True of Heart (Regency Shakespeare Book 3)

by Martha Keyes

  He looked thoughtful. “And if they were not? If you had fallen under Miss Devenish’s spell as so many other men have, would you feel yourself duty-bound to decline helping me any further?”

  It was such a nonsensical question, given the truth, that Ruth hardly knew how to answer. “I am quite capable of separating business and personal interests.” It was more of a wish than anything, but it needed to be true, and she was glad for the accountability that saying it provided her. The entire topic was dangerous ground, so she shifted the conversation. “But I did learn some things of interest while speaking with her and Miss Parkham.”

  “You spoke with her?” Lord Oxley said, sitting forward and staring at her with wide eyes, as if she had admitted to abducting Miss Devenish.

  Ruth shrugged. “Yes. What of it?”

  “What of it? It is the very thing I have called upon you to help me with, and yet you say it as if it were the most natural thing in the world—especially given that you’ve never been introduced to her. How did you manage it?”

  Ruth was hard pressed not to laugh at the wonder in his eyes. “Without spewing lemon tart on her, thankfully, but it was a near miss.”

  Lord Oxley dipped his head and held up his glass. “I felicitate you. You have successfully and irrefutably demonstrated your qualifications as the expert,” he said. “But really? How did you manage to gain an introduction?”

  “Through unconventional tactics, I admit. I saw an opportunity and took it. She clearly had no desire to be kept in conversation with the gentleman speaking to her, so I interjected myself on the pretense of knowing Miss Devenish. I wondered if she might not send me on my way, but she was clever enough to play along until the man accepted defeat and left her be.”

  Lord Oxley sighed. “She has a number of determined suitors.”

  “That is good news, I think.”

  He raised his brows incredulously.

  “Miss Devenish seemed not to relish this man’s attentions at all, and if he continues to be assiduous in them, it may provide you with the opportunity to be cast in the role of deliverer.”

  Lord Oxley stared at her. “You are far too wise for someone of twenty.”

  She smiled. “I discovered another piece of useful information: Miss Devenish plans to put off her mourning in time for the Walthams’ masquerade, whatever and whenever that is.”

  Philip blinked. “You are a wealth of information. The ball is in two and a half weeks. Did she give a reason?”

  “Apparently it was inspired by the fact that mourning is inhibiting her ability to pursue further acquaintance with a gentleman.” Ruth wagged her eyebrows.

  His jaw shifted thoughtfully. “Will you stay until the ball, then?”

  Two and a half more weeks. With Oxley. For at least two hundred pounds. “If it is what you wish,” she said warily.

  He nodded. “It is. But of course I shan’t compel you to stay.” And then he smiled in a way that compelled her.

  She took in a breath. “No compulsion necessary. I shall stay until then. I thought tomorrow at church might be a good opportunity for you to put into practice some of the things we discussed earlier this week.”

  Lord Oxley sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees and swirling the liquid in his glass. “That means attending at St. James’s.” He grimaced. “Very well. At least there is no threat of lemon tart.” His words were humorous, but by the way he didn’t meet her gaze, she suspected that he felt less confident than he sounded.

  “No, indeed. And it is a chance for you to heed the advice I gave you on asking questions and listening. You can ask her opinion on the sermon, for example, and then employ the eighty-twenty rule we touched on.”

  She watched him grow more tense. What in the world had happened to make the man so ill-at-ease in front of women? He had every reason to walk into a room and approach any woman present with full confidence, and yet he was a bundle of nerves at the mere mention of asking something as harmless as an opinion on the church service.

  For some unaccountable reason, it made Ruth like him all the more. She had always thought confidence the key ingredient in winning a woman over—the thing that could overcome deficiencies in wealth or appearance or even status. But as she looked at Lord Oxley, his lack of it only drew her to him. She wanted to understand it—to understand him.

  “You are nervous,” she said.

  He set his glass down on the table next to him and ran his hands down the legs of his pantaloons. “I told you. I am always nervous in the presence of Miss Devenish.”

