A View to a Kiss

by Caroline Linden

  Now he stood at attention just inside the door, waiting. His muscles ached for a stretch, just a little easing of his posture, but he didn’t move. He knew this routine by now, and fidgeting was not permitted. The only thing he could do was stretch his toes, which were still sore from last night. If only he could take off his shoes again and feel the cool night air on his feet…

  That thought revived his spirits a great deal. This morning his indiscreet conversation with Lady Mariah had taken on a new character in his mind. No, she wouldn’t want him if she knew who he was—but she didn’t know, and he certainly couldn’t tell her. It was quite likely he would cross her path again, since he’d be following her father from now on. It was almost his duty to think of her, if only to brace himself for their next encounter. He swallowed a smirk, for working so hard to justify his own desires, and allowed himself a few pleasurable moments anticipating his next glimpse of Mariah Dunmore.

  The silence in the room wore on. Crane had made no sign he was aware of Harry’s presence, but Harry knew better than to think this was the case. He kept his eyes on the far wall and concentrated on his breathing, willing away the remnants of weariness and sleep and illicit interest in young ladies. He knew there was a long day ahead of him.

  “You are late.” Crane pronounced each word as if it were a revelation.

  Harry hadn’t been late since his third day, when he came in as the clock struck eight and Crane informed him it would cost him a day’s wages. “No, sir.”

  “You are,” the viscount said firmly.

  “No, sir,” repeated Harry in the same calm voice. The first week, he had been all deference, until he realized Crane actually wanted someone to disagree with him.

  Crane pursed his lips as the clock began to chime the hour, then turned back to his work. “See that it doesn’t happen again,” he muttered.

  “Yes, sir.” Harry moved to the small writing desk near the window.

  “Take a letter.” His employer didn’t wait for him to seat himself or uncap his ink. “To John Rusk at Brimstow. Mind the peach trees particularly this season, as I hear there is a blight…”

  Hurriedly taking his seat, Harry began making notes as fast as he could. Rusk was the head gardener at Crane’s country estate, Brimstow, and Harry had learned early that Rusk was Lord Crane’s most valued correspondent. Day after day Harry transcribed long letters to the gardener, letters filled with precisely detailed instructions for the care of the viscount’s extensive gardens. It shouldn’t have mattered much, but after a month of taking notes on the proper way to rake a rose bed and which tulips to plant under which tree at Brimstow, he would have been happy never to see another tulip bulb or even a leaf ever again. It was rather cruel of Crane to keep him out so late at night, then try to bore him to sleep the next day, Harry thought with a dash of black humor as he filled page after page with notes on peach trees.

  After Crane finished dictating the letter, he waved Harry off to copy it out. “Go to, Towne. That letter must go off today.”

  Letters to Brimstow were always Crane’s highest priority. Harry took out several sheets of paper as a servant slipped into the room and brought him the post. There were four invitations—it seemed London hostesses weren’t put off by Crane’s abrupt manners—a letter from Brimstow, and a note from Lord Billington seeking Crane’s advice on some legal question. Harry detailed the post, hoping against hope that Billington’s letter—which couldn’t possibly be about fruit trees—would receive some notice, but the viscount merely grunted and took the gardener’s letter, ignoring the rest.

  “Good morning, Uncle!” Lord Crane’s nephew, Tobias, had come in with the post. A big, handsome fellow, Tobias had taken up residence in the house when the palsy struck Crane, but what good he did his uncle was beyond Harry. Tobias enjoyed society and exercise and gambling, all things Crane despised. Harry was privately certain one of them would drive the other mad before the end of the Season, with his own money going on Tobias driving Crane mad first. Crane liked being grim and dour, while Tobias was anything but, and the two clashed regularly.

  Harry lowered his head over his work. Crane hunched in his deep leather chair, pointedly turning his shoulder to the younger man. Tobias was undaunted.

  “Well!” He rubbed his hands together. “It’s a fine day out. Would you care to take a ride in my new curricle?”

