by Anne Gracie
With a very bad grace, Daisy put her sewing aside, stomped into the middle of the room and sank into a slow curtsy. The old lady watched her with a critical eye and nodded. “Excellent. See that, Jane? And Daisy has a bad leg to match her bad mood. Now, your turn again.”
Jane sank once more toward the floor.
“Slowly, child, slowly! And don’t bounce up!”
Jane skipped across the room to bestow a hug on the old lady. “I promise you I’ll be perfect on the day, dearest Lady Beatrice. I’m just so excited. It’s my dream, you see—doing what Mama did—making my come-out, dancing and going to parties, just as Mama did.”
Abby smiled. “She used to make me tell her Mama’s stories over and over again.”
Jane nodded vigorously. “And even after Abby left the Pill, I used to dream of making my come-out, just like Mama. Being Cinderella.”
“Cinderella?” Frowning, Lady Beatrice raised her lorgnette. “You mean that gel who went around with no shoes, dirtying her feet in the cinders of the fire? You used to dream of being her?” She sounded appalled.
“Yes,” Jane said sunnily. “And you’re my fairy godmother.”
“I am not!” Lady Beatrice declared, revolted. “I would never drive around in a pumpkin pulled by rats or whatever horrid creatures they were. It’s a vile notion, quite disgusting. As for the woman’s choice of footwear—ridiculous! What use, pray, is a glass slipper? Cold, inconvenient and dashed uncomfortable, I’ll be bound. No flexibility in glass, you see, so the gel—even if she was used to wearing shoes at all, which she wasn’t—would be clumping all over the dance floor like a clumsy dratted elephant.”
She pondered the stupidity of glass slippers, and snorted. “Ridiculous! Only use for a glass slipper would be for a gentleman to drink champagne from.” She sighed reminiscently. “Did I ever tell you about the time the Duke of—” She broke off, recalling her company, and cleared her throat. “What are you all standing about grinning for? Jane, again, if you please.”
“You’re quite right.” Jane, laughing, bent to kiss the old lady again on her powdered cheek. “You, my darling Lady Beatrice, are better than any fairy godmother could ever be.”
Lady Beatrice, deeply pleased but determined not to show it, gave a sniff and said gruffly, “Well, this Cinderella won’t be going to the ball unless she learns to curtsy better than that. And stop twirling like that, you’re making me quite dizzy.”
Jane laughed, and gave a last happy twirl. “I know, I’m just enjoying myself.”
“Get away with you, gel. It’s not my lessons that have you in alt—it’s that dratted animal you saw fit to bring home. You’re in a hurry to get back to it, I know—why, I don’t know, for it’s the ugliest creature I’ve seen in all my life.”
“I know, but he has a beautiful nature. And you’re right, I am a little worried about leaving him shut in downstairs.” She gave the old lady a guilty look. “I’m not sure if he’s housetrai—er, used to living in a house yet.”
Lady Beatrice shuddered, and flapped her hand in a long-suffering manner. “Go on then, I can see I’m not going to get a bit of sense out of you. Ring that bell on your way out, and tell Featherby to bring tea for your sisters and me. And mind you don’t get muddy paw prints or dog hairs on that dress. It was once my favorite, even if has been made over.” She shot a dark look at Daisy.
“As you wish, my lady,” Jane said and gave her a deep, slow, utterly perfect curtsy, then bounced up and danced across the room to tug on the bellpull.
“Hah! See, you can do it, you wretched gel! Only don’t! Bounce! Afterward!” With each word, Lady Beatrice banged the floor with her ebony stick.
As Jane reached the door, the old lady called, “And don’t be late for your dancing lesson. Half an hour until that little Frenchman comes!”
“Wouldn’t miss him for the world.” Jane blew her a kiss and hurried away.
Sinking back in her seat, Lady Beatrice sighed. “I’m too old for this.” She rolled her eyes in a long-suffering way that deceived nobody. She was enjoying herself hugely.
“Where are you going, missy?” she demanded, spotting Daisy hurrying toward the door.
