Her Fateful Debut: A Regency Romance (Three Gentlemen of London Book 1)

by G. G. Vandagriff

  Beau watched as color flooded her face. Enough of this!

  “Come,” he said shortly. “Lady Jersey awaits.”

  Placing his hand in the small of her back, he led her to the chaperone’s corner.

  “Lady Jersey,” he said. “May I present Miss Swinton? She makes her debut tonight.”

  The lady inclined her head and inspected the girl from head to toe.

  “You are very lovely, my dear, but do not allow Beau to turn your head. He is a notorious flirt, you know.”

  “So I have heard from my cousin.”

  “Which cousin is that?”

  “The Duchess of Ruisdell. She advised me that he is something of a rake.”

  “Ah! So you are already on your guard. Very well, my dear. I grant you permission to dance the waltz. Give your aunt my best wishes and tell her I should love to say hello to her this evening.”

  Beau was happy the formidable patroness had taken to Miss Swinton, but a little uncomfortable that they discussed his reputations so freely.

  “Thank you, your ladyship,” she said. “I shall relay your message to my aunt.”

  “I hear the opening strains of the waltz, my dear girl,” he said. “Shall we?”

  She turned to him, a glint of mischief in her eye. “I hope you are a good dancer. I have been looking forward to this moment since I knew I was to come to London.”

  “I am an exquisite dancer,” he replied. “How could you doubt it?”

  Leading her onto the dance floor, he glanced about to make certain Devereaux was nowhere in sight. Perhaps he would not come tonight.

  He placed his arm at her waist and took her right hand in his. She waltzed wonderfully. In fact, it had never been his pleasure to enjoy the dance so much. Taking the opportunity to look deeply into her violet eyes, he read satisfaction there. Beau’s heart softened. Why had he not noticed that her skin was a smooth and brilliant as silk? Her figure was exactly right, fitting perfectly in his arms. Instead of studying the crowd for Devereaux, he was transfixed by a pair of lively eyes.

  “It is delightful, is it not?” he asked.

  “Splendid,” she answered. “At the risk of swelling your head, I must say that you do dance remarkably well.”

  “Thank you, Miss Swinton. So do you. If this is your first ball in London, where did you learn to waltz?”

  “I had a dancing master.”

  “Ah. Did you fall in love with him?”

  She laughed—not a giggle, but a full-bodied laugh. “Of course. All my friends did, as well, and he was our chief topic of conversation when we would meet.”

  “But, I imagine it was you he fell in love with.”

  “Why would you think that? He was smitten with my dearest friend, Mary. I tried very hard not to be jealous.”

  “The man obviously had no proper taste,” he said smoothly.

  “You are flirting with me,” she said. “As I told Lady Jersey, I have been warned about you.”

  “I am trying without success to remember if I have ever enjoyed a waltz so thoroughly. Whyever did you disguise your beauty with that horrid bonnet this morning?”

  “To keep the riffraff away, of course.” She laughed again. “I was not taught to give my looks much consequence, your lordship.”

  Between her sauciness and loveliness, he was fast falling under her spell. She was what? Twenty years old at the outside! He must be dicked in the nob.

  When the strains of the waltz concluded, he was loathe to let her retreat from his arms. For a moment they only stood and looked at one another.

  “Pardon me, miss,” said a servant at her elbow. “Your aunt wished me to bring you a message.”

  Beau’s eyes left Penelope’s and he studied the servant. Not Devereaux. Not even in disguise.

  “Yes?” Penelope inquired.

  “She is out in the garden. She came all over faint, she did. She wishes to leave the ball. Perhaps by the mews entrance.”

  This was it! Devereaux had obviously bribed the servant.

  “Oh dear,” his partner said, as the servant walked away.

  “Look lively, Miss Swinton. I have no doubt that we will find not your aunt, but a certain French spy. Do not worry over Lady Clarice. No doubt she is in the retiring room.”

  Soon, they reached the French doors and walked out onto the terrace. Other couples danced there, so he led her to the stairs, and they walked down into the garden. There were few torches lit. Moving into the shadows, Beau waited for Devereaux to appear.

