by Carrie Lomax
“Papa, can I have a cake?”
Wide, dark eyes peered up at him from slightly less than waist height. Brown ringlets bobbed about his daughter’s shoulders. The curls were his late wife’s contribution. Piers shook off his distraction.
“I promised you one, sweet dumpling, and you shall have it.” Piers captured his daughter’s small hand in his. Warm and slightly sticky, she tugged and tried to skip ahead to the tea shop, impervious to the cold and with her gloves tucked inside the pockets of her cloak. Children weren’t especially welcome at fancy shops, but the proprietor allowed him to bring Emily to the counter and select a treat. Viscounts were valued customers. Piers was not above using his title to make his child happy.
It was about the only use he had for it. Still, one did not take an inheritance such as his for granted.
One day, he must marry again. Piers refused to be the one Ranleigh who failed to produce an heir. All he had left of a family was Emily, the ability to pass on his name, and a damaged sister whose lungs would never heal. Gwendolyn would die a spinster. She could not withstand the rigors of pregnancy and childbed. He would never permit her to risk her life.
“May I have a blue dress for my doll?” Emily asked between a custard cake. This was one of several demands she’d peppered him with since leaving the shop, but she must especially want this toy for she was using her prettiest manners.
“Of course, pet.”
Miss Townsend, bless her uptight soul, was going to have his head for spoiling Emily when they returned home. His nursemaid possessed all the charm of a pincushion. To be fair, he’d been looking for the opposite of temptation when Emilia, the first Lady Dalton had passed a few months before Emily’s first birthday. But if he’d known they’d still be rubbing along this awkwardly nearly four years later, Piers might have selected a candidate with conversational skills beyond please, sir and yes, sir.
Piers wiped a smear of jam from Emily’s round cheeks. Never mind the child’s governess. Viola was the perfect woman to become the next Viscountess Dalton. All Piers had to do was win Mrs. Cartwright’s heart without losing his own. Simple, really. She was a lighthearted, practical soul. Viola would understand the benefits of a match for herself and for young Matthew, and he could bask in her presence for as long as they both walked the earth. Which, in his experience, was likely to be a great deal shorter than his preference. Their treat finished, he helped his daughter back into her winter wear and led Emily to the coach waiting nearby.
Tears for Piers. Fever boy. Don’t get close you’ll catch his curse, lie in a casket pulled by the hearse.
Memories of the nonsensical, mocking chants caused him to catch his toe on a cobblestone and stumble forward. Even now, half a lifetime later, those childhood taunts could slice through him with savage cruelty.
Those men had grown up to become his peers—literally. Many of the boys who’d tortured him at school were now ostensibly his friends. Piers trusted the lot of London’s most esteemed aristocrats about as much as he did the average cutpurse on the street, though. Let your guard down, and either was liable to stab you between the ribs. He pitied Viola, trying to navigate this viper’s nest of social intrigue and obscure obligations. Confound it if he could understand how she enjoyed London so much. But she did.
“I’ll catch you, Papa!” Emily squealed. Instead, she leapt onto his arm and swung her feet up. Piers narrowly avoided colliding with a passing clerk who cast him a baleful glare.
“Not helpful, Miss Emily,” he chided gently.
“I’m Lady Emily, Papa. Miss Townsend says. I’m still hungry. Can I have another cake?”
“It’s ‘may I’ have another cake, dear heart, and the answer is no. Come along. Up into the carriage with you.” Piers boosted his tiny, wiggling companion into the seat and tucked a blanket around her legs. But by the time the driver set the horses into motion she’d kicked it off to kneel on the seat and peer out the window.
“Are we going to the museum?”
Piers wondered how Miss Townsend endured the daily onslaught of childish chatter. About a year ago, his daughter had fairly erupted into an ongoing volcano of words. The only time Emily was quiet was when she was asleep. Otherwise, she was a fount of alternating demands, whining, and not-quite-formed questions about the fascinating world she had set her mind to discovering.
“Not today, dear. Papa is going out this evening.” He’d promised Emily a trip to the British Museum but hadn’t yet made the time. At four, she was still a bit young to be in public.
