“Good morning, Mrs. Whitfield,” Lady Fairmont called across the way. “I do so like her,” she said to Laurel in an undertone. “Many people find her shocking, being so much younger than Captain Taft and of slightly mysterious origins, yet I find her plain honesty refreshing. Rather like yourself, my dear.”
The woman’s candor brought to Laurel another twinge of guilt, and a wish that she could simply be herself, rather than a ghost of a person who would eventually vanish without a trace.
Laurel swallowed a gasp as Aidan Phillips came into view. Beneath the curving gallery at the end of the room, he stood shoulder-deep in a group of gentlemen, his dark hair falling over his brow with a carelessness that remained just this side of dishevelment.
Like many of the other men, he wore the daytime country attire of breeches, boots, and riding coat. But while the pale complexions and urbane manners of the others reduced such fashion to mere affectation, the earl’s broad-shouldered confidence breathed truth into the image of a dashing cavalier. Physically speaking, he simply was what the men around him aspired to be.
Ah, that was the dazzle, the blazing brilliance, of the man. But what of his actions?
Lady Devonlea said he and the Earl of Munster often went head-to-head to determine which of them would win the right to lead a woman astray. A conquest, the viscountess termed it. Once more unable to resist comparing the two men, Laurel had no trouble believing Lady Devonlea’s claim that Aidan typically emerged the victor.
Had he considered her that way last night, as a conquest? Did he believe he’d emerged victorious from their clandestine encounter? The notion should have outraged her. Instead, deep inside her most feminine core, something warm and eager fluttered to life.
“Mrs. Sanderson, is something wrong? You look suddenly perplexed.”
“Not at all, Lady Fairmont. For a moment I believed I recognized an acquaintance.” Blast her eyes for skittering in his direction one last time, and blast the countess for noticing.
“You mean the devilishly handsome brute standing head and shoulders above the rest? That, my dear, is Aidan Phillips, ninth Earl of Barensforth. I don’t doubt that you have heard of him, but you mustn’t allow rumors to influence your opinion. I wished to introduce you at the ball yesterday, but you seemed always engaged elsewhere. Come, it is high time you made my godson’s acquaintance.”
“Really, my lady, you mustn’t trouble yourself. . . . Godson?” That was the tie between Lady Fairmont and Aidan Phillips?
“Of course. Surely you saw me dancing with him last night. Did you suppose I’d set my cap for the fellow, an elderly matron smitten with a dashing young buck?”
“My lady, you are hardly elderly.”
“Lady Fairmont, Mrs. Sanderson, good m-morning to you both.” Stepping into their path, George Fitzclarence thrust out a hand. Even through Laurel’s glove, his meaty fingers encased hers in disagreeable dampness. Hiding her aversion, she smiled up into bulging, mottled eyes that spoke of too little sleep and too much brandy the night before.
“Lord Munster. How pleasant to run into you this morning, sir.”
“Indeed, madam, for though but a handful of hours have p-passed since we parted, the time has stretched with the unendurable t-tedium of an eon.”
Oh dear, Laurel thought as he raised her hand to his lips. She could have done with a smidgen less enthusiasm on his part.
Near the fountain, Aidan came up behind Beatrice and placed his hand lightly at the small of her back. “Do but say the word, and I shall send someone to break his kneecaps.”
She laughed without turning around to look at him. “You saw that, did you?”
She referred to the enmity that had darted between her and her husband a few minutes earlier. That neither of them needed to elaborate further spoke volumes about the nature of their friendship, as did the fact that they had never, in all the time they had known each other, slept together. One night a couple of years ago they had found themselves alone in Fitz’s London drawing room. With a look and a touch, a sensual possibility had sparked between them, only to become suspended by indecision that had ended, abruptly, with an outpouring of mutual laughter.
At that moment Aidan had realized they would always be friends, no more, no less.
“Sorry,” he said, “but yes. What’s he done? It isn’t another woman, is it?”