  The girl beside him trembled. Whether from the coolness of the night or from fear, he did not know. Overcome with a protective desire he had never felt, he said, “Be calm. I will see that no harm comes to you.”

  “I am worried about you!” she said.

  “Do not worry about me. I can defend myself.”

  Awareness of her tingled along his nerves. She stepped a very short distance away, rubbing her upper arms with her gloved hands.

  “Have you a plan?” she asked.

  “Of sorts.” He pulled her back beside him to stand in the shadows. The air was heavy, as though a storm were approaching. The sweet fragrance of lilacs hung in the air. Beau found it cloying.

  He watched the door to the ballroom, cursing inwardly. He was dangerously distracted by Miss Swinton.

  Soon, the Frenchman appeared, stealing through the semidarkness like a large cat.

  Beau registered the moment the man located them in the shadows. Devereaux circled them both, holding his knife high in the air. Beau knew the man to be an expert assassin.

  He lunged for Miss Swinton. She leaped expertly away while Beau clasped the spy’s wrist, forcing their assailant backwards. The wiry man struggled with him, proving an able opponent.

  To Beau’s surprise, Miss Swinton ducked and dove for the Frenchman’s knees, sweeping them out from under him. He tumbled backward to the ground, and Beau was upon him, breaking his hold on the knife. Once the weapon was out of reach, the viscount used a quick and deadly movement to snap the man’s neck.

  Beau drew a long breath of relief. Helping Miss Swinton to her feet, he drew the trembling woman into his arms and held her close to him.

  “Is he dead?” she whispered.

  “Assuredly.”

  “But how did you do that?” she asked.

  “It’s called Jujutsu.” Looking down at her, he said, “How did you learn to fight?”

  “The vicar’s son.”

  “Ah,” he said, amused in spite of the grim circumstances. She was certainly unexpected, this diamond. “Now we must get you away.”

  “Too late,” she said, looking up. “We’ve drawn a crowd.”

  A woman screamed. “That man is on the ground. Look at his neck! He is surely dead!”

  Dragging Devereaux by the collar, Beau pulled him away from the crowd and into the shadows. A tide of outrage swelled around him.

  Miss Swinton stood next to him, perfectly straight. “I know it is a bother, but I am horribly afraid I am going to be ill,” she said, her voice full of wonder.

  As she began to slide into a faint, he swept her into his arms, lifting her as though she were a child, her head lolling against his chest.

  A hoard of the curious descended upon them. Bedlam.

  Chapter Three

  When Penelope revived, to her perplexity she found she was being carried by the Duke of Ruisdell. Elise was walking beside them, and they appeared to be in a mews.

  “My dear!” her cousin exclaimed. “Thank heavens you are all right!”

  “Where are we going?” Penelope raised her head from the duke’s chest. “Where is Lord Wellingham?”

  “We are trying to spirit you away,” said the duke. “Beau can handle the situation.”

  “But I can witness that the Frenchman was going to kill me. Lord Wellingham saved my life. I appreciate your concern, but can you put me down? I must go back.”

  Elise caressed her check. “My dear, we must get you away from here. There ar
e plenty of people to see to the situation. Beau has the right connections.”

  -P-

  “You can make a statement later, in private,” the Duke said. By the time they reached the duke’s carriage, Penelope was trembling uncontrollably and her teeth chattered. The dead man’s unpleasant features and crooked neck stayed imprinted on her mind. Reliving the assault over and over again, she tried to imagine what would have happened to her if she were alone. The Frenchman might have knifed her stealthily in the ballroom and melted into the crush of guests. No doubt that had been his plan.

  Instead, Lord Wellingham had killed him. The threat to her was gone, but was the viscount likely to suffer for what he had done?

  Blossom House was but a short distance. When they arrived, Pursley stood speechless as the duke steered her into the gentlemen’s sitting room where he found the brandy. Pouring a small splash into a snifter, he said, “Drink this, Penelope. It will steady your nerves and get some warmth into you.”

