“Do you enjoy coming to London?”
“I don’t mind. Our small Devonshire village is rather dull. The worst thing is I make friends among the debutantes but see little of them after they marry.” She eyed Jo appreciatively. “You won’t be sitting here like a wallflower for long. A gentleman will snap you up.”
“A wallflower?”
“That’s what we call ourselves.” Charlotte shrugged. “I made a good friend last Season. Miss Anabel Riley. But she disappeared from London.”
“Did she get married?”
Charlotte shrugged. “No one seems to know what happened to Anabel. She was an orphan, here with an aged aunt who has since died. Some say she eloped, but I don’t believe it. Anabel never mentioned a beau.”
Charlotte stood as the Master of Ceremonies announced the next dance. “I’d best return to Mrs. Lincoln. That’s my chaperone. I’ve enjoyed talking with you.”
Jo smiled. “I hope we meet again.”
“We will,” Charlotte said. “I’ll look out for you.”
Charlotte’s feather headdress could be seen above many heads as she moved through the crowd. Jo hoped they could be friends. A gentleman came to claim the dance she had agreed to earlier. As he led her onto the dance floor, she wondered what had happened to Anabel Riley. Perhaps her family came and took her away. But no, Charlotte had said she was an orphan.
Jo enjoyed the evening but didn’t go into raptures about the ball when her father questioned her on their way home. The dark-haired gentleman friend of the Cartwrights had not appeared. She wondered if she would ever see him again. Surely it shouldn’t matter whether or not she did. But it seemed to matter a great deal.
Her father declared the Season to be a splendid success. “As I knew it would be.” He gazed fondly at her.
“Did you especially like any of the gentlemen, Jo?” Aunt Mary asked.
“Not really, Aunt.” Jo supposed she was used to country folk, who were plain speaking.
Some of her dance partners used an oddly affected manner of speech. One gentleman had ridiculously padded shoulders, and another older one creaked mysteriously as he led her through the steps of the quadrille, and was so heavily perfumed, she wished to hold her nose. Some of her dance partners barely spoke, so Jo was hard-pressed to think of an appropriate topic of conversation, while others talked about themselves, their last successful hunt, the acquisition of a curricle, one gentleman went into raptures about his tailor. None showed any genuine interest in her. “I made another friend, Miss Charlotte Graham, Papa. I hope to meet her again.”
“I’m so pleased for you, Jo,” Aunt Mary said, wearily.
“That’s nice, Jo,” her father said. “I hoped you might meet some fellow…well…it’s early days.”
Might he want to go home? He expressed some concern about Sooty, although their dog was enjoying a holiday on a farm. Perhaps London wasn’t her father’s cup of tea.
As she drank her chocolate in bed the following morning, Jo went over the previous evening. She had difficulty bringing her dance partners to mind, except for Mr. Luttrell. And she only remembered him because he’d taken her into supper. His interest was horses. While he talked about the finer points of the thoroughbred he’d purchased at Tattersall’s horse auction, Jo fixed an interested expression on her face and allowed her gaze to wander, seeking a tall, dark-haired gentleman.
She sighed and put down her cup. Licking the chocolate from her upper lip, she admitted she’d spent the entire evening on the lookout for him. But neither he nor the Cartwrights attended the ball.
There were few clouds to shadow the moon, for which Reade was grateful. He found his way with ease across the lawns without stumbling over the many flowerpots the lady of the house seemed overly fond of and reached the brick wall at the rear of the house. Most of the building lay in darkness, but for a lamp in the front hall and a glimmer from a sconce on the upstairs landing.
He circled the house, moving through the shadows. The two occupants were out for the evening. The servants had retired to their attic rooms, except for one who awaited his employer’s return. Reade tried several windows and found them locked. He couldn’t risk jimmying a window open. On closer inspection, a casement window on the second floor was ajar, but there were no trees nearby to aid his climb.