“I wouldn’t mind that nearly as much as his sudden recklessness at the gaming tables.” She stared up at the streams of water arcing from the fountain and sighed. “He’s grown as bad as my brother. Just to make a point, I’ve even banished him from the house. He’s staying at his club, but if he runs out of money and comes knocking at your door, you’ll know why.”
“Want me to talk to him? Rough him up a bit?”
“No. At least not yet.” Smiling, she turned to face Aidan. “But thank you. Arthur and I have weathered worse storms than this.”
When she failed to offer anything more, Aidan realized the subject had been closed. One thing about Beatrice, she could not be pushed for information. Better to bide one’s time and remain available in the event she chose to confide. For now it was enough to have confirmed the gossip relayed by Major Bradford. In future, Aidan would keep alert to Devonlea’s actions.
“I see you have brought the enchanting Mrs. Sanderson with you today,” he said. “By the way, her name is Laurel. Coaxed it out of her last night. Damn, but I wish we’d laid a wager on it.”
The corner of her mouth curled in a cunning smile. “But, darling, how could I know if you cheated? You might have learned her name from any one of a score of people.”
“Upon my honor, I had it from the lips of the widow herself.”
He caught the mischievous spark in Beatrice’s eyes. “I do hope that is the extent of what you had from her lips.”
“Alas, yes. But then, I never have been one for rushing a woman.”
“True. Then again, what would you do with the likes of Mrs. Sanderson?” She prodded his chest with the tip of her gloved finger. “Do not dare be so impudent as to answer that question. Really, Aidan, she is a sweet, lovely woman. Just the sort who would prove a dreadful bore to you. Mrs. Sanderson is nowhere near as worldly as you or I.”
“And yet she has managed to captivate your brother.” He gestured with his chin to where Fitz was strolling with Melinda and the widow. Fitz looked downright exultant. His stature seemed to have lengthened. He held his back straighter and his shoulders wider than Aidan had ever seen them.
Watching them, he suddenly felt his own good humor begin to curdle, and when his friend leaned closer to Laurel to murmur in her ear, a red- hot haze clouded Aidan’s vision while his fists hardened around an overwhelming desire to yank the man from her side and throttle him.
He looked quickly back at Beatrice and found her studying him with that same cunning conjecture of moments ago. “Is it so astonishing that Mrs. Sanderson and George might enjoy a mutual fancy for each other’s company?” she asked.
“Not astonishing,” he lied with an offhand shrug. “Simply . . . unexpected.”
“Really.” Her nostrils flared as her grin became less good-natured.
“Really,” he parroted, while thinking it both odd and regrettable that there should be anything approaching antagonism between them. He nonetheless added, “Need I remind you that your brother has a wife?”
“How tediously bourgeois of you. Shall we count how many of your mistresses have had husbands?”
“That is different. They came to me. I was never their first, and each knew exactly what she was bargaining for.”
This met with a burst of laughter that tinkled like the bells of a trained hawk taking flight. “Darling, Mrs. Sanderson is in Bath to take her pleasure in any form it comes, but she is certainly not here to find a husband.”
His anger kicked up. The very notion of the widow with Fitz galled him. While Aidan for the most part feigned his excesses, Fitz did not. He drank immoderately, gambled recklessly—
not to mention disastrously without Aidan’s help—and shirked every responsibility expected of a man in his position.
Poor Mary Wyndham Fox had proved inadequate in bringing her husband to heel, but Aidan had always hoped that the right woman, a woman of single-minded resolve and sufficient devotion, could perhaps set Fitz on a more productive road.
But not this woman. Not Laurel Sanderson, who—
He broke off in midthought, baffled and appalled that he should feel so protective of a woman he hardly knew, he didn’t quite trust, and who, as Beatrice had obligingly pointed out, was simply not his type.
Perhaps his defensive instincts toward her were merely an extension of the same impulse that had propelled him through a London crowd to prevent her from being crushed. He certainly didn’t regret his actions, but he must remember that, guileless though she might seem, the widow presented a shapely bundle of contradictions. It was time he set about unwinding the skein and discovering what lay nestled inside.