  Instead, it made her choke. “What will happen to Lord Wellingham?”

  “It is not Beau that concerns me. He is highly placed in government. There will be those in power who know of his running this agent.” The duke stroked his chin and looked at her with a frown.

  “It is you we are concerned about, Penelope,” said Elise. “London gossip is a formidable thing. We must wait to see in tomorrow’s newspapers whether we got you away from the scene before you were identified.”

  Penelope shivered. “I do not understand. Why would that be such a bad thing? I did nothing wrong.”

  The duke poured a brandy for Elise, who continued, “Like I said, London gossip is a mighty force. You were out in the gardens in the dark with the notorious Beau Wellingham. He had a fight and killed a man. Political secrecy will not allow him to tell the real story, so most likely it will appear to be an affaire de coeur. I am very much afraid, my dear, that your reputation will be in shreds.”

  Penelope sank into the armchair before the fire and, still feeling weak at the knees, tried to understand the ramifications of the attack. She knew she had been a success that night. But without the real explanation to hand, would people truly judge her to be part of a sordid love triangle that had resulted in Lord Wellingham actually killing for her?

  This was not Northamptonshire, where people would know such an outrageous scenario was absurd. But what other explanation was there if they could not tell the truth?

  I was right not to like London.

  “I must get you to bed,” Elise said. “The duke can return to the ball and explain things to Aunt Clarice. Come, darling. Can you manage to climb the stairs?”

  “I am perfectly fine. I do not know why I did such a silly thing as fainting. I have never fainted in my life.”

  “Now, do not worry about that,” said Elise.

  Despite her intentions, Penelope’s knees would not hold her as she tried to climb to her room. She gripped the stair rail and felt perspiration break out all over her body.

  Then the duke was carrying her again, and at last they made it up the double flight of stairs.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” she said. “When you go back to the ball, please try to find out if Lord Wellingham is all right.”

  “Do not trouble about him, Penelope,” the duke said. “He is quite able to take care of himself.”

  Wordsworth heard them through the bedroom door and began whining. As soon as Elise opened the door and the duke set Penelope on her feet, the dog began dancing about her. Kneeling down, Penelope lost her face in his silky fur, while he licked her face and nuzzled her neck.

  “Thank you so much, Your Grace, Elise.”

  The duke nodded. “I will get back to the ball now.”

  “Let me help you get to bed, darling,” said Elise. “We do not need your maid to see your torn dress and spread more gossip through the servants’ grapevine.”

  “My poor gown,” Penelope said. “It is ruined.”

  When Elise had loosened her stays, Penelope stepped out of them.

  “You are very kind to help me, Elise.”

  “I am just sorry you have had such a dreadful experience. I cannot even imagine.”

  “That awful man! I will be grateful to Lord Wellingham forever.”

  “Beau is, so I have heard, an excellent man to have by you when there is any trouble.”

  “I can believe it.”

  They heard someone climbing the stairs, and Wordsworth leaped up from the hearth and began to run around excitedly. In a moment, Aunt Clarice was in the room.

  “My darling girl! What a terrible business. I came as soon as I heard.”

  “Who told you?” inquired Penelope.

  “Lady Jersey. The news was spreading through the ballroom like fire. I am so sorry.”

  “Did you see Lord Wellingham? Do you know how he does?”

  “No. I came straight here. It is you I am concerned about. I would not have had Sally Jersey hearing this for the world. She is the biggest gossip in London. Some version of the story will be the talk at everyone’s breakfast table. Now, if you do not mind, I should like to hear about it from you, dear.”

  Penelope said, “Lord Wellingham was terribly brave. The Frenchman tried to kill me, and Lord Wellingham saved my life. I am worried about him—that people will say it was murder. That he will be arrested. He used some strange move—Jujit-something.”

  “Jujutsu, most likely. Learned it from that oddity, Sir William Osbert, when he was at Oxford. I guess we seriously underestimated the threat. I should have listened to Beau and sent you back to the country.”