It would have to be the drainpipe. He prayed it would bear his weight. When Reade took hold and shinnied up, the pipe shifted alarmingly beneath his hands and threatened to come away from the wall. But his luck was in, for it held, and he reached the next floor without mishap. His searching fingers located a crevice in the bricks. He swung himself across to the window and levered himself up onto the sill. Swinging his legs over, he dropped soundlessly onto the carpet.
Moonlight flooded in, revealing the room to be a bedchamber as he’d expected, and of no use to him. He stalked soft-footed to the door and listened. No snoring reached him, only the clunk of a clock and the scrabble of mice in the walls. He knew the residents were at a ball and unlikely to return until close to dawn. That should give him a few hours to inspect the library at his leisure.
On the landing, a guttering candle flickered in a sconce, lighting the stairs. Descending, he grimaced at the sharp creaks of the treads beneath his boots. One of the annoying things about being large. Reade was a heavyweight and always had to make allowances for it. He could handle himself well in a skirmish, but smaller men in the game had the advantage in matters of stealth.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, loud snores greeted him from the servant slumbering on a chair near the front door. Having some knowledge of the layout of the house from previous visits, Reade located the library without mishap. He entered and quietly closed the door, then went straight to the desk set against the far wall. Moonlight shone in through the break in the velvet curtains and revealed a stack of papers scattered over the oak surface, but not bright enough for him to read them. It forced him to pull the curtains shut and strike a taper. A dangerous move, but necessary.
The feeble light enabled him to scan them. He had splendid night vision. Two letters were immediately of interest. A delivery notice and a letter detailing the date of a meeting somewhere near the docks, but not the exact address. He slid both into his coat pocket, where his pistol rested, then turned his attention to the others.
A ruckus outside drew him to the window. A lumbering carriage with swinging lamps passed through the gates and rattled along the drive to the stables. Reade snuffed the taper between his fingers. Home early, curse it.
The snores in the hall ended with a curse and a scrape of a chair as Reade slipped back into the corridor. He made for the servants’ stairs, planning to leave through the kitchen.
Twenty minutes later, he crouched in the bushes to watch the house. The man and woman climbed the staircase; candlelight showed their progress in the long window. He considered going back inside after they fell asleep, but abandoned the idea as unsound and turned away. There was always another night, and what he had in his pocket might well prove interesting enough. He’d let those at the Home Office make a judgment and await further orders.
Once well clear of the house, Reade vaulted a fence and sprinted down the lane to where he’d left his horse tied to a post. He released the reins and mounted. “Enough for one evening, eh, Ash?” he murmured. “You’ll be wanting your dry, warm stall, and I’m tempted to don evening togs and attend a ball to flirt with the ladies.” He thought briefly of the redhead, but in full agreement with Letty’s advice, dismissed any idea of pursuit. “Methinks, I’ll go to bed.” He patted the gelding’s glossy neck and trotted him quietly down the road by the light of a sickle moon.
Chapter Four
An invitation to a masked ball arrived in the post. The demands of the Season surprised Jo. One might dine with friends, then go to the theater or a soiree, before attending a ball, all on the same evening. Guests roamed from one reception to the next. Apparently, hostesses attempted to outdo one another, perh
aps to gain some distinction on the social calendar, sometimes adopting what Jo considered outlandish displays.
Why the ton weren’t all thoroughly exhausted mystified her until she learned that many slept past midday. Jo was wide awake by seven o’clock, no matter what time she climbed into bed. Her Aunt Mary fussed over her and insisted Jo take an afternoon nap when she retired for hers. Used to filling her days productively, Jo lay reading in bed until her father allowed her to get up again.
The evening of the masked ball, they were greeted by the Viscount and Viscountess Lisle and entered the festooned ballroom. Her father excused himself to search for the mask he’d dropped on the way in from the carriage. The last strains of music died away as a country dance ended. From their seats, Jo and Aunt Mary watched the dancers leave the floor, laughing and cavorting and enjoying the freedom of their disguises.
When Aunt Mary complained of the discomfort of peering through slits and fiddled with the ties on her pink mask, Jo realized that it prevented her from wearing her glasses. A half-hour passed, while they wondered where her father had got to.