First he needed to get past Beatrice, who was still staring at him, still assessing him. “By that brooding look on your face,” she teased, “I’d say the gloves are about to come off with regard to you and George wrangling over the desirable Mrs. Sanderson. Perhaps this time you’ll lose.”
Aidan placed his fingertips beneath her chin, raised it, and smiled down into her face. “Watch me,” he said, and strode away.
Walking between Lady Fairmont and Lord Munster, Laurel gestured toward the curtained dais at the end of the room. “Pray, sir, do tell us more about this presentation we are awaiting. Are you at all acquainted with Monsieur . . . er . . .”
Well enough did Laurel know the scientist’s name, but her strategy today was to coax as much information as possible from George Fitzclarence. Last night’s ball had taught her that holding her own tongue encouraged others to fill the silence, and most did so eagerly.
Lord Munster did not disappoint. “His name is C-Claude Rousseau. He is a Frenchman, but I hope you will not h-hold that against him.”
“I would not dream of doing so,” Laurel said with a laugh that felt as forced as water through a rusty pump. “Though I have heard the name Rousseau in relation to the wars. Is he—”
“He is, madam. His father was a t-traitor. But this Rousseau has m- made a distinguished career for himself here. He lectures at Oxford, d-did you know?”
“I did not. How admirable. It sounds as though you are well acquainted with the gentleman.”
After exchanging a glance with the countess, he said, “N-no, not well at all. Our acquaintance is recent, and I am eager to hear what he has to s-say today.”
“What exactly is the significance of this invention of his . . . this formula . . . ?”
“Rousseau’s elixir,” Lady Fairmont clarified. “It is a stupendous development using Bath’s thermal waters combined with alchemical properties and curative herbs.”
“And what maladies it is purported to cure?”
“Oh, a full range of infirmities from gout to d-dyspepsia to sluggishness of the blood to consumption.” The pride in Lord Munster’s face suggested that he, and not Monsieur Rousseau, had developed the magical cure. “And more,” he added with a sweep of his pudgy hand. “M-much more.”
Laurel looked from one to the other. “Have either of you sampled this elixir?”
The very air resonated with their hesitation. Lady Fairmont cleared her throat. “As a matter of fact, I have. Monsieur Rousseau was kind enough to allow me to be one of the first to try it.”
“And how did you find it?”
“Wonderfully restorative.”
Laurel experienced a sudden concern for her new friend and benefactress. “Surely you have not been experiencing ill health, my lady?”
“Not at all, rest assured.” Lady Fairmont gave Laurel’s wrist a pat. “But this elixir is as beneficial to the vigorous as to the infirm. It brings on renewed energy and vitality.”
“How extraordinary.” Laurel turned to Lord Munster. “And you, sir? Have you tried the formula?”
“I, madam, was lucky enough to be at the t-top of Rousseau’s list.”
“List?”
“Tell me, how the blazes does one go about securing one’s place on this illustrious list?”
The sound of Aidan Phillips’s rich baritone raised a shower of tingles on Laurel’s skin. Coming up from behind them, he nimbly squeezed between her and Lord Munster.
The four of them halted. Aidan exchanged greetings with Lady Fairmont and a few words with Lord Munster before turning his piercing regard on Laurel. His crisp blue eyes surveyed her with a speculation that left her unsettled, puzzled.
“What an enchanting vision you present today, Mrs. Sanderson.”
She felt her cheeks heat. “Thank you, sir.”
“I must say, that shade of blue suits you splendidly.” He continued to hold her in his gaze until her blood rushed through her veins. “You must find it a tremendous relief to finally shun crepe and bombazine. How long were you hidden beneath such drapery, a year?”
Laurel bit back a gasp. Beside her, Lord Munster murmured something low in his throat, between a hiss of censure and a nervous chuckle.
“Aidan, really . . .” With a frown, Lady Fairmont gave a critical shake of her head.
“It was two years,” Laurel said without blinking, though the leading question had left her not a little discomfited. Her fingers trembled; her knees felt wobbly.
