The Scotsman and the Spinster

by Joan Overfield

  "And you thought to make me that toy," Ross finished, his lips thinning in anger. "Why are you so distressed, then? 'Twould seem you have your wish."

  "Some speculation is acceptable, even desired, but we cannot have it put about that you are little more than a marionette whose strings are being pulled for him."

  Ross's pride took another, more painful blow as he faced a bitter truth. "Even if that is what I am?"

  "Especially if that is what you are," Adam said bluntly, his expression remorseless. "I do not say these things to cause you hurt, or to make you feel I think less of you. I say them because they are necessary. Society may wonder about you all they please, and it is all for the good. But if they laugh at you, if they dismiss you as little more than a country bumpkin, then you are worse than useless to us. You are a hindrance."

  Resentment and fury threatened, but Ross kept them in icy check. "'Tis as well you mean me no harm, Falconer," he said with a harsh laugh. "Else I would surely be a dead man. Very well, my lord, no more lessons, then."

  If Falconer noticed Ross's use of his title, he gave no indication. "You will need to attend more balls and the like," he continued in his matter-of-fact manner. "The more you are seen about town, the sooner these tiresome rumors will fade. In the meanwhile, I've arranged for you to be admitted to Almack's. Your first presentation will be this Wednesday. It's a bit late in the Season so it won't be a formal presentation, but it will be enough to show you are accepted at the highest levels."

  Adalaide had also spoken of getting him admitted to Almack's, Ross remembered, her bright blue eyes dancing with excitement as she'd plotted how to get him one of the coveted vouchers. She and her aunt had gone over a list of people they could browbeat into helping them, and he'd leaned back in his chair doing his best not to grin.

  "St. Jerome?" Falconer's voice was sharp, recalling Ross to the present. He stirred slightly, meeting the other man's gaze with studied coolness. "Yes, my lord?"

  Falconer looked as if he meant to say something, and then a shuttered look stole into his eyes. "Nothing," he said, his voice as clipped as Ross's. "Will you be attending the ball at the Nethertons' tonight?"

  Ross mentally reviewed the schedule his new secretary, a former sergeant in the Grays, had laid out for him. "Aye," he said, "I'll be there."

  "Then we shall undoubtedly see one another there," Falconer replied with a cool nod. "Good day to you, my lord." And he walked quietly out of the room, leaving Ross to brood in solitary silence.

  "Where is that wretch?" Addy paced the confines of the drawing room, pausing every few moments to glance out of the window. "He should have been here an hour ago!"

  "Calm yourself, Adalaide," Aunt Matilda said from her seat before the fire. "St. Jerome is probably exhausted from all the running about he has been doing. And it's not as if today's lesson is so important it cannot wait."

  That was true, although Addy was of no mind to admit as much. "That's hardly the point," she grumbled, her bottom lip thrusting forward in a decided pout. "A gentleman always keeps his word, and his lordship promised he would be here at eleven of the clock."

  "Then perhaps something has detained him," Aunt Matilda soothed, making another stitch. "The papers are full of talk of another battle brewing in Spain. Likely he and the others are holding a council of war to decide what's to be done. You can't expect him to neglect his responsibilities to dance attendance upon you, you know."

  Since the remark struck perilously close to home, Addy bristled in indignation. "I don't expect him to dance attendance upon me!" she declared, stumbling over the telling phrase. "The viscount is my pupil, not—not my beau!"

  Aunt Matilda lowered her sewing to her lap and fixed Addy with her most censorious expression. "Then why are you in such a taking?" she asked bluntly. "His lordship is not the first of your pupils to forget a lesson, nor is he likely to be the last. You refine upon nothing, child, and one is left to wonder why."

  Addy opened her lips, and then closed them after she thought better of it. Her aunt was too sharp by half, she admitted glumly, and returned to her pacing. Several of her pupils had missed lessons in the past, and she'd felt nothing other than a flash of annoyance. But in the six weeks since meeting the viscount she'd come to look forward to his visits, and the more she was in his company, the greater her desire to see him again.