  “I do not think anyone could really have known that the man was mad. Clearly mad,” said Penelope. “You should have seen his eyes.” She shuddered. “I did not believe anyone would try to kill me with so little provocation. But Lord Wellingham knew.”

  Elise said, “Are you going to be able to sleep? Should we get you some hot milk with honey?”

  “No, thank you. I do not want to put anyone to trouble at this time of night. I still feel a bit weak, so I think I will sleep well.”

  Aunt Clarice kissed her cheek. “Very good, my child. I would not have had this happen for the world. Would you like me to stay with you?”

  “I will be perfectly well,” Penelope said. “You can both go to your beds.”

  When her aunt and cousin had left her, Penelope patted the bed, signaling Wordsworth to join her.

  Burying her face once more in his fur, she said, “Oh, Wordsworth, it was dreadful. I have never seen anything like it. Lord Wellingham was so brave. I shall never forget it.”

  The memory played over and over in her head, and Penelope found she could not sleep after all. One thing she knew: her debut in London Society had been a disaster.

  Light was beginning to seep through her curtains when, worn out, she drifted into a troubled slumber. Watkins woke her near noon with a cup of tea and the news that the duke and Elise were waiting to see her downstairs in the Chinese Saloon. The maid had already taken Wordsworth out and fed him his breakfast.

  Watkins helped to dress her in a sprigged muslin and quickly fashioned her hair. A glance in the mirror told her that her face was pale and her eyes were hollowed out with fatigue. A far cry from her appearance as belle of the ball. Memories of the night before rose in her mind, and she tried without success to will them away.

  When she at last presented herself in her aunt’s red silk hung Chinese Saloon, she found her aunt, Elise, and the duke all awaiting her. His Grace rose from his chair and bid her good morning. She replied by giving him her hand, which he squeezed with affection. She kissed both her aunt and Elise on their cheeks.

  “Have you seen the newspapers?” the duke asked.

  “No. I just awoke. Are they very bad?”

  “I am afraid so. Worse than I imagined they might be. Your success at the ball and the Beau’s tremendous popularity made the situation perfect scandal fodder.”

  Lowering her head, she bit her lip
hard. “I shall go home to Papa. I am dreadfully sorry to reflect so poorly on Aunt Clarice and the family.”

  “Do not worry about us, Penelope,” her aunt said. “We have survived worse things. Now we must see what is to be done about your future.”

  Wordsworth trotted into the saloon and made his way to Penelope. She caressed him. The dog would love her, no matter what, and that was amazingly comforting at this point.

  Her aunt said, “Beau is to join us here after luncheon.”

  “He was not arrested, then?”

  “No. I told you he would not be,” said the duke. “Those in the government who matter knew of his relationship with Devereaux and spoke for him to the magistrate. But, of course, that is all private.”

  She was relieved by this news and kissed her dog on his head. Penelope could not seem to get warm. Holding her shawl about her tightly, she thought of her ravaged appearance, but it did not matter.

  “You do not look well, my love,” said Aunt Clarice. “I am going to go fix you my special tonic.” She rose and went out of the room.

  “Whyever is Lord Wellingham coming here?” Penelope asked.

  Elise spoke. “You must understand that this is a very serious situation, Penelope. By taking you out onto the terrace in the dark and killing Devereaux at your feet, Beau ruined your reputation.”

  The injustice of this remark smote her. “He saved my life, Elise!”

  “He will do the honorable thing, Penelope,” the duke said, his face drawn in solemnity.

  “The honorable thing?” Her brow wrinkled in confusion.

  “He will offer you marriage, and I counsel you to accept,” the duke said.

  “Marriage!” She stood and put her hands on her hips. “We do not know one another at all.”

  Elise rose and came to her, taking her hand. “He understands the necessity of it, Penelope, if you do not. We live in a far-from-perfect society. You will be an outcast if you do not accept him,” she said gently. “Think on it. You know that with your father’s death his estate will pass to a distant cousin. You have no money of your own. Your future has always depended upon making a good marriage. At this point, the only possibility you have open to you is to marry Beau.”