Mrs. Millet approached them with a slim, fair-haired gentleman at her side. He was of average height and wore a black mask, his crimson cape pushed back over his shoulders.
“Miss Hatton, Miss Dalrymple, I should like to introduce you to Mr. Ollerton.”
“Ah, you have given me away, Madam. Were we not to be unmasked at midnight?” Mr. Ollerton smiled, revealing even, white teeth. The candlelight from the enormous chandelier overhead painted his hair gold.
“Forgive me, Mr. Ollerton,” Mrs. Millet tittered. “I could not introduce you to these ladies otherwise. And you did insist.”
Jo wondered why he wished so ardently to meet her when her mask hid most of her face. But she smiled to welcome him.
He sat for a moment and chatted with Aunt Mary, who was effusively describing her new cottage garden and her cats.
A good listener, Mr. Ollerton seemed kind-hearted.
The waltz was announced, and the musicians tuned their instruments. “Would you give me the pleasure of this dance, Miss Dalrymple?”
Jumping up, Jo bobbed. “Delighted, sir.”
“Jo, I’m not sure you should…” Aunt Mary began.
“No such rule applies at a masked ball,” Mrs. Millet said firmly. She had instructed Jo earlier to only waltz with her father. Jo thought it a silly convention.
The dance seemed perfectly respectable, although perhaps more license might be taken. But she wasn’t about to bring it into question, for she longed to waltz. With a smile, she rested her fingers on the gentleman’s arm, and he led her onto the dance floor.
Mr. Ollerton danced well. At first, surprised by their closeness, she was enjoying her first waltz, when he spoke and drew her attention to what she could see of him below the mask, his mouth and rounded chin shaved smooth.
“You hail from the country, Miss Dalrymple?” He led her through a turn. “Near Bath, I believe?”
“Marlborough, sir.”
Jo waited for him to lose interest as another gentleman had done.
“Beautiful countryside in those parts. I know of the Marlborough white horse,” he said. “I went to view the figure on the hill when traveling once to Bath. It stands out impressively. However, I am not cognizant of its history.”
“A boy named William Canning designed the figure of the horse and marked it out early this century with the help of the other boys from Mr. Greasley’s Academy,” Jo said. “William’s family owned the Manor House at Osbourne St. George.”
“Fascinating,” he said with his attractive smile. “Will you promise to tell me more? If I may call on you tomorrow?”
“I should be happy to,” Jo said, pleased for the chance to see him again.
He exhibited a pleasing lack of condescension. While she would have to see more of him to judge, he could fit her idea of a husband. He was one of the most interesting men she had met. And the most elegant. The cut of his coat spoke of fine tailoring, his cravat tied in an intricate knot, and a fine gold fob decorated his white silk waistcoat. Perhaps he was wealthy and had no interest in her dowry. She caught her lip in her teeth in consternation. When had she become so hard-hearted and suspicious? And she was yet to see his face. What color were his eyes? Impossible to tell through the slits of his mask. Hazel, perhaps.
“An elegant gentleman with exquisite manners,” Aunt Mary said approvingly when he had left them.
“Yes.” Jo watched him make his way through the crowd. “He is to call on us tomorrow.”
“My, my,” her aunt said. She fell silent, offering no further opinion.
“Then you approve of me waltzing with him, Aunt?” Jo asked after a moment. Her aunt was usually forthcoming in her opinions.
“I like to see you enjoying yourself. They didn’t dance the waltz in ballrooms in my day. I have to admit it looks exhilarating.” She waved her fan before her face. “As long as you don’t come under criticism.”
“I doubt I’m of any interest,” Jo said. No one paid the slightest attention to her.
“But you are. You’re the prettiest debutante here tonight.”
Jo smiled at her loyal aunt. “I’m not, but thank you for saying so.”
Why had her aunt never married? Her father told Jo she had settled into spinsterhood at a young age. Was it because she was near-sighted and forced to wear glasses? Had it made her shy? Aunt Mary’s support for Jo’s mother and father had enraged their brother, Sir Brian Endicott. He and Lady Endicott ostracized her mother and sent Aunt Mary packing, too. With nowhere to go, Jo’s parents took her aunt in. She seemed content not to marry, but to Jo, it seemed a poor life compared to the love of a husband and children.