“Nooo. I want you to put me to bed.” Her glossy lower lip protruded stubbornly.
Piers didn’t try to hide his smile. Whenever Miss Townsend had her afternoon off, he read a story to his daughter and often fell asleep in the process. Restless little Emily liked to kick him in the ribs until he awoke in the dark, confused and fully dressed. “I’ll give you a kiss before I leave, darling, as I always do.”
“If you buy me a blue dress, too, my doll and I can come with you. We all dance.” Emily clapped her little hands together. There was a jam stain on her mitten. The coach hit a sharp bump, and she nearly toppled off the seat. Piers caught his daughter easily and tucked her into place beside him. It would be a long ride back to Dalton’s town lodgings.
“You shall have your turn in good time, Emily. Now, settle down next to me while I tell you a story.”
“Is it about a princess?”
“Do you want it to be?” he asked, wracking his brains for a semblance of a story.
“Yes. Or a fairy.”
“How about a fairy princess?” he offered.
“Yes!” Emily shouted. Piers placed one finger over his lips, and she quieted for a moment.
“Once upon a time, there was a beautiful fairy princess who was cast out of her kingdom and cursed to wander the mortal universe,” he began. The curve of Emily’s dark lashes rested against her pale, round cheek for a long moment.
“Is she like the woman you talked to?” Emily punctuated her question with a great yawn.
“Whom?” Piers asked, though he knew the answer. Viola. Mrs. Cartwright.
“The woman touching the fabric with her gloves on.”
“Exactly like her, darling. In fact," he bent and stage-whispered, "I think it may have been her.”
Emily’s eyes popped wide open. Piers sighed. It was too much to hope she might nap, wasn’t it?
“Why was she gone away?” his daughter asked with another yawn. She managed to knee him in the ribs. Piers grunted. His daughter had a hell of a pair of legs. The thought of the potential for trouble in fifteen years or so did not comfort him. Another decided point in Viola’s favor—she would know how to guide a headstrong young woman through the gauntlet that was a girl’s coming out. The mere thought of an evening at Almack’s sent a chill coursing through Piers’ body.
“The lady had been cursed with a spell by an evil wizard,” he said after a beat.
“What was her name?”
“The wizard?” he asked. How long would it take Emily to sleep? They must be halfway home by now.
“The princess.”
“Viola.”
Emily nodded, satisfied.
“The evil wizard cursed Viola the fairy princess because he wanted to marry her and take her realm away from her.” Piers thought he detected a soft snore. He continued talking, hoping the rhythm of his voice would lull her. “The princess left and vowed she would never return to her kingdom until the evil wizard set her free of the curse. For years, she wandered alone. A human man fell in love with Viola and vowed to fight the wizard. The princess gave him a lock of her hair for good luck…”
He trailed off, thinking she might have closed her eyes. Alas, no.
“Did she beat him? The wizard?”
Still awake. Emily shifted, digging one bony knee into his side in the process.
“The lock of hair possessed magic powers—the lady was a fairy, after all—which the man used to disguise himself fr
om the evil wizard. He stole the wizard’s staff and ordered him to lift the curse. But the wizard was cunning. The curse could only be lifted by the kiss of true love…”
Emily’s breath slowed beneath his hand. Asleep at last. Piers released a sigh of contentment.
The carriage halted.
The door opened, letting in cold air. Benjamin, the footman, wore a sheepish expression. “Sorry, sir. We’ve arrived, when you’re ready.” He shut the door.
“Did the man kiss her?” Emily shoved the wrap off her legs and squirmed down onto the floor.
“We’ll have to wait for the next ride to find out, won’t we?” he asked, motioning to his servant to let them out.
“To the museum?” she demanded. Piers, worn out from his offspring’s excessive energy and incessant fount of questions, simply nodded his assent. Emily bounded out, chattering at Benjamin as he led her to where the housekeeper awaited their arrival on the step.
“Soon, little one.” He turned to Miss Townsend, the unlovely but utterly patient young woman he paid to care for his most beloved.