  Harry supposed one should credit Tobias for persistence, but no one could call his efforts successful. “No,” growled Crane from behind the pages of Rusk’s letter.

  “Now, Uncle, it’s the latest style. It cost me a pretty penny to get one so quickly, in time for the Season, but I had no choice.”

  “No choice,” snapped Crane. “Walk!”

  Tobias laughed, although a shade uncomfortably. “Well, a gentleman can hardly walk everywhere, Uncle.”

  “If he tried he could,” was Crane’s waspish reply.

  Tobias cleared his throat, still grinning awkwardly. “Yes. Perhaps.”

  There was a moment of silence as Crane turned over his page, still reading. Harry finished one page of instruction and moved on to the next. Crane’s peach trees were more cosseted than any human he knew.

  “Will you attend the Steele soiree tonight, Uncle?” Tobias tried again.

  “Of course not.” Crane leaned forward and pulled his large horticultural reference toward him. He picked up his magnifying lens and examined something on the page.

  “Oh…but Uncle—”

  “No,” said Crane again. “Go away, young man.”

  Tobias flushed. He noticed the stack of invitations then, sitting on the corner of Harry’s desk, and held one up. “Why, Uncle, it seems you are still quite popular. Look, an invitation from Lady Jaffey!”

  Crane turned a page in his almanac and made no reply.

  Tobias didn’t seem to notice, or care. “Lady Jaffey is one of the leading hostesses in London,” he went on with growing enthusiasm. “Her parties are renowned for their elegance. You cannot refuse her invitation.”

  “Lady Jaffey is a shrill and vain woman,” retorted his uncle. “I most certainly can refuse her.”

  Tobias’s brow creased in frustration. He aspired to the society Crane disdained. He was Crane’s only heir, and Harry suspected he had come to town this Season not only out of any affection or concern for his uncle, but to enjoy the prospect of his inheritance as well. “I should like to attend,” Tobias muttered.

  Crane finally looked up. “Then go! Go, go, go, and leave me in peace.”

  His nephew beamed. “Of course. Thank you, Uncle.” He bowed and left, having secured at least one of his objects.

  Lord Crane made a disgusted noise when the door had closed. “Empty-headed fribble. The sooner he gets himself an empty-headed wife, the happier he’ll be and the more peace I’ll have.” He sighed, raising one hand to his brow. “Are you done with that letter yet, Towne?”

  “Nearly, sir. Another moment only.” Harry sped through the last of it, then brought it across the room. Crane read it over with a scowl, ready to make him recopy the entirety if there were a single mistake, but Harry had learned that lesson in his first days, too. Finding no fault, Crane signed the letter, his blue-veined hand trembling noticeably, and finally turned to his other correspondence.

  “Shall you accept?” Harry asked as Crane rolled his eyes over each invitation.

  “No,” the viscount muttered again and again. Each time Harry made a mental note, totting up how often Crane would go out and require Lord Wroth’s protective surveillance. Not often in the next fortnight, he realized, paging through Crane’s diary.

  “You are to dine tonight with Admiral Northby, sir,” Harry said. “At his home.” He did not look forward to it. When Crane spent the evening at a private affair, Harry couldn’t follow as Mr. Towne or as Lord Wroth. Four times already, he, and sometimes Ian, had spent hours patrolling the shadows outside a home while Crane or Lord Bethwell dined within, and twice they had been soaked to the ski
n. Stafford at least managed to get him invited to most balls or larger gatherings their marks attended, and save him a night in the rain.

  “Am I? Lord, no,” said Crane with a sigh. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, and for a moment looked like the frail old man he was. “I shall stay at home tonight. There were too many people at the ball last night, hardly anyone who could speak sense, and the streets were full of vagabonds. Send Northby my regrets.”

