by Jane Ashford
“Are you sure about that, miss?” the driver said. “It’s down amongst the clubs.”
“Quite sure,” she replied.
He slapped the reins, and they moved off. Two turns later, the hack was driving down a busy street clogged with vehicles and riders. The clop of so many hooves was very loud. At the sides, hawkers cried their wares and tried to thrust products upon pedestrians who pushed along in both directions. There was a smell of fish and horses and drains. Verity stared out at the frenetic scene. It was probably like this in the marvelous bazaars of the East, she decided, only more so. She gathered all her sensations together and recorded them in her customary way, adding this moment to her collection. One became used to the clamor, no doubt. After a few days, one wouldn’t feel assaulted by it at all.
The driver maneuvered past a large construction works. The pounding of hammers and shouts of the workers added to the noise. “Piccadilly Circus, that’s to be,” the driver called down. “If they ever finish, and stop blocking the road.”
Beyond was a wide gracious avenue, a little less crowded, with large stone buildings on either side. The driver turned down it and pulled up before an imposing gray edifice. “Here you are, miss,” he said.
Heart thudding, Verity paid her fare and got down at Twelve Waterloo Place. Great arched windows on the ground floor looked back at her. Above, a pillared portico loomed. The door stood under a round window with an ornately carved surround.
The cab clattered off. Verity gathered her resolve and went inside.
She was greeted—or rather halted—in the entry by a liveried man with grizzled hair and a sour expression. “You must have the wrong address, miss.”
“Isn’t this Twelve Waterloo Place?” She said it aloud, as she’d said it to herself since she read the news.
“Yes, miss.” The man glowered at her.
“The Travellers Club?”
“Yes, miss, but—”
“I understand there are lectures planned, by those who have explored the…the far reaches of the globe. I hoped to obtain a schedule.”
“No ladies are allowed inside,” he replied. “Particularly young ladies.”
“Not even for the talks?”
“Never, miss.”
“Are you sure?” He was only a servant after all, not a member of the newly established club.
“Heard Lord Aberdeen say so” was the smug reply.
This was a setback. Verity had looked forward to the travelers’ tales, as well as the chance to meet a kindred spirit. “Perhaps I could leave a note—”
The guardian frowned. “This is a gentlemen’s club, not a post office.”
Verity peered past him to the inner doors. She’d read about the club’s recent establishment “for gentlemen who had traveled out of the British Isles to a distance of at least five hundred miles from London in a direct line.” Foreign visitors and diplomats posted to London were also invited. Lord Castlereagh was one of the founders, along with the Earl of Aberdeen and Lord Auckland, whose name graced a town on the other side of the world. These men had chosen the head of Ulysses as their device. Verity knew that his epic voyage was fictional, the marvels he’d seen unreal, but the choice had fired her imagination. She’d so often dreamed of sailing to unknown shores.
“I’ve read all of Cook’s journals,” she tried. “I’m an admirer of Alexander von Humboldt. I know a great deal about—”
“No ladies,” the door warden interrupted, hostilely uninterested. “Particularly not the sort looking to write to gentlemen they don’t know. You’ll have to get out now.” His expression was stiff and closed.
Verity gritted her teeth and turned away. Clearly, this fellow was no use. He knew nothing but orders. And insults; those seemed to come easily to him.
Outside, she considered loitering by the entrance and trying to speak to a member going in or out. Immediately, she rejected the idea. She wasn’t some feeble petitioner. She wasn’t going to be brushed off in the street. She’d have to find another way to meet the sort of man she wanted. Why must they make it so difficult?
Angry, she turned right and strode off. She wanted to dissipate some of her irritation before she found another cab, and movement generally made her feel better. That was the point of life, wasn’t it? To move, to act. Not to sit with folded hands waiting for what came.