  “Why?”

  He threw up his hands in the air helplessly. “I don’t know how to act, I suppose.”

  “Why act at all?” Ruth said. “I imagine that, if Miss Devenish could see you here, talking with me as you have been for the last quarter of an hour, she would like you very well indeed.”

  “But this is entirely different.”

  “Is it?” What would he say to know that he had been speaking to a woman this entire time with no awkwardness whatsoever? She wished she could tell him—perhaps it would increase his confidence. But it would also destroy his trust in her—and any chance of receiving the two hundred pounds her family so desperately needed. Or, heaven willing, three hundred.

  “Certainly it is. I don’t even need to think to carry a conversation with you. It is completely natural.” He sighed. “It is different with Miss Devenish. And with women in general.”

  It was foolish to feel hurt by a man saying it was easy to converse with her. It should have been a compliment. And yet it stung.

  “You needn’t change yourself merely because you are in the presence of a woman. Talk to her as you have to me. Remember what I said about forgetting yourself and focusing on her.” Ruth sat forward so that their faces were on the same level and looked him intently in the eye.

  Good gracious heavens, as Lucy would say. He was close enough that she could see the light sprinkling of freckles across his nose. Close enough that she could smell the brandy—whether in his glass or on his breath, she didn’t know, but she knew an impulse to get nearer to determine which it was.

  She clenched her jaw. It was time to focus. “This is where the blessed combination of asking questions and abiding by the eighty-twenty rule comes in. The more questions you ask of her and the more you listen carefully to her answers, the less you will need to scramble for conversation. I am not here to teach you how to become a different person to appeal to Miss Devenish. I am here to help you break down the barriers both you and Miss Devenish have constructed—whether consciously or not—to recognizing the best in one another.”

  He swallowed and nodded. “And if I still manage to sabotage things tomorrow at church?”

  “Then we get up and try again the next day.”

  He let out a large breath laced with brandy then shot her a significant look. “You are coming with me, of course.”

  “That I am most certainly not.” Ruth sat back.

  “Why not?”

  “Have you need of a nursemaid to hold your hand throughout the ordeal, then?”

  Lord Oxley seemed to consider that. “Perhaps it is just what I need.”

  Ruth laughed, heart fluttering briefly at the thought of holding his hand. “You had better spit an entire batch of lemon tarts at Miss Devenish than do that.”

  Something much like a snort escaped Lord Oxley. “I shall never live that down, shall I? Besides, it was not a batch of lemon tart. It was a mere…morsel.”

  “How very appetizing you make it sound.” Ruth stood up and took a book from the nearby shelf. “Whatever it was, I am not coming to church with you.” The last thing she needed was to spend more time with Lord Oxley than was absolutely necessary.

  “Three hundred and twenty-five pounds.”

  Her head snapped up.

  Lord Oxley was smiling mischievously.

  “For heaven’s sake, no!” Ruth snapped the book shut. “Besides being insufferable, you are utterly incorrigibl
e.”

  His eyebrow went up. “Three hundred and fifty, then?”

  She drew her lips into a thin line. “You would bribe me to go to church?”

  “No,” he said, feigning deep offense. “I am paying you to be on hand for any emergencies that might crop up.” He put a hand over his heart and closed his eyes. “I rely upon you to help save me from myself.”

  “I thought you wished to be discreet.”

  “And I do.”

  “Then it can hardly be conducive to that goal to appear at church with the Swan.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Do others in Town know of your work as the Swan?”

  She shook her head.

  He looked relieved and gave a shrug. “Then there is no danger of it. You come as my friend Henry Ruth, and no one need know how we became acquainted.”

  She held his gaze. He made it sound so simple. But there was nothing simple at all about this game she was playing.

  He put his hands palm to palm, looking at her with a pair of pleading eyes that obliterated any resolve she had remaining.

  “Fine,” she said in amused annoyance. “I will go with you. And I shall bring my”—she caught herself—“my colleague too. But only if you stop attempting to pay me more. I want none of your sacrilegious bribes. We agreed upon two hundred for my assistance, three hundred if you find success.”

