Most Eagerly Yours

by Allison Chase

  “You are too critical of yourself. Of course, I could not fail to notice that the one man with whom you did not dance never took his eyes off you all evening.”

  A tingle whispered across Laurel’s nape. “Oh?”

  The viscountess spun her about. “Why didn’t you dance with him? Was he such a cad that he never asked you?”

  “Whom do you mean?”

  “How coy you are. The Earl of Barensforth, of course. He is devilish handsome, isn’t he?”

  “I suppose,” she murmured, turning away to hide her flushed cheeks.

  With a knowing grin, Lady Devonlea helped Laurel on with her skirt and bodice, fastening the tiny buttons up her back. “They may decide to fight over you. I’ve seen them go at it before. Aidan . . . Lord Barensforth . . . typically wins, though occasionally he steps aside and allows George the conquest.”

  “Why, you sound as though I am a trophy, or a piece of territory to be claimed.”

  Lady Devonlea came around her and placed cool fingertips beneath Laurel’s chin. “My dear Mrs. Sanderson, as a widow of independent means, that is exactly what you are.”

  “But I am not looking to marry again. Not this soon, at any rate.”

  “You darling thing, you continue to enchant me. Surely you do not think I am speaking of marriage. My brother is already married. Aidan Phillips has sworn not to wed until the last possible moment. As for myself, you cannot imagine that I intend to spend the rest of my days in the company of one man only.”

  “Oh, I . . .”

  “I see that I have quite shocked you.” The viscountess placed a palm against Laurel’s cheek. “I’ve turned you pale as a ghost, and for that I am sorry.”

  “No, no. How silly of me.” Suddenly finding something distasteful in the woman’s touch, Laurel drew away and lifted her jacket from the bed. “I fear I have too long been sequestered in the country, too long out of touch with the ways of society. I have grown naive and gauche.”

  Lady Devonlea’s indulgent smile brought such beauty to her countenance that Laurel half believed she had somehow misunderstood the woman’s meaning, that they were not speaking of adultery and disgrace.

  The viscountess’s next words proved that conjecture wrong. “We must reeducate you. As always, discretion remains an utmost necessity. Arthur and I have a perfectly civilized understanding that neither of us shall ever make the other look foolish. But think about it, my dear. As a moneyed widow you have the freedom to determine the course of your life. How young and raw you must have been when you married your squire. Have you not earned the right to enjoy the years ahead?”

  Good heavens. Laurel wondered what Lady Fairmont would think of Lady Devonlea’s tutelage. Would she approve, or be as horrified as Laurel privately felt?

  “Never fear, Mrs. Sanderson, I have no intention of tossing a lamb such as you to any of our masculine wolves.” Lady Devonlea helped her on with her fitted jacket. “It is your very innocence that I find so refreshing, and why I believe your influence would work as such a tonic on my brother. But come along, or we’ll miss today’s presentation.”

  Minutes later, Laurel gazed out the carriage window at the Lower Town’s attractive lanes, where hints of medieval influence could still be seen. Even overcast skies and dampened storefronts could not diminish the city’s charms. Bath was a place of spires and turrets and grand proportions, a progression of styles from Romanesque to Gothic to the stately Palladian, all clad in the honey-warm tones of the region’s distinctive limestone.

  In the short time she had been there, Laurel had fallen in love with the city. How she wished she were here with her sisters on no graver business than an early spring holiday.

  The carriage rolled to a stop in front of the Pump Room’s colonnaded portico on Stall Street. As a porter opened their door, Laurel felt the cool slap of rain-tinged air against her cheeks.

  “Lady Devonlea, you never did tell me what was so special about today,” she reminded the other woman.

  “Ah, yes. Monsieur Rousseau is to explain the healthful benefits of a new elixir he has developed, and he has promised to offer samples to all present at the Pump Room this morning.”

  As the viscountess stepped down from the barouche, a frisson of alarm shot through Laurel. “Monsieur Rousseau?”

  “Yes, the eminent scientist. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

  Victoria had mentioned a man named Rousseau, an aristocratic turncoat responsible for countless deaths during the wars with Napoleon. He, the old king, and Victoria’s father had traded correspondence even as Rousseau had condemned fellow Frenchmen to the guillotine.