Randolph lengthened his stride and drew in a deep breath. He’d had a fine early match at Angelo’s, learning a cunning new form of riposte from the fencing master. Invigorated, he’d taken a turn through St. James Square and down to Pall Mall. Now, as he headed for home, he felt splendid. Until, that is, he saw a familiar figure rushing toward him. What the deuce was she doing in this part of town? She could have no business here. But there was no avoiding the girl, even though she didn’t seem to see him. He raised his hat. Did she always look annoyed? “Miss Sinclair,” he said.
She stopped and looked up at him with a last-straw sort of expression. “You,” she said.
Randolph felt the same. He would have walked on, but she must have lost her way to be in this neighborhood, seemingly alone. “Are you on your own?”
“Yes, I am. And you needn’t tell me it isn’t the thing. I know! And I’m not in the mood.” She turned to leave.
He’d had quite enough of Miss Verity Sinclair, but still he had to say, “You shouldn’t go that way.”
“I beg your pardon?” was the icy response.
“That’s Pall Mall.” Randolph pointed down the hill.
“And so?”
“No respectable lady walks down Pall Mall.”
She was the picture of exasperation. “Are you saying I can’t even walk down a wretched street?”
“I’m not the one who says—”
“Whyever not?” she interrupted.
“Lots of clubs along there. It’s sort of…male territory.” It sounded a bit ridiculous when he said it aloud. He didn’t wish to add that she’d be ogled through the windows and very likely mistaken for a lightskirt.
“Clubs,” she echoed in tones of deep revulsion. “No ladies allowed. Particularly young ladies.”
Randolph made no reply to this odd remark. Thankfully, Miss Sinclair turned about and started walking away from the offending street. He fell in beside her.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I’ll escort you home,” he said. He knew his duty, no matter how onerous.
“No.”
“You can’t—”
“I am so deathly tired of being told what I cannot do!”
Randolph bit back a sharp retort. “I can’t just leave you here,” he answered instead.
“Find me a cab then. I won’t be walked home like a child.”
He did so. An inner voice argued that he should go along, but he let her dissuade him, because he didn’t wish to.
* * *
As she sat beside her mother in their hired carriage that evening, Verity was still fuming. The Travellers Club had seemed a heaven-sent opportunity to find the sort of person she wanted—all those explorers gathered in one place. And diplomats…an active diplomat might do in a pinch. She’d planned to go to their talks and…browse. Like a canny shopper in a well-stocked market. It had not been stupid to assume the lectures would be public.
When she was younger and less aware of the world’s realities, she’d meant to be the intrepid adventurer herself, of course. She’d traced out routes on the globe in her father’s study and read about the places she would visit. She’d assembled a cache of useful items and made long treks around her placid home, in dreadful weather as well as fine, to build hardiness. Eventually, though, she’d had to admit that solitary expeditions as a female would require more effrontery than she possessed and a vast amount of money, which she didn’t have.
Learned institutions wouldn’t sponsor trips
by a woman. Wealthy patrons wouldn’t fund them. And so, slowly, she’d changed her goal to finding a companion who would accept her as an exploring partner, and not leave her behind while he sailed off for years at a time. She acknowledged that this wouldn’t be easy, but there must be at least one such man in the world. Verity was prepared to impress him as soon as he could be found.
She’d studied exotic botany and how to bind up wounds. She could speak French and Spanish. The knife throwing hadn’t worked out in the end, but she could shoot a pistol with tolerable accuracy. She would have been a crack shot if finding a practice range hadn’t been so…complicated. There was no point in sulking over the Travellers Club, even though she had no other idea half as good. She’d just have to work harder. The ton was crammed full of rich men; some of them would have connections to the sort of person she wanted.
The carriage set them down outside Lady Tolland’s town house, and of course the first person Verity saw when they went in was Lord Randolph Gresham. He stood in the center of the large reception room as if the great crystal chandelier had been placed specifically to illuminate him. His auburn hair gleamed in the candlelight. His broad-shouldered figure seemed made for evening dress, and his face was a chiseled classic. Yes, all right, he was terribly handsome, Verity thought. That didn’t make him suitable for her purposes.