  Lord Oxley inclined his head penitently. “A small price indeed to save a pathetic, helpless man like myself.”

  Ruth was beginning to wonder whether she might be the one who needed saving when all was said and done.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Philip fumbled with his cravat, let out a frustrated groan, and tore the piece of cloth from his neck, tossing it onto the floor to join two other crumpled ones. It wasn’t as if Philip had never tied his own cravat before, but this morning both his fingers and the cloth refused to cooperate. He was sorely regretting giving his valet the morning off.

  He dropped his arms to his sides, letting his muscles rest from the exertion of smoothing and adjusting the neckcloths. He looked at himself critically in the mirror. He had selected a simple blue waistcoat, but he was beginning to think it a bad choice.

  A soft knock sounded on his door.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Ruth is here, my lord,” came the reply.

  Ah, good. Ruth would be honest with him about his clothing.

  “Send him up,” Philip said. “I require his help.”

  “Very good, my lord.”

  He squinted at his shirt in the mirror. Was that a stain? He looked down and, sure as anything, a yellow blotch stared back up at him.

  With a sigh of annoyance, he undid the buttons of his waistcoat, tugged it off, and threw it on the bed next to a similar one of crimson satin, then undid the button at his throat and pulled his shirt over his head.

  “Lord Oxley?” Ruth’s voice came through the door, a hint of hesitation in it.

  “Come in, Ruth.” Philip strode over to the door, opened it, and walked back over to the armoire to pull out one of the neatly folded shirts from a pile. “Thank heaven you’ve come. You can choose between the red and the blue waistcoat. For the life of me I can’t—” He stopped.

  Ruth stood in the doorway, regarding him with wide eyes.

  “What?” Philip said, feeling sudden dismay. Had he a stain on his pantaloons as well? He glanced down, but his pantaloons were the one article of clothing he felt confident in. “Is it my hair?” He turned toward the mirror, brushing softly at a tuft of hair that had moved from its place. “I gave my valet the morning off, and I have never regretted something so profoundly.” He turned back to Ruth. “Well? What is it, man?”

  Ruth swallowed and blinked. “Nothing. It is just…I have never seen a dandy in his natural habitat. It is fascinating.”

  Philip scoffed and pulled the shirt over his head. “A dandy! That’s rich. I have never in my life been called that.”

  Ruth’s brows went up, and he nodded at the pile of cravats and the waistcoats on the bed. “You certainly seem to meet some of the criteria.”

  Philip finished buttoning the shirt at the throat and sent him an unamused glance before holding up the waistcoats. “Red or blue?”

  Ruth looked at him carefully, eyes switching between his face and the waistcoats. “Red.”

  Philip hurriedly shrugged into the waistcoat then reached for a new cravat. “Perhaps I should have you tie it. My fingers seem to be covered in butter today.”

  Ruth laughed. “No, Narcissus. I shall come with you to church, but I must draw the line somewhere, and I think tying your cravat is well beyond that line.”

  “Hadn’t any idea what you were getting yourself into when you accepted my request, did you?” Philip tucked the end of the cravat through itself and glanced at Ruth through the mirror.

  Ruth shot him a look full of meaning. “You have no idea.”

  On the walk to Piccadilly, Philip asked question after question of Ruth, who patiently answered and expounded upon each answer.

  Philip couldn’t help but chuckle as he looked over at the young man, laboriously explaining the proper use of eye contact to hint at his interest in Miss Devenish.

  “In the beginning, you cannot afford anything but the briefest of exchanged glances when you are not directly speaking to one another. Hold her gaze too long before she has given you encouragement that she looks favorably upon your suit, and you will only succeed in making her feel supremely uncomfortable. Better too short than too long in this case.”

  “I must trust you, no doubt,” Philip said. “I can only imagine you see the world quite a bit more clearly than I with these.” He plucked the spectacles from Ruth’s face, and Ruth scrambled to get them back, wresting them from Philip and setting them back on his nose.