  It wasn't anything so silly as infatuation, she assured herself anxiously. Rather, it was respect for the sterling qualities that set his lordship apart from the other men in Society. He was a man like no other, and if her heart did beat a little faster at the sight of him, it was no one's business but her own. Or so she prayed. Another half-hour dragged inexorably past, and just as Addy was considering sending the viscount a very sharp note, she heard sounds coming from the hallway.

  "Well, it is about time," she said, turning toward the door. She was rehearsing the scold she meant to read the viscount, when the door opened and the Earl of Hixworth came striding inside.

  "Lord Hixworth," she said, swallowing her disappointment. "How lovely. To what do we owe the honor of this visit?"

  He came to a halt, a look of mortification on his face. "Are—are we not to have our lessons today?" he asked, the confidence she'd taken such pains to instill in him melting away. "I—I can come back if I have mistaken the day."

  Addy took instant pity upon him. "No, my lord, you've not mistaken the day," she said, gliding forward to offer him her hand. "It is I who have mistaken the day. I quite forgot we were to work today on refusing invitations. As soon as Lord St. Jerome arrives, we shall begin."

  "Oh, St. Jerome won't be joining us," Hixworth said, bobbing over her hand. "Saw him at Gentleman Jackson's this morning, and he asked that I bring along his apologies. Something's come up, don't you see?"

  So her aunt was right, Addy thought, her heart warming at the thought of the viscount laboring on Wellington's behalf. "I quite understand," she told the earl, "I am sure events in Spain must have him occupied."

  "Don't know about events in Spain," Hixworth said, hurrying over to bow over Aunt Matilda's hand. "He said he had an appointment with his tailor that he dared not miss. And then he and Denbury were going to the cockfights."

  Addy's benevolence vanished. "Cockfights?" she echoed. "St. Jerome is missing our lessons for a cockfight?"

  "Well, it is the pursuit of gentlemen, is it not?" Hixworth asked, all innocence as he took his chair. "Can't say I see the sense of watching chickens peck each other to death, but to each his own I do say. And, of course, one must never neglect one's obligation to his tailor."

  "His obligation to his tailor? What about his obligation to me?" Addy all but howled the words. Here she'd thought Ross the most honorable man she'd ever met, and he'd tossed her aside for nothing more pressing than a vile sport and a simpering Frenchman. It was too much by half.

  "He also asked that I tell you he shan't be able to call upon you for the rest of the week," Hixworth said, dutifully reciting the message he had been pledged to deliver. "His sincerest regrets, and all of that."

  "Oh? And what is his excuse, if I may ask? An appointment with his glovemaker?" Addy snarled, more furious than she had ever been in her life.

  Hixworth's brow knit in thought. "No, I do not believe so," he said in his ponderous manner. "He was going to the horse races, he said, and then he and Lord Falconer were promised at some house party or another. And of course there is his presentation at Almack's to prepare for. That's next week, don't you know."

  Addy felt as if someone had kicked her legs out from beneath her. "No," she said carefully, "no, I did not. How did he accomplish that, do you know?"

  "Well"—the earl leaned forward like an eager schoolboy about to share a delicious secret—"you must know his highness is mad for anything Scots. He has been patronizing the new Society that is starting up, and that is where he met St. Jerome. When he heard the tabbies at Almack's were dragging their feet offering him admittance, he invited the viscount to atten
d as his special guest. The moment the Patronesses heard that, they could not offer him a voucher fast enough. It was neatly done, eh?"

  "Very neatly done," Addy echoed, fighting the urge to burst into tears. She'd worked for weeks to wrangle one of the coveted vouchers for Ross, and she'd meant to present it to him today. She'd been so proud of her efforts, and so happy to offer him the one thing he needed to achieve his goals. Now it seemed it had been for naught. He didn't need her help. He didn't need her.

  "Are you all right, Miss Terrington?" Hixworth was regarding her anxiously. "You look a bit pale. Shall I ring for tea?"

  Addy gave herself a mental shake. "No, my lord, thank you," she said, fastening a reassuring smile to her lips. "Well, if we needn't wait upon his lordship's leisure, I suppose we had ought to begin." And she hurled herself into the matter at hand, refusing to acknowledge the pain burning in her chest.