She vowed not to speak to him at all tonight. Why would he wish her to? She’d been positively rag-mannered the last time they met! He must think she was a shrew. Not that she cared. So it didn’t matter. Except that she wasn’t a shrew. Ask anyone in Chester, and they would tell you that the dean’s daughter was poised and amiable. The word sweet was often used. Too often.
“Can people talk of nothing but this German fellow?” asked Verity’s mother at her side.
It was true that everyone nearby was chattering about phrenology. Those who had managed a session with Herr Grossmann lorded it over those who hadn’t yet seen him. Remarkably, the former all seemed to possess exceptional skulls that revealed a host of admirable traits.
“It’s tedious,” Mama added.
Verity took in her mother’s bored expression and impatient gaze. Mama didn’t like London. She preferred small gatherings of neighbors to large parties—and a weighty book to either. She missed Papa. But she’d promised Verity a season, and she was keeping her word. She’d made use of her family connection to the Duke of Rutland, which she didn’t really like to do, to get invitations. She soldiered along to all the resulting events. And she didn’t complain. It was practically heroic. “There’s Mrs. Doran,” Verity said.
Her mother brightened. Mrs. Doran was an old friend from her school days, and they never seemed to tire of rehashing those bygone years. Their reminiscences painted a picture of deep erudition and nunlike dedication. Verity had sent up more than one silent thanks that her parents hadn’t sent her to that august institution.
As they moved toward the sofa where Mrs. Doran sat, Verity’s gaze strayed. Lord Randolph was surrounded by a striking group of people. She spotted Emma with her sister and Lord Sebastian. Verity would find her later. A third tall gentleman looked like another brother. Verity had discovered that there were six of them. What a sight that would be—a half-dozen of these striking men. A pretty dark-haired woman stood beside this man, along with a younger blond girl. When she found herself wondering how the latter might be connected to Lord Randolph, Verity reined in her errant thoughts. It didn’t matter. It was nothing to her. She turned away.
* * *
“This is a friend of ours from the Salbridge house party,” Flora, the dark-haired woman, was saying to Sebastian. “Miss Frances Reynolds.”
“Good to see you again,” said Randolph, shooting Robert a sly glance. His next younger brother had won Flora’s hand at Salbridge, and his wooing had been more difficult than anyone had expected for the most polished and fashionable Gresham. Robert pretended not to notice his look, and Randolph enjoyed it.
He turned his attention to Miss Reynolds. He’d always thought her rather pretty, with fair hair, blue-gray eyes, and a neat figure. She was scanning the crowd as if she’d lost someone. “Are you enjoying the season so far, Miss Reynolds?” he asked.
She turned to him. “Have you seen Mr. Wrentham in London?”
Startled by her abruptness, Randolph said, “As a matter of fact I have.”
“Here?” Miss Reynolds looked around eagerly.
“No, we were fencing.”
“Fencing? With swords? Was it a duel?”
“Of course it wasn’t a duel.” He frowned at her. “We met at Angelo’s Academy.”
Although she showed no sign of recognizing the name, she leaned a little toward him in her eagerness. “So you’re good friends?”
“Acquaintances, barely.” Randolph didn’t intend to pursue a connection with the hotheaded Mr. Wrentham.
“Oh.” Miss Reynolds resumed her survey of the other guests, appearing to lose all interest in Randolph.
Chagrined, Randolph examined her profile. Had he developed some inadvertent tone that made girls rude? “Are you a friend of Miss Verity Sinclair?”
“What?” Miss Reynolds looked mystified.
“Never mind.”
“Who is Miss Sinclair?” murmured Robert.
Randolph turned to face his brother’s raised eyebrow.
“Someone I should know?”
“No,” Randolph said.
“Ah.”
“Don’t give me your ‘ahs.’ She’s nobody. Forget I mentioned her.”
“Oh, I don’t think I can do that. You were so helpful to me at the Salbridges’, you know. I intend to return the favor.”