At midnight they announced the unmasking. Laughter rippled through the room as masks came off. Relieved to remove hers, Jo searched for Mr. Ollerton but could find no sign of him. Had he left the ball? Perhaps he wasn’t interested in her. Disappointed, she danced another set, while her father, his mask pushed up on his forehead, danced with Mrs. Millet. Jo felt torn. While she was pleased for her father, who had remained loyal to her mother’s memory too long in her opinion, was, at last, enjoying himself in a lady’s company. She wished she could like that lady more.
Letty emerged from the crowd in gold silk, a black lace mask trailing from her fingers by its strings. Jo heard her infectious laugh as she wandered in their direction. A gentleman walked at her elbow, her husband, Mr. Cartwright. Jo sat forward in her seat when the dark-haired gentleman from the coach, dressed in black and white evening clothes, appeared. He must also have just arrived, she always had an eye out for him, and it would have been impossible not to spot him, for he was head and shoulders above most men here tonight.
With a welcoming smile, Letty approached Jo, accompanied by the two gentlemen. “Miss Dalrymple, and is this Miss Hatton? How good to see you this evening. Allow me to introduce you to my husband, Mr. Cartwright, and our friend, Baron, Lord Reade.”
The gentlemen bowed.
Jo took to Mr. Cartwright immediately. His ready smile put her at ease, but when Lord Reade’s firm lips curled into a beguiling smile, she felt unusually warm. Up close, he was the perfect depiction of masculine strength and beauty. His large eyes, deep and dark, observed her as if he could easily uncover her secret thoughts. A frisson of awareness rushed through her. She would be totally out of her depth with such a man. Her fingers coiled around her fan while she resisted snapping it open.
A baron, Lord Reade, came from a different world. He would not wish to marry the daughter of a haberdasher. It was just as well, for she couldn’t imagine him calling to take tea with her family.
While Letty chattered with her aunt, Lord Reade asked Jo if she approved of masked balls. His voice, low and seductive, held a sardonic note. Did he disapprove of her? Or the ball? A man had come dressed in a harlequin costume and danced around them, making people laugh.
“People’s behavior seems to alter wh
ile wearing a mask. I saw a gentleman cast himself at a lady’s feet and kiss her hem!” Jo said. As she sounded like a prudish governess, she hurried on. “I must admit I like to see people’s faces.”
“Some faces should never be hidden,” the baron said, an appreciative light in his eyes.
Mr. Cartwright chuckled. “And some are the better for the mask.”
When Reade’s dark eyes remained on her, she lifted her chin. “What is your opinion of masked balls, my lord?”
“These affairs have distinct advantages, Miss Dalrymple. I might be inclined to cast myself at your feet and kiss your hem.”
She gazed into those dark eyes. It was as though he had reached out and touched her. She swallowed. Was he flirting? Or toying with her? “It’s not that I’m disapproving of people’s actions, sir. I am merely surprised by them.”
Reade shrugged wide shoulders. “I am all approval when some of the ridiculous rules set by the doyens of Society are ignored.”
“For instance?” Mr. Cartwright prodded with a glimmer of humor in his blue eyes.
Reade shrugged again and cast a lazy smile at his friend. “Has marriage made you forgetful, Cartwright? I shan’t remind you of it, however, for it is not suited to a lady’s ears.”
Cartwright laughed.
“Forgive us, Miss Dalrymple,” Lord Reade said. “I should like to hear more of your fresh observations of the ton.”
“I have none, sir. This is only my third ball.”
Dark eyebrows raised over amused eyes. “Then, I must be patient.”
He was teasing her! Might it be because she was new to London? A country miss? She had already had experience of such men and felt vaguely disappointed that he was one of them. “That would depend upon whether I’m willing to share them with you, my lord.”
Lord Reade bowed gracefully. “Arrêt à bon temps,” he murmured with that fascinating smile, using a fencing term Jo recognized from a novel.
Introducing Miss Joanna Page 4