“I ain’t got time to sit around drinkin’ tea. I got sewing to do.”
“You work too hard,” Lady Beatrice told her. “You’re looking quite worn, my dear.”
Daisy shot her an incredulous look. “Dun’t matter what I look like, does it? Them clothes won’t sew themselves. ’Specially when I got to waste time making curtsies.”
“Those clothes,” Lady Beatrice, Abby and Damaris said together.
“That’s right. And this is me chance in a lifetime to make somefing of meself, and I don’t aim to waste it.” She opened the door, where Featherby, the butler, was about to enter. He stood back to let Daisy pass through the door first.
“You’ll be back here for the dancing lesson, Daisy,” Lady Beatrice reminded her in a firm voice.
Daisy turned around. “Why do I have to learn to dance?” she said, exasperated. “I ain’t going to any of those toff balls—I don’t want to go to them—and I got work to do!”
“You still need to learn,” Lady Beatrice insisted. “Every lady should be able to dance.”
“Yeah, but I ain’t no—” Daisy stopped, remembering the old lady’s earlier threat. “Wiv a gammy leg like mine, there’s no point in me even trying to dance.”
“There is a point, even if you don’t see it,” the old lady said austerely. “You will oblige me in this, Daisy. Thirty minutes. And if you ‘forget,’ Featherby will send William to fetch you.” She glanced at Featherby, who bowed slightly in acknowledgment of what they all recognized as an order.
“All right, but it’s a waste of my precious bloomin’ time,” Daisy grumbled and stumped off. She hurried to the bedchamber she shared with Jane, and found her struggling out of her dress.
“’Ere, let me.” She started undoing the hooks at the back. “The old girl still wants me to go to them dratted dancing lessons. Talk her out of it, can’t you, Jane? What do I want with dancing? She knows I don’t want to be no fancy society lady—I just want to make dresses for them.”
Jane stepped out of the dress, and shook it out. It really was very pretty. “Abby already tried yesterday after you argued last time, and if Abby can’t change her mind . . . She won’t be budged on it, I’m afraid.”
Daisy muttered something rude under her breath. She tossed the dress over Jane’s head and nimbly did it up. She tugged it straight, glanced at Jane in the looking glass and said slyly, “That big handsome gypsy fellow—you met him this morning, din’t you?”
“Who?” Feeling Daisy’s shrewd gaze on her, she added airily, “Oh, him. As it happens, I did bump into him in the park. Purest coincidence.”
Daisy laughed. “Coincidence, my foot. That’s why you was all flushed and excited—nothing to do with being Cinderella.”
Jane felt herself redden. “It was. And I wasn’t. It was . . . nothing.” She tried to look as disinterested as possible.
Daisy quirked a skeptical brow. “So you never talked to him. Just saw him at a distance, eh?”
“He brought m—brought Caesar a basket to sleep in. It was only polite to thank him.”
“Politeness again, is it?”
“Well, it w—”
Daisy snickered. “Admit it, lovey—you fancy him.”
“Oh, very well, yes, maybe I do. A little. Did. But you’re the one who said it was only natural to admire a well-made man. And that’s all it is. Was.” It was all it could be—and a very good thing. A man like Zachary Black could never fit into her plans.
Daisy held her hands up. “Don’t mind me. I don’t blame you, he’s a good-looking feller all right. But you don’t know nothing about him, Jane, so you need to be a bit careful. Are you goin’ to meet him again?”
“No of course not. I doubt I’ll ever see him again.” Which was, Jane admitted privately, a very good thing. Probably. “Now, I really must check on Caesar.”
* * *
“So what did you do today?” Gil asked, but a moment later his manservant brought in dinner—roast beef, mashed potatoes and gravy from the inn around the corner again—and conversation lapsed for a while.
Gil had decided that shabby clothing aside, it would be unwise for Zach to dine at his club. There were men there who might recognize him, men they’d been at school with. And if his cousin got word of Zach’s arrival, he’d no doubt stir up trouble.