“Yes, of course, two years of mourning for a departed husband.” A casual twitch of Aidan’s eyebrow issued a challenge. “Tell me, for I am curious, in that time were you ever tempted to don something cheerful? A summer-fresh yellow, perhaps?”
“I . . .” Laurel’s answer died in her throat while her eyes widened in direct proportion to Aidan’s growing smile.
Good heavens, he knew. He must, or he would never have uttered such a question. Lord Munster and Lady Fairmont remained mute, dumbstruck by his blatant display of ill manners. Would he reveal her to them, here and now, or continue baiting her until she gave herself away?
Unless, of course, she managed to confound him with his own game . . .
“Whatever can you be about, posing such a question?” Lady Fairmont scolded. “I’ve never in my life heard such impertinence. Apologize at once.”
“No, Lady Fairmont.” Laurel clenched her fists to still her shaking fingers and raised her chin. “That will not be necessary, for I fear that Lord Barensforth is correct in his assumption. However could you have guessed, my lord?”
Lady Fairmont assumed a shocked expression, Lord Munster rather less so. In fact, his eyes twinkled with amusement. “D-do tell,” he urged.
“Yes,” Laurel continued, shaking her head sadly, “I confess that once or twice, within my second year of mourning, I did cheat by slipping into a cheerful frock in the effort to recapture, in some small way, the contentment of the life I’d shared with my dear Mr. Sanderson. How lonely I was . . . and still am.”
She produced a visible tremor across her shoulders, and was rewarded by a pat on her arm from Lady Fairmont and a sympathetic murmur from Lord Munster. Aidan’s eyes darkened with an emotion that bordered on dangerous. She swallowed and raised the stakes of her gamble.
“One of those occasions happened to be on the day of the queen’s procession from Kensington to Buckingham. Oh, how I wished my Edgar could be there to share in the excitement of that day, in the glory of the new queen’s ascension. . . .” She looked up, her lower lip trembling. “It was a day of such unbridled optimism, you see.”
“And you were nearly trampled by an overly enthusiastic crowd,” Aidan said.
Laurel braced herself, looked directly into his flinty eyes, and shook her head. “No, sir. I experienced no such mishap, near or otherwise.”
“Oh, but you poor dear.” Lady Fairmont slipped an arm around her waist and gave a squeeze. “No one could possibly fault a delicate young thing like you for harboring such tender sentiments.”
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br /> A muscle in Aidan’s cheek worked ominously; his eyes shot veritable sparks in her direction. “Forgive me, Mrs. Sanderson, it would seem I have confused you with another young lady who had become separated from her sisters that day.”
“That would indeed be a mistake on your part, sir, seeing that I have no sisters. Would that I did.” She found herself startled at how easily and swiftly the lies came as she warmed to her role. Why, her hands were quite steady now, her legs as sturdy as oaken branches.
Ah, but she had right on her side. She had not embarked upon a mean-spirited deception, but a justifiable pretense necessary to the service of her queen and friend. Surely that was forgivable.
Would Lady Fairmont forgive her? Would Aidan?
For now it must be enough that they accepted her story. Lady Fairmont did so unequivocally. Lord Munster, too. Laurel perceived their trust in their open expressions and, especially in Lady Fairmont’s case, her eagerness to persuade Aidan to stop haranguing her. But then they, like most people, saw what they wished to see and delved no further.
What of Aidan? Did he believe her? Oh, indeed not, though she would wager that he would neither expose her nor confide his suspicions to the countess, whose sympathies Laurel had fully engaged. They both knew that Lady Fairmont would only berate him for a scoundrel. He had no proof of wrongdoing, nothing but a vague memory—she hoped—of her wearing a marigold walking dress when she should have been in mourning. At this point it was his word against hers, and who knew but if she stuck doggedly to her story, he might begin to doubt his own conviction?
So yes, she had won this round . . . but how long would her triumph last?
Chapter 9
In knee breeches and a forest green waistcoat, a Pump Room attendant moved to the center of the room and gave three strikes of the brass bell he held. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you please, the presentation is about to begin.”
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