  Over the next few days Addy did her best not to dwell on his lordship's defection. With the Season at its height she was kept busy attending various balls and entertainments, and if she occasionally looked for a certain blond head, she did not see anything amiss. The viscount had become something of a friend, and it was natural she would look for him. That she never seemed to encounter him bothered her more than a little, and by week's end her spirits were lower than they had ever been.

  Keeping her unhappiness secret proved impossible. Several times Addy could feel her aunt's sharp gaze on her, but other than an occasional mutter under her breath, her aunt kept her own counsel. But as the days passed and Addy grew more withdrawn, it was plain the older woman had reached the end of her tether.

  "Really, Adalaide, you are being foolish beyond permission," she scolded, giving Addy a stern scowl. "You'll be going into a decline next, swooning and sighing like a silly chit."

  Addy stared down into the amber-tinted sherry in her glass, refusing to let her aunt's sharp words overset her. "Nonsense, Aunt Matilda," she said, tossing back her head with pride. "I am not going into a decline. I am merely tired, that is all."

  "Posh." Her aunt dismissed that with the contempt it deserved. "You've been moping about like a mother hen who's lost her last chick. You mustn't take it so hard, my dear. All birds must fly the nest at one time or another."

  "I know that," Addy said, accepting the futility of pretending her current unhappiness had naught to do with his lordship. "It is just I feel St. Jerome is being precipitous about this. We aren't even halfway through my usual course of instruction, and there is so much more he needs to learn. I worry he has grown overconfident in his skills."

  "What are you talking about?" her aunt demanded, clearly astonished. "The lad is the unqualified success of the Season! He is considered amongst the most eligible men in England, and tonight's presentation at Almack's will only make him that much more acceptable. I shouldn't wonder if he ends the Season engaged to the daughter of a duke!"

  The thought of Ross, as she secretly thought of him, engaged sent another shaft of pain shooting through Addy. "That wasn't the purpose of his introduction to Society!" she said, her tone a tad sharper than she intended.

  "No, but if it should happen, more to the better, I say," Aunt Matilda opined, settling back with her sherry and a smug smile. "You were forever after the lad about his responsibilities to the title, and everyone knows a lord's first duty is to produce more heirs. Let him marry some nubile virgin and beget half a dozen or more little viscounts. Then we'll not have to worry about some other half-wild Scotsman inheriting the title."

  "His lordship isn't a half-wild Scotsman!" Addy cried, bristling at the memory of the ugly whispers that had been making the rounds. "Nor was he ever!"

  "Don't be obtuse, my dear; of course he was half-wild," Aunt Matilda said, shaking her head at Addy. "But unfortunately, you have succeeded in civilizing him, and more's the pity. He was far more interesting before you got your hands upon him."

  Addy glanced away at that, hurt by her aunt's teasing words. Perhaps that was why Ross had stopped coming about, she thought, nibbling on her bottom lip. She could remember a dozen different times when he'd muttered dark complaints, beneath his breath, and expressed the resentment he bore the English for all he had suffered. She was English . . . did that mean he resented her as well?

  But there was little time to brood as her brother, Arthur, and his pretty new bride, Alice, arrived to escort them to Almack's. She was hardly fond of Arthur, finding his company trying at best, but tonight she was delighted to see him. His and Alice's presence would serve to keep Aunt Matilda occupied, and that would give Addy a few moments for herself. She had a great deal of thinking to do.

  As it was Wednesday, Almack's was crowded with well-dressed people jockeying for power and position. She'd always been privately amused by such obvious posturing, thinking that as an intellectual she was far above such behavior. Now she saw them simply as people; no worse than she herself. Better, perhaps, because at least they were honest about their expectations.

  She was secretly relieved when a furtive glance around the Assembly Room showed Ross had yet to appear. She did see Lord Hixworth, and was pleased when he came hurrying toward her. She was used to seeing him with a shy, slightly apologetic look upon his face, and she was somewhat taken aback to see an expression of dark indignation stamped there instead. He'd scarce reached her side before launching into furious speech.