  Surprised at the vehemence of Ruth’s reaction, Philip put his hands up in a display of innocence. “I never knew a man to be so attached to his glasses. You must be the only man under the age of sixty who wears them all the time.”

  “Well, not all of us are blessed with the triad,” he said the last word with feigned reverence.

  “Perhaps not,” Philip said, eying the spectacles with amusement. “But you might have chosen a pair of glasses a bit less…obtrusive. You bring new meaning to the phrase making a spectacle of oneself. Or is this your method of being noticed? Perhaps you should let me borrow them today.”

  “Don’t veil your eyes,” Ruth said. “Let Miss Devenish see them clearly. They are one of your best features.”

  Philip chuckled, a half-smile bringing up the side of his mouth. “You positively unman me with your flattery, Ruth.”

  Ruth sent him an annoyed glance through the thick rims of his glasses. Why was it so entertaining to tease him?

  “When there is but one good feature to capitalize upon, I feel myself duty-bound to point it out,” Ruth said. “Now, as I was saying, when you are speaking directly to Miss Devenish, you should hold her gaze clearly as she speaks. Let her see that your attention is on her.”

  Reaching the gates of St. James’s, they followed behind a middle-aged couple into the churchyard.

  The vicar stood just inside the church doors, and he greeted Philip with a raising of the brows. “Lord Oxley,” he said, voice loud enough to carry for many feet around them. “How good of you to join us. I hope this is the turning over of a new leaf and that it means we shall begin seeing more of you. I am always devastated to see your empty box each Sabbath. God is pleased when a lost sheep returns to the fold.”

  Philip smiled civilly. “Thank you, Mr. Gibson.”

  “I encourage you to listen carefully to today’s sermon, my lord,” said the vicar.

  Philip gave a nod and pulled Ruth’s arm to force them both into the church.

  “You shock me, Oxley,” Ruth said, covering his mouth in a failed attempt to stifle a laugh. “I hadn’t any idea you were a prodigal.”

  Philip eyed the vicar with disfavor as they
proceeded into the church. “Is it any wonder I stay away?”

  “No,” Ruth said. “Though I confess I am impatient to hear what the subject is for today’s sermon. Or does the vicar say that to everyone who attends?”

  They slipped into the Trent family box pew. “No, he does not. He seems to feel that every call to repentance is tailored for me.”

  The sermon was, as it would have it, on vanity, something that Ruth found extremely amusing. He found it incumbent upon himself to send Philip a stern, pointed glance each time the vicar mentioned the word, mouthing “Narcissus” on one occasion. Instead of the usual frustration and annoyance Philip felt at the vicar’s singling him out, he was hard put not to laugh.

  As soon as the sermon ended—complete with a final inclining of the vicar’s head in Philip’s direction—Philip and Ruth left the pew.

  “Is she here?” Ruth asked, eyes casually searching the crowds.

  “Yes.” Philip had found her easily enough. “She doesn’t generally stay long after the service.”

  “Well, then.” Ruth shot him a significant look.

  But Philip wasn’t obliged to go in search of Miss Devenish. Her eyes were roving over the groups of churchgoers, as though searching for someone in particular. When her gaze landed upon Philip and Ruth, she smiled in surprise and began to make her way over, trailed by her friend Miss Parkham. It was Ruth she had her eyes trained on, though, and Philip had to admit he was impressed. So, the man knew what he was talking about, after all.

  “Mr. Ruth,” said Miss Devenish with a friendly smile. “What a pleasure to see you here. And you, too, Lord Oxley.”

  Philip felt a small nudge from Ruth, who addressed himself to Miss Parkham.

  Philip cleared his throat and smiled at Miss Devenish. “What did you think of the sermon, Miss Devenish?”

  She looked at him with a suppressed smile. “It was very…severe.” She laughed softly. “I believe Mr. Gibson was directing his words at me.”

  Philip smiled and shook his head. “Oh, no. You may rest easy. He as much as told me that he chose it for my benefit.”