  Harry obediently made a note of it in the diary, breathing a silent sigh of relief. That left merely Doncaster. He already knew Bethwell was still ill and would be abed under Angelique’s watchful eye. And surely after the affair at his own house last night, Doncaster would want a quiet evening at home…with his family…

  A terrible, tantalizing thought stole across Harry’s mind. It was out of the question, even if it were feasible. Brandon would most likely send word that Doncaster was going out this evening, and he would find himself sipping port and shuffling Lord Wroth’s too-tight shoes around another ballroom or parlor. But if he didn’t…

  He didn’t. By the time Harry returned to Fenton Lane, Brandon had sent word that Doncaster was planning to go to his club, one of the few places they were not responsible for following him. Whether Stafford had other agents inside the gentlemen’s clubs or just considered their marks safe enough surrounded by other nobility, Harry didn’t know. But it meant he was completely free for the night.

  He used the time to catch up on his reports, which were to be written nightly and then turned in to Stafford as soon as convenient. He hadn’t done the one from last night, and then there was the one for today. Nothing much to report, though, he thought as his pen skimmed across the paper. There was rarely anything more significant than the drunk bothering Crane last night.

  In short order the reports were done. Angelique’s maid, Lisette, carried away Wroth’s clothing for a brushing, for which Harry gave her a grateful smile. Ian had taken his night off at the local pub, glad to get away from the horses for a while. Angelique and Brandon were still in their respective posts. Harry found himself alone and unoccupied for the first time in weeks. He sat down in the rarely used sitting room and opened a book.

  Time slowed to a crawl. The book lay unread in his hand. His eyes were fixed instead out the window, on the evening star hanging low and bright in the sky like a jewel against the dark velvet of the night. Venus was uncommonly bright tonight again…

  Finally, he laid the book aside. He was utterly mad, damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. Which meant there was no reason to fight the urge, no matter how mad. He reflected a moment on the possible consequences of his contemplated actions, then got up, put on his coat, and let himself out the door.

  Chapter 5

  After a whole day of not thinking about Harry, Mariah found she couldn’t stop thinking of him once night fell.

  Was he out somewhere, at some other ball, standing in the dark on another balcony with another young lady? Or was he in a ballroom, holding that other lady in his arms and teasing her in that droll tone? What did his smile look like? Even though she didn’t want to know—vexing man—it was killing her that she didn’t. If she could meet him again, just once, just to put her nose in the air and sniff at him…Or perhaps sneak up on him and startle him…Or simply gloat, victoriously, that she had found him out after all…

  She sighed and tossed her book aside. She hadn’t managed to read more than a page. Papa had gone out to his club, and even though it still felt early, Mariah thought she might as well go to bed. She and her mother had spent the evening at home, dining with Aunt Marion and Joan. Her cousin seemed to have forgotten all about Harry, which put Mariah even more out of sorts. She found she still had some feelings about him she would have liked to voice, and Joan was the only person who could possibly have sympathized.

  “Good night, Mama,” she said with a sigh, getting to her feet. “I shall see you in the morning.” Mariah stopped to kiss her mother’s cheek as she passed.

  “Good night, dear.” Her mother put a hand on her arm. “Are you well, child?”

  “Yes, perfectly. Just a bit tired.”

  Mama smiled fondly. “I understand. Sleep well.”

  Mariah trudged up the stairs, wretched curiosity still simmering in her mind. She wasn’t sure she would even be able to fall asleep, with the restless buzzing of all her questions. She sat idly tracing circles on the dressing table with one finger while Sally, her maid, brushed out and braided her hair, then caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She looked petulant and cross, like a child denied a sweet. It brought a reluctant smile to her face. “Ninny,” she whispered to herself. She couldn’t believe she was acting this way over a gentleman.

  “Pardon, my lady?”

  Sally’s voice recalled her to sense. “Nothing. Just woolgathering.” She stood up and let Sally unfasten her dress. “Have you got a sweetheart, Sally?”

  The maid’s eyes barely flickered as she helped Mariah undress. “No, m’lady.”

  “Mmm.” Mariah pulled on her nightgown thoughtfully. “You’re better off, you know. Men are such vexing creatures.”

  “Yes, ma’am. My mum always did say so.”