  "A disgrace, Miss Terrington, that is what it is! A dashed disgrace, and when I learn who is to blame for it, you may be quite certain I shall demand satisfaction!"

  "Satisfaction for what, my lord?" she asked, her own troubles temporarily forgotten. She had never seen the young lord in such a state, and was curious to discover what might have gotten his back up. The only thing she knew him to care about so passionately was horseflesh, and she wondered if someone had sold him a stolen nag or some such thing.

  "For the lies they are spreading about Lord St. Jerome!" he said, his eyes flashing in outrage. "It's all a hum, of course, as anyone who knows his lordship will happily testify. A finer and braver man I have yet to have the honor to meet, and I will not stand quietly by and see him slandered! Someone will pay for this, upon my word they will!"

  Addy was delighted by such staunch loyalty to a friend, and gave his arm a reassuring pat. "It is good of you to be so concerned for his lordship," she told him with a smile. "But it's scarce something for which you need to call someone to account. 'Tis only gossip, after all."

  "Do you mean to say you have already heard the rumors?" he gasped, his eyes wide with amazement. "I only heard them myself not five minutes ago! They're saying it is all over London!"

  "And so it is," she agreed, thinking he was a dear, if slightly dotty, man. "But don't worry, as I said, 'tis only gossip and will quickly die. And if it contains an element of truth, well, then, no small matter. We—"

  "What do you mean if it contains an element of truth?" He jerked away and was staring at her in horror. "Miss Terrington, never say you believe one word of these . . . scurrilous lies!"

  Now it was Addy who stared at Lord Hixworth. "Well, not 'lies' per se," she said, wondering if the earl had perhaps been imbibing in something other than the club's infamous orgeat. "An exaggeration, or perhaps a cruel piece of snobbery, but—"

  "A cruel piece of snobbery to label him a coward?" Hixworth said, his eyes flashing with the force of fury. "I should call it a great deal more than that! And as his friend, ma'am, I should think you would wish to do the same!"

  Addy shook her head as if to clear it. "What are you talking about? Who is labeling Lord St. Jerome a coward?"

  "Everyone!" Hixworth cried, his voice rising in his agitation. "Why do you think I am so angry? Someone has put it about that the viscount is a vile coward who was once court-martialed for desertion under fire! Do you not understand? He is ruined!"

  Seven

  Addy stared at Hixworth in stunned disbelief. "You're mad," she whispered, her stomach pitching wildly into her throat. "No one ca
n possibly believe such lies!"

  "That's what I said!" Hixworth retorted, and then waved his hand in dismissal. "But that's neither here nor there," he added, sounding surprisingly firm. "What's to be done about it, that's what is important."

  "Where did you first hear the rumors?" Addy demanded, her earlier unhappiness forgotten as she turned her attention to the matter at hand.

  "At my club. I stopped there before coming here, and it was all anyone could speak of. Those who know St. Jerome are doing their best to put an end to such tattle, but . . ." He shrugged.

  "Do you know who started the talk?" Addy demanded, wondering if she could get a message to the Duke of Creshton. The whole thing smacked of political intrigue, and the wily old duke would best know how to deal with it.

  "No one seems to know," Hixworth answered grimly. "Or if they do know, they're not saying. I quizzed one gentleman rather closely, and he would only say he'd had it from some captain newly returned from the Peninsula."

  "The captain's name and regiment?" Addy's voice was clipped, even as her mind was racing ahead. Between her brothers and herself she had access to half the men in Whitehall, and it would be an easy matter to learn everything there was to know about this mysterious captain. Including, she thought coldly, whether the wretch had even been in Spain.

  "He didn't say." Hixworth's tone made it plain he was far from pleased with the situation. "I've spoken with an old friend of mine who works in the Admiralty, and he's promised to help. It will take a while, but he can provide me with a list of officers traveling from Spain to Portsmouth. Once we have the devil's name, we will better know what's to be done."

  "Have you heard?" Aunt Matilda rushed up to them, her eyes sparkling with temper. "You won't credit it, my dear, but they are saying Lord St. Jerome—"