“I see she didn’t nap.” The governess narrowed her eyes at him.
“Yes, Miss Townsend, your services are still required this afternoon. I trust your headache is better?” Piers intoned with his best authoritative drawl. Tedious woman, though he appreciated her protectiveness—even when it was misdirected toward him.
Chapter 3
Viola flung the doors of the empty townhouse standing at 24 Hamilton Mews wide. Cold air swirled into the limestone edifice, billowing her skirts forward and pressing them against her calves.
Warm stockings were such a luxury in cold weather. For how many years in Upper Cotwarren had she made do with patched, thin stockings which irritated the chilblains that had broken out on her hands and legs each winter? Viola vowed never to permit that to happen again. Matthew would get schooling, find an appropriate trade, and live his life in comfort while she lived here, with her sister when Harper and Edward were in residence and alone when they were not.
“Is anybody here?” Viola called. Only the echo of her own voice replied. The workers had mostly finished repairing the plaster, refinishing the wood floors, and installing new windows. The comforting smell of wood oil and beeswax permeated the cold rooms. No fires had been laid in anticipation of her arrival, for as yet, there were no servants. Viola had much to accomplish before her sister and brother-in-law returned to town in spring.
She strode into the foyer and latched the doors behind her. Without the cold December wind to animate the house, only her footsteps broke the silence.
Selecting furnishings had been a relatively simple process. During the two months she had spent in the country helping Harper acclimate to her new role as countess, Viola had made herself useful by requesting samples of wood and printed catalogs from the more established carpentry shops. Consulting with her sister had been simple.
“I like these,” Harper had said, circling the page numbers of the styles she liked.
Edward had been equally easy to please, if only because he was utterly indifferent to considerations like furniture.
“Whatever my wife wants. You’ve a frugal streak, Viola. I trust you to manage the orders without getting fleeced.” Edward had grimaced. “Certainly, more than I’d ever trust myself. All of this is new to me. I’m up to my chin trying to cope with Briarcliff’s accounts and deal with issues stemming from the burned townhouse.”
Considering the Earl’s height, that was piling trouble very high indeed.
Viola had placed orders for neoclassical furnishings from George Smith, in mahogany with blue, cream, and gold damask silk and gold braid trimmings. It would be delivered after the new year, which meant that Viola had until Christmas to finish installing wall coverings and select rugs. Then, there were the draperies, the silverwares, the linens, and so forth. The housekeeper at Briarcliff had given Viola a list of vendors and instructions and had offered to her advice on any decisions that needed to be made. Yet no matter how generous the earl’s purse, the task remained a daunting one.
Viola hoisted her skirts and trudged up the grand stairway. By the time she reached the first landing, she’d grown too warm for her mantle, but there was nowhere to hang it, so she kept it on.
The public rooms on the parlor floor were spacious with wide windows that let in a great deal of light. Or would have, had they not been covered with thick parchment paper. Viola peeled away the edge to let in the waning light of early evening. Dust motes swirled in the faint beams. Her first order of business was to have the place thoroughly cleaned and coal delivered.
Viola clapped her butter-soft lambskin gloves together and made her way upstairs to the bedrooms. She bypassed the grand suite where Edward and Harper would sleep when they were in residence. Or whatever they chose to do in there. It was none of her business. Down the hallway were two chambers suitable to children or guests. At the end, overlooking the rear yard with its leafless pear tree, was her room.
My new life begins when I move in here, Viola thought with immense satisfaction. As much as she adored her grandmother, putting a few blocks of distance between them would give her the freedom Viola craved. Despite the warm relationship that had developed between them, the ongoing friction over the Baroness’ demand that she marry had a way of bubbling up at inconvenient moments. There was also the occasionally snappish disapproval of her grandmother’s friends. Lady Gracie, in particular, remained deeply offended by Harper’s elevation to countess, and liked to remind Viola of her unworthiness through shrewish backhanded compliments. This was the gossipy and cliquish part of town society which Viola preferred to pretend did not exist.
