us? And how did you learn our name?”
Her stomach tangled. Gracious, her suspicious brother might ruin everything. “Tom—”
Mr. Coffey cast her a conspiratorial smile. “I followed you last night. Unfortunately, when I arrived at your doorstep, the house was dark. As for your name, I showed the handkerchief to the maid, and she told me.”
So, he had come last night! She was lighter than a soap bubble. Pray Tom didn’t quiz the servant, or he would discover Mr. Coffey’s bouncer.
She gestured to a chair and then rose to yank the bell pull. “And this is my brother, Mr. Thomas Palmer.”
Her brother still scowled, but he directed a curt nod at their guest.
“Tom, where are you?” A muffled voice shouted from somewhere below.
Tom groaned. “Father calls. I must away.” He pushed off the table and dipped his head as he passed their guest. “Good to meet you, Mr. Coffey.” The frigidity of his voice belied the politeness of his words. “Ellen, I will send Mother here.” He made a deliberate show of setting the door open wide before he scampered off. He passed the maid, who took their request for tea.
Mr. Coffey smiled as her departing brother disappeared before he flipped up the tails of his coat and sat. “I saw you yesterday at Hookham’s Library.”
A whiff of his citrus-scented shaving soap touched her nostrils. She did like citrus. “Yes, they had a copy of a book I wanted to read.” Better not tell him the bo
ok was about steam engines. At least, not yet.
“Do you often visit the library?”
She sighed. “Alas, no. I cannot afford the fee. But a friend allowed me to borrow the book on her account. Do you often go to Hookham’s?”
A slight flush formed high on his cheekbones. “In fact, yesterday was only the second time I was there.”
Oh, dear. Not much of a reader. Her pleasant little air castle of them reading Pride and Prejudice to each other tottered and crashed.
“I went to look around.”
Her air castle reassembled itself. There was hope for him.
He glanced at the table and the copy of Pride and Prejudice amidst her papers. “I see you checked out the book.”
“If you wish to read it, the library surely has more than one copy.”
He shifted in his seat and glanced away. “I was curious. One of my friends likes that novel. And, well, the book helped him find his lady.”
“Oh, that sounds like a remarkable story. I must hear it.” She adored tales of love. Real life accounts were even better than the ones in books. Some people, mainly men, acted as if mathematics and love could not mix, at least in women. Well, they were wrong.
“The story is rather long…”
“I have time.” I would like you to stay as long as possible.
After a halting start, Mr. Coffey gave a humorous account of how the book facilitated his friend’s meeting his lady. He ended with a hilarious, but, judging by the darker red tinge on his cheeks, embarrassing, recitation of him and his friends tossing Pride and Prejudice amongst themselves in the library.
When he finished, she tapped her fingers on the table. “I daresay, I saw you that day. I was at the counter checking out a book when four gentlemen walked in. But, of course, I left a moment later and did not give any of you a second thought.”
“I am grateful you did not witness our juvenile display. Not well done of us. Miss Haley was quite correct to upbraid us.”
“Are you friends now?”
“Oh, yes. We have quite mended our fences. But I can forgive her anything because she makes Fellowes happy.”
A clatter of china announced the arrival of the maid with the tea. Ellen scooped up the book and her calculations from the table to make room. A sheet fluttered to the floor. “So, you do not care for novels.”