Randolph was considering this mixed blessing when Lady Tolland signaled that the entertainment was about to begin. Their hostess had arranged a somewhat unusual musicale. Instead of professionals, her daughter and a number of her friends were to play and sing in a formal program. It was a way for the girls to present themselves to the ton in a flattering light. If they had any skill, Randolph thought. If they didn’t, the guests were in for an excruciating couple of hours.
Thankfully it turned out that Lady Tolland had chosen well. Randolph enjoyed the pieces right up until the moment when the hostess said, “A little bird has told me that we have some other talented singers among us tonight.” She marched up to Randolph and took his arm, then pulled him over to Miss Sinclair and did the same with her. Ignoring their protests, she hustled them over to the pianoforte. “Now, now, no false modesty. I’m told that both of you are quite out of the ordinary.”
Randolph was proud of his musical skills. He even enjoyed showing them off, on certain occasions. This was not one of them. He glared at his brothers. Robert and Sebastian shook their heads, disavowing any hand in this development.
“We must have a duet,” Lady Tolland said, maintaining her grip on her captives. She turned to her guests. “Don’t you think?”
The answering applause was more curious than enthusiastic.
Recognizing inevitability when it stared him in the face, Randolph responded with a slight bow. On Lady Tolland’s other side, Miss Sinclair bobbed a tiny curtsy. Their hostess released them and stepped aside.
Meeting Miss Sinclair’s blue-green eyes, Randolph found his own emotions mirrored there. They were trapped together. He addressed the room. “Give us a moment to find some music.”
The concentrated attention focused on them lessened.
Randolph reached for the pile of sheet music lying on top of the pianoforte. His hand bumped Miss Sinclair’s, on the same mission. They both drew back, reached again, drew back again. With an exasperated sigh, Miss Sinclair took a step forward and spread the pages across the top of the instrument.
They looked together at a ballad. “Maudlin,” said Randolph.
“Saccharine,” said Miss Sinclair at the same moment.
“Trite,” she judged the next piece in line.
“Tired,” Randolph said simultaneously.
Their eyes swiftly met and parted again. Unconsciously, they moved closer together as they considered a third choice. “Overly complex,” said Miss Sinclair.
“Pretentious,” said Randolph. “‘The more notes the better’ is not a wise rule of thumb for a composer.”
Miss Sinclair giggled. It was an engaging sound, low and throaty. He rather liked it. Randolph leafed through more sheet music and finally glimpsed something he liked. “Ah,” he said.
“Oh,” said Miss Sinclair at the same instant.
Randolph tugged at the page and found that she was pulling at the other side. They unearthed the music together. “One of my favorites,” he said.
“Mine, too,” she said.
They looked at each other, equally surprised, speculative.
“No need to be too scrupulous,” called Lady Tolland from the crowd. “I’m sure we will enjoy whatever you sing.”
Verity started. She’d been quite…lost for a moment there. She let go of the sheet music and took a step back. “Will you play?” she said.
Lord Randolph gestured toward the keyboard. “I defer to you.”
“I’d rather you did.” When it seemed he would protest, she added, “I’ve never sung before such a large group. I suppose you have.”
He gave in at once and sat down at the pianoforte. He had beautiful hands, Verity noticed. He touched the keys with delicate authority. But they’d had no chance to discuss how they would harmonize.
Lord Randolph played the opening notes. Verity took a breath, set aside her nerves, and began to sing. She’d performed in other drawing rooms. She knew her voice was good. She’d had fine teachers. The melody belled out and filled the room.
At the perfect juncture, Lord Randolph joined in. He had a lovely resonant baritone, a perfect counterpoint to her soprano. His voice was full and rich, obviously well trained. It wove around hers as if they’d sung together a thousand times.
The song dipped and soared. He shifted into a more complex harmony. Verity followed. She tried a small flourish. He extended it without hesitation. The chiming sound vibrated in her body, an amazing sensation.