Viola shook the thought away. Lady Gracie was a problem for later, after her work here was finished. In the meantime, there was a certain admiral whose unwelcome affections must be gently brushed aside. The last thing she needed in London was an enemy.
The future she’d hardly dared to dream about was so close, she could feel freedom pulsing around her. It was the hum of a city that offered untold delights for a curious woman of means and leisure. At its core was Viola’s right to dance to the tune of her own selection. The only way she would ever be bound to another human being was love, not obligation, for she’d borne too much of that in her young life.
* * *
The Northcote family had not been out in public much since the death of the late earl of Briarcliff. Therefore, the sight of a deep green velvet gown with deep ivory trim at the hem shocked Piers out of his conversation with his old acquaintance, the Marquess of Evendaw.
Ranleigh, the scarlet fever orphan. Piers flicked away the memory of Evendaw chanting insulting nicknames. As though he’d been the one responsible. Superstition had trailed him for years, until he’d married Emilia. After she’d died, however, the taint on the Ranleigh name and the stain over the House of Dalton had turned permanent. He was marked.
Tonight, though, none of it mattered. Viola hadn’t worn the gown he’d audaciously requested, but still he wondered—had she come for him? Piers ached with the possibility. Mrs. Cartwright, whose plebeian name hardly suited her natural elegance, tilted her chin to listen to her companion. Her gaze skimmed past his, then back, locking with his for a moment before dismissing him with a smug smile curling her lips up at the corner.
It was a valiant attempt at feigning disinterest, and he saluted mentally. Yet he’d felt the spark of awareness across the ballroom. He’d wager Mrs. Cartwright had too.
“Dalton, did you hear my offer of my sister’s hand?”
“Yes”—he coughed—“I am honored.”
In truth, he’d hardly heard Evendaw’s words after catching sight of Viola. A cold wash of comprehension yanked his attention away from the vision in evergreen velvet.
Evendaw’s offer was not a welcome development. Declining an offer to open marriage negotiations with the marquess was unwise, for the man enjoyed using his carefully cultivated political heft to curry favors.
In truth, Piers considered the man a pompous ass—though as he was rarely asked his opinion, he generally kept it to himself. Evendaw frowned, his pale gold brows knitting over the beak of his nose. The coloring was a family trait. Lady Margaret was as petite as Emily’s beloved, tattered doll and about as animated.
“I’d like to arrange a meeting. A quiet meeting. My sister is, as I’ve mentioned, very shy around men.”
The noble thing to do would be to marry the poor girl. Give her a title and a babe or two. Get himself an heir, hopefully. Piers had done it once. He ought to reconcile himself to doing so again. There was wisdom in not becoming overly attached to family. It only set one up for devastation when death inevitably arrived. Despite this conviction, his attention was again drawn to the woman in deep green velvet with gold silk trim, whose hips swayed gently as she perambulated the perimeter of the dance floor.
She too had known the death of loved ones, but Viola didn’t let the past dim her enjoyment of the present.
“Perhaps another time,” Piers broke off. He launched himself across the room, fixated on the scant expanse of flesh visible between Mrs. Cartwright’s gold satin gloves and the puff of her sleeve.
“Mrs. Cartwright,” he said in an exhale. “Would you care to dance?”
The lady turned to spear him with questioning blue-gray eyes.
“I do enjoy a waltz,” she offered hesitantly. Lest he mistake her reluctance for coyness, Mrs. Cartwright snapped open her fan. “Alas, I fear I am being watched for any hint of impropriety. With you, I daren’t take the risk.”
Viola gestured across the room. Lady Gracie and Baroness Landor were watching them from the safety of the card table in an alcove. They were three weeks from Christmas, and the London season was petering out, leaving the party less populated than it might have been a few weeks earlier. In spring, an equivalent gathering would likely be a crush of people and horses in the street.
“Do I tempt you to impropriety?” Piers teased, his voice purring in a semblance of calculated flirtation. He plucked the commemorative paper fan dangling from Viola’s wrist. She relinquished it without resistance. Piers squinted at the names written across the tines. It was not even close to full. There were four names.