  This scientist, of course, could not be the same Rousseau, for that evil man had eventually dangled from the end of a rope. But Laurel knew better than to discount a connection. George Fitzclarence stealing his father’s papers and coming to Bath at the same time that this man, Rousseau, was here seemed too convenient to be a coincidence.

  Last night she had achieved the important goal of winning the Earl of Munster’s regard. Today, however, she would begin her investigation in earnest, and learn all she could about this Rousseau and his elixir.

  “Barensforth,” came a wheezy greeting as Aidan entered the Pump Room’s main hall. “Wouldn’t have expected to see you taking the waters so early today. Cleaned up rather tidily in the cardroom last night, did you?”

  Aidan regarded Major John Bradford’s florid face and sagging mouth, the corners of which disappeared into a pair of outrageously bushy muttonchop sideburns.

  “I made out passing well,” he said. He shook the man’s sausage- fingered hand, at the same time scanning the faces of those promenading up and down the lengthy room.

  Was Laurel Sanderson here?

  “No need to be modest,” Bradford said. “Devonlea’s been pouting all morning.”

  He lifted his ebony cane to point across the way, where the slick-haired Devonlea stood filling a glass at the fountain. The gushing waters glittered against the backdrop of the surrounding floor- to-ceiling windows, and for a moment Aidan became entranced by the jets streaming into the mouths of the leaping bronze fish.

  It seemed a simple thing, that fountain, not unlike many others he’d seen. But Bath was an ancient city, with more than a millennium’s worth of civilization buried deep under dirt and rock. The fountain and bathhouses were the most recent adaptations of facilities first built by the Romans, and many of their secrets had yet to be revealed.

  Nothing should be taken at face value, including his less-than-productive trip to the Cross Bath. Somewhere beneath a facade of apparent innocence lay a crime. He felt it in his bones.

  Just as he sensed, instinctively, that beneath Laurel Sanderson’s guileless exterior a sultry mystery begged to be solved.

  “I hear his luck has turned south lately,” the major continued, still speaking of Devonlea. “His wife must be positively overset with him, though of course she’s never one to show it. I expect he’s here to try and recuperate, if not recoup his losses.”

  Aidan snapped his attention away from the gleaming waters. What was this? He’d known Devonlea for a spendthrift, but between his and Beatrice’s yearly incomes they had always maintained an affluent lifestyle without plunging too far into debt.

  Had that changed?

  “Surely the old boy can’t be doing as bad as all that,” Aidan said in hope of prompting further disclosures about the viscount.

  Bradford rewarded his effort by lowering his voice. “It was rather hard luck on Devonlea, Babcock’s expiring as he did.”

  Aidan’s nerve endings vibrated. Injecting a modicum of boredom into his voice, he raised his brows and remarked, “Oh? How so?”

  “Seems the two had run the gambit of London’s hells, with Devonlea seeing Babcock several hundred to cover his losses. Now it is Devonlea going bust and unable to collect what Babcock owed him.”

  “No promissory note?”

  “None, and the widow professes no knowledge of the matter
.”

  “Where’d you learn this?”

  “Your friend over there.” His breath rasping deep in his throat, Bradford used his cane to indicate Fitz, standing in a group of their mutual acquaintances beneath the musicians’ gallery. Near them, a dais had been enclosed in black curtains in preparation of Claude Rousseau’s presentation.

  Aidan didn’t see the Marquess of Harcourt among them. This was a disappointment; he had hoped to pose some carefully worded questions to the man about his grievance against Roger Babcock.

  Then he remembered that Major Bradford here belonged to all the same clubs as Harcourt, and their wives cosponsored numerous charity balls throughout the year.

  “I understand Babcock owed Lord Harcourt money as well,” Aidan said, shooting in the dark.

  “Did he? Odd. I’ve never known old Harcourt to lend anyone so much as a shilling. Good man, but decidedly parsimonious.”

  Damn. “I must have heard wrong.”

  “You must have.” The major tapped his fob. “Rousseau’s presentation should begin any moment. Are you on the list?”