“And it would be wise,” Gil added, knowing Zach of old, “not to antagonize Gerald until the murder charge has been dealt with.”
Zach laughed at his friend’s minatory expression. “Don’t worry,” he assured him. “I have no desire to see Gerald or any of the fellows we went to school with. This beef is very good. It’s been a long time since I’ve enjoyed good, plain English fare.” Zach addressed himself to his dinner again.
“So did you visit my tailor today?” Gil asked after a while.
“No, I’ll go tomorrow. Might order a few things.”
“A few?” Gil shot him a surprised glance. “But I thought . . .”
Zach sipped his wine. “Been a while since I had anything new. Nice drop, this burgundy. Very soft.”
There was a long pause. He could feel Gil’s gaze narrowed on him. “It’s that girl, isn’t it? The Chance chit.”
Zach gave him an innocent look and gestured to his shabby clothing. “Don’t you agree I need better clothes? Your manservant certainly does.”
Gil didn’t rise to the bait. “You went back to Berkeley Square, didn’t you?”
“Briefly. Just wanted to check that she was going to be able to keep the dog.” At Gil’s expression, he added, “I felt responsible. You know I’ve always been fond of animals.”
“And is she?”
“Is she what?”
“Keeping it.”
“Yes.”
“Good, then you’ll have no further reason to go back into an area where, of all of London outside my club, you’re most likely to be recognized.”
“More of this excellent mashed potato?” Zach passed Gil the dish.
Silence fell as they finished the meal. Gil’s manservant removed the dishes and Gil brought out a bottle of port. “So you’ve changed your mind about going to Wales?”
“Mmm. Decided to leave it to the lawyer,” Zach said.
“Decided on a little female dalliance, more like,” Gil said dryly. “Though dressed like that—it’s a strange way to court a girl. Girls of the ton expect a man to be dressed to the nines.”
“I’m not courting anyone,” Zach said. “Besides, she thinks I’m a gypsy.”
Gil’s brows rose. “And yet she talks to you?”
“She’s not your average young society miss. Besides”—Zach grinned—“I think she likes me.” Though she persisted in giving him no encouragement. No overt encouragement at any rate. The way her eyes had lit up today when she saw him was enough encouragement for him.
“What if someone recognizes you?”
Zach shrugged. “Why would they? It’s twelve years since I was last in England, and according to my cousin, everyone thinks I’m dead. And even if they didn’t, I don’t look the same. I was a mere scrubby schoolboy when I left, and was not known to the ton at all. Stop fussing—nobody will recognize me.”
There was a short pause, then Gil shook his head. “You’re incorrigible. The number of times in the past you were ordered to stay away from something, that it was too dangerous, and yet you—”
“What’s life without a little risk?”
“There’s a difference between calculated risks and courting death.”
Zach forced a laugh. “Really, Gil, perhaps it’s time you did some courting of your own. First you assume—despite my appearance—that I’m courting a young lady of the ton, and now you have me courting death. Which is patently ridiculous. A walk with a pretty girl, that’s all it was—nothing serious.”
* * *
The following morning Zach found himself propping up a plane tree in Berkeley Square, waiting for the sight of Miss Jane Chance and her atrocious dog. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d arrived there: One moment he was strolling along, heading toward Gil’s tailor in Old Bond Street, and the next thing he realized he was here, in Berkeley Square.
He hadn’t intended to come. Last night, in the dead of the night, he’d resolved to stay away from Miss Jane Chance of the fathomless blue eyes.
He’d thought about Gil’s concerns and decided he was right. It was an impossible fit—she was a being of sunshine and laughter, while Zach was a creature of the shadows.
Perhaps, if he hadn’t fled his home with Cecily when he was sixteen, if he hadn’t wandered the world since then, and if he hadn’t found a vocation as a spy . . .
A dirty business, spying. Nothing clean or honorable about it, though the cause was just enough. Or had been while England was at war . . .
Still, he had all day to visit the tailor. It wasn’t as if he had anything else to do, and it was, after all, just another walk in the park.