  Mariah looked at her in surprise, then burst out laughing. Sally smiled a little, too. “Your mum was right. Well, you may go.”

  Sally curtsied and slipped out of the room. Mariah flung her long braid over her shoulder and crossed to the window. It was a warm night with a gentle breeze, very like last night. She leaned out to feel the breeze, wiggling her toes against the carpet, but it wasn’t the same as having them caressed by the night air. So that was one thing Harry had done for her: shown her how lovely it was to go barefoot at night. She pulled the drapes open a little more to allow that breeze in and crossed the room to her bed, putting out the lamps as she went.

  Perhaps there was some other way she could discover who he was. She considered it while plumping up the pillows behind her head. Mama had said she was likely to meet him again at another social gathering, and Mama was probably right. She would just have to keep her eyes open—and her ears alert. It wasn’t very satisfying, but what else could she do? Wait for him to seek her out again, after he had said quite confidently that she could not find him? And been right, too, blast him.

  “Lady Mariah.”

  Mariah opened her eyes and frowned, listening hard. She’d been so absorbed in her thoughts she wasn’t sure she had actually heard anything. Had Sally come back? No, the door hadn’t opened; it must have been her imagination.

  “Lady Mariah.”

  She sat up in bed, this time sure she had heard someone call her name. “Yes?” she said tentatively. “Who is there?”

  “Just I,” came the quiet reply, just now resolving into a familiar voice. “Harry.”

  She bolted out of bed, her heart slamming, and looked around. “Where are you?” she cried, grabbing her extinguished candle.

  “The window.” She looked closer, and sure enough, saw the faint outline of a head and shoulders.

  “What on earth are you doing there?” she exclaimed, taking a step toward him.

  “Seeing if I am welcome to come in,” he said in the same barely amused, utterly assured tone she remembered too well.

  Mariah stopped dead, wide-eyed in disbelief. He had climbed up the side of the house to call on her? Here? Now? “Come in?” she repeated stupidly. “This is my bedroom.” Only a scoundrel would try to climb into a young lady’s bedroom, and only a young lady with no morals would invite him in. Why was he even asking?

  “Yes, I know. It took devilishly long to figure that out. Shall I stay, or go?”

  “Stay!” The word was out of her mouth before she even realized what she was saying. “Come in,” she said more calmly. “Please.”

  Mariah backed up as he hoisted himself silently over the windowsill. She strained her eyes to make him out in the dark room, her curiosity burning like a bonfire: Who was he, why was he sneaking around like
this, and what did he intend by it? She gripped her candlestick, just in case. Out of the corner of her eye she could see the bell, which would bring Sally on the run. Or she could scream, which would bring any number of servants, or even her mother.

  “Go back to your bed,” he said, unfolding his frame in front of the window.

  Mariah felt a moment of alarm. “Why?”

  He put his hands on his hips. “Because I can’t stay if you don’t. I shall stay here, and you shall stay there, or I really must go.” She still hesitated, and he half turned to the window again. “All right, then. Good night.”

  “No, no! Don’t go.” She retreated to her bed as she spoke. “But why must I stay over here?”

  “We hardly know each other, miss,” he said with affected affront. “Keep your distance, if you please.”

  Mariah choked back a snort of laughter. “You’re afraid of me?”

  “A wise man never underestimates a woman.”

  She leaned forward and stared hard. He was still nothing more than an indistinct shape, standing as he was in front of the only source of light, however dim, in the room. “And I suppose you want to be able to jump out the window if someone should come, like you did last night.”

  His laugh was low. “I didn’t jump. I climbed.”

  “And how did you manage that?” she asked, astonished all over again that he had done it. “You might have broken your neck.”

  “I might have done.” He didn’t sound bothered by the prospect at all.

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Your mother was calling you. Would she have been pleased to discover you lurking in the dark with a man?”

  “I wasn’t lurking—”

  “Would she?”

  “Well—no—”

  “So I left.”

  Mariah pressed her lips shut. “Left the ball entirely?”