  “Ah, the famous list.” He shook his head. “No. You?” Bradford nodded vigorously. “Enjoyed my first sample last Tuesday, thank you. But never fear. I hear tell all present this morning shall enjoy a small portion.”

  “What did you make of this potion? Do you believe it works?”

  “Works?” Bradford pulled up as if affronted, his muttonchops bristling. “My dear sir, I’ll have you know I have never felt so hearty, not even in my youth.”

  Taking in the major’s labored breathing and pallid complexion, Aidan found ample reason to doubt his claims of restored youth. “Are you investing in the new spa, then?” he asked.

  “I’d be a fool not to,” the man replied. “And so would you be, should you pass up such an opportunity.”

  They moved off in separate directions.

  “This is the third delay in as many months. This city’s aldermen seem to feel they need answer to no one.”

  Geoffrey Taft’s complaints carried through the room, prompting the turning of many heads.

  “Now, Captain, I’m sure it all work out splendidly.” A crease of anxiety scored Margaret Whitfield’s brow as she tried to soothe the man into lowering his voice.

  In a conservative walking dress of russet wool and a white lace cap securing her dark hair beneath a silk bonnet, she presented the very picture of a respectable and devoted wife. She reached out several times to touch her lover’s shoulder, only to retract her hand at the last minute as his grievances escalated in volume and vehemence.

  Aidan stopped at her side and bade her good morning. She returned the greeting with a curtsy and a shrug of apology.

  “Trouble?”

  Taking Aidan’s offered arm, she walked with him a little away from the others and confided in an undertone, “Oh, Lord Barensforth, I am worried about him. He has always been of such an agreeable nature and now . . .” She gestured toward the red-faced Taft, perspiring despite the coolness of the room.

  “I tell you, gentlemen, my patience has been pushed to the limit,” the retired captain insisted. “Time is money, after all.”

  “Surely you can’t mean to pull out now.” A scowl marred Julian Stoddard’s youthful good looks. Aidan noticed that he was still using a walking stick to aid his injured ankle. He thumped it now against the floor in a show of annoyance. “These delays are but minor setbacks and to be expected in a project of this scale.”

  Fitz nodded his agreement. “Stoddard is correct. R-rushing in headlong could spell disaster for all of us. I, for one, applaud the c- corporation’s prudence.” Fitz was referring to Bath’s board of elected officials, which granted licenses and oversaw all building within the city limits.

  Giving Mrs. Whitfield’s hand a reassuring pat, Aidan stepped forward to join the men. “Perhaps it is time to put the corporation’s shoulders to the wall with a few direct questions,” he said.

  “I had my solicitor do just that yesterday,” Devonlea said as he, too, joined the group. “He met with the architects and Mr. Henderson of the corporation and subjected the project to rigorous scrutiny. He assures me all is progressing nicely.”

  A brittleness in Devonlea’s tone set Aidan speculating. Had the viscount wagered a dwindling fortune on this one last chance of success? What if the pavilion failed? How much of Beatrice’s fortune might the viscount have put at risk?

  Taft looked unconvinced and grumbled his continuing doubts.

  Devonlea’s lip curled with no small amount of condescension. With glittering black eyes, wide forehead, and pointing chin, his was a face designed for arrogance—enough to shield any desperation that might be hiding beneath. “With the right vision and the finances to back it, there is no reason why Bath should not once more shine as brightly as the resorts of Weymouth or Brighton or Cheltenham.”

  “I agree.” Fitz raised a glass of mineral water as though it were champagne. “Aidan, b-be a good fellow, do, and g-give us your opinion on the matter.”

  “Sounds like a glorious opportunity for anyone with funds to spare and an appetite for adventure.” He looked pointedly at the viscount. “You’ve always been a gambling man, Dev, and I’m going to trust your instincts on this. If you judge it to be a solvent enterprise, that is good enough for me.”

  As he might have predicted, a flicker of doubt darkened Devonlea’s gaze; a muscle in his cheek twitched.

  “But of course,” Aidan went on, “that doesn’t mean I don’t intend giving the property and the books a thorough going-over myself.”