Physically she delighted him, the smooth silk of her complexion, her quick, bright smile—not the practiced one she used to hide behind, the genuine, spontaneous, unexpected one that was full of warmth and . . . an invitation to delight.
It reeled him in, the lure of that smile.
The morning was cool with a brisk breeze, but the sky was clear and weak sunshine warmed the cold earth, as well as Zach. Green clusters of bulbs not yet in bloom sought its pallid warmth. An English spring.
He looked up and grinned. Here she came, being towed along at the end of a chain by a loudly panting, straining, four-legged cannonball. She was laughing and reprimanding the dog in the one breath, and when the creature finally stopped at his feet and she looked up and saw who it was, the look in her eyes . . .
Warmth. And welcome.
It caused an unfamiliar tightness in his chest.
“Good morning, Miss Chance, I see you were dragged helter-skelter across the square by this disreputable fellow.” He bent to give the dog a vigorous rub. “Is that any way to treat a lady, sir—is it?” RosePetal grinned and writhed happily, agreeing it was indeed.
Zach straightened. “Shall we stroll around the square for a bit? It’s a little chilly standing still in this breeze.”
And without thinking, he offered his arm.
She hesitated, and he withdrew the offending limb at once. Fool! He’d forgotten for a moment who he was supposed to be. She was a respectable young lady. It wasn’t proper for her to take his arm.
But she surprised him by stepping onto the path with a look that indicated she might not take his arm, but she would walk with him. Zach was impressed. Not many ladies of his acquaintance—in fact, none he could think of—would walk in public with a disreputable-looking fellow such as himself. Especially not in such a fashionable district, with half the ton to witness it. She had unexpected character, this girl.
They strolled along the path, Zach matching his longer stride to her smaller one, her footman and maid following. Today she wore a pair of tiny blue earrings that bobbed and swung as she moved, blue as her eyes, blue as a Greek summer sky. They were half hidden by curly wisps of hair. He longed to smooth back those gossamer curls, to trace the delicate whorls of her small, elegant ears.
Ye gods, fascinated by a woman’s ears?
Yet he was, undeniably, though her ears were the least of it.
Why did she fascinate him so, to draw him back here, day after day, to walk chastely under the eye of her maid and footman in the sight of half of fashionable London? He ought to be on his way to Wales to fetch Cecily, so he could sort ou
t the murder nonsense and head back to Europe.
He could feel the footman’s glare boring into his back. A good fellow, William. Protective.
She needed protecting, associating so easily with a shady fellow such as himself.
“So are you really a gypsy, Mr. Black?” she asked after they’d walked for a minute or two. There was no hint in her voice of the contempt respectable people usually reserved for gypsies, just warmth and sincere interest. And a hint of doubt. He’d let his act slip more than once with this girl.
Zach shrugged. “I’m a member of the tribe. I travel with them from time to time.” It wasn’t a lie.
She glanced at his ear. “I see you’ve taken out your earring. I know another man who wears an earring. His friends say he’s a pirate. He isn’t, of course, they’re just joking. He used to be a seaman.”
“I was a pirate once,” Zach said without thinking. She gave him a doubtful look and he hastened to assure her, “Only we were called privateers. It was during the war and we captured an enemy ship and rescued some English hostages.”
She still looked at him dubiously so he added, “I gave up the sea after that.” He glanced around cautiously, leaned closer and said in a low voice, as if imparting a deadly secret, “I get seasick.”
She laughed. “So did Admiral Nelson, I believe. It didn’t stop him.”
“Admiral Nelson was a pirate? I’m shocked! Appalled! And all this time I’ve thought him one of England’s heroes.”
She laughed again. “He was a hero. And of course I didn’t mean he was a pirate, I meant seasickness didn’t stop him living a seagoing life.”
“Well, it’s not for me. Terra firma for me, every time.” That laugh of hers, so warm and spontaneous. He vowed silently to make her laugh as often as he could, saving up the sound to take back with him when he left England again and returned to the shadows.
She cocked her head curiously. “Were you truly a pirate?”