  Fitz clapped his shoulder. “You’ll find the views to be s-superior to any in the area. Indeed, we shall m- make an outing of it. A p-picnic, and invite that jolly good Mr. Henderson to c-come along and explain the plans.”

  Fitz’s spirits rose even higher as he peered down the length of the room. “Ah, my sister has f-finally arrived.”

  Beatrice stood in front of the fountain, the rainy daylight from outside silvering her profile as she tipped a glass to her lips. Fitz craned his neck like an excited child watching for the arrival of a gift-bearing relative. “Do you see who she is w-with . . . ?”

  Aidan did not. He was too busy observing Devonlea’s reaction to his wife’s arrival. His mouth having thinned to a sullen thread, the viscount visibly seethed. Aidan felt, even more than he saw, the clash of his and Beatrice’s gazes, a silent collision of her disdain and his pride. Without a word, Devonlea pivoted and headed for the exit.

  Experiencing a swell of outrage on Beatrice’s behalf, Aidan resolved to discover the extent of Devonlea’s losses and whether he had jeopardized her inheritance.

  “Bea k-kept her promise after all. There she is.”

  “Who?” But Aidan needn’t have asked who put the effusive grin on Fitz’s face. Peering over heads, he spotted Laurel Sanderson wearing rich blue edged in black, a high-collared, multilayered affair that showed off her figure to even better effect than last night’s ball gown. The allure arose now from what Aidan could no longer see, from what her tiered skirt and tailored jacket hugged to such tantalizing effect: her tight waist, slim hips, and the firm, high contour of a pair of breasts that seemed made for the size and depth of his palms.

  And his palms alone.

  He widened his stance and continued observing her.

  Chapter 8

  Laurel found something oddly soothing about this morning’s ritual at the Pump Room. As she and Lady Devonlea fell into line with the myriad groups promenading up and down the room, she felt swept up in a dancelike pattern similar to last night’s quadrille or minuet, an instinctive choreography that turned chaos into social accord, set to the music of a cheerful hum of voices.

  She would miss certain aspects of this false life once she completed her mission. Was it very wrong of her to almost dread returning to the musty little Emporium, where nothing exciting ever happened?

  She loved her sisters. She missed them. If only she could be the w
ealthy and independent Laurel Sanderson and bring the other girls here . . .

  “Why, Lady Devonlea and my dear Mrs. Sanderson, how delightful that you both could make it this morning.” The Countess of Fairmont embraced them and drew Laurel aside as a group of ladies bade Lady Devonlea good morning.

  “I thought perhaps after last night’s festivities, you would wish to spend your morning quietly,” the countess said with a raised eyebrow.

  “Lady Devonlea was kind enough to come by my lodging house and collect me.”

  “Did she?” Lady Fairmont linked her arm through Laurel’s. “Take a turn about the room with me and tell me your impressions of our Bath society. I noticed you dancing with a certain earl. . . .”

  Laurel’s moonlit waltz with Aidan Phillips nudged like a guilty little secret, an imprudent pleasure she should never have allowed. What if someone had seen them, alone outside in the dark together? What if Victoria learned of it?

  And what of the woman beside her? Laurel had yet to ascertain the nature of Lady Fairmont’s connection to Lord Barensforth . . . Aidan, as she could not help thinking of him.

  They had traded given names, another familiarity that, like their private dance, exceeded their scant acquaintance. Just as she should never have set her hand against his, allowing their bared palms to touch, she should not have heeded his impertinent request to divulge her Christian name. Heaven help her, he possessed an allure that, like his arms, had swept her up and left her giddy.

  She shook the thought away as she and the countess fell into stride with the others circling the room.

  “There is to be a concert soon at the Guildhall,” Lady Fairmont said. “If you found our Assembly Rooms elegant, you will be no less astonished by the splendor of the Guildhall’s banquet room. Nothing anywhere compares.”

  “I shall look forward to it.” Laurel didn’t bother mentioning that she had little experience on which to base her opinions. She briefly wondered why that should be. Surely the villages near Thorn Grove must have included assembly rooms, but Uncle Edward had never taken her and her sisters to a function. Had he disdained society as much as that? Even if that was so, why had he begrudged them the pleasure of mingling with others of their own age?