An Encounter at Hyde Park

by Karen Hawkins

  “I know.” He promised to come again when he could, kissed her on the cheek, and left.

  On the way out, he made an obscene gesture at his father’s portrait. A wasted motion, but at least the fires of vengeance were stoked again.

  For the first time, though, they didn’t warm him. The old urgency and need were there, but the flames left him feeling bleaker and lonelier than before.

  Cursing, he turned up the collar of his coat and set out for home.

  For days following her clandestine visit to Vauxhall, Addy tried to go about her normal routine while uncertainties flitted about her insides like butterflies.

  Waiting was not her strong suit. She’d had no word from Hestia, nary a glimpse of Vickers. Nothing had been settled—and more than a few things had been stirred up; her past, her future . . . and that kiss. Oh, that kiss lived on, haunting her quiet moments and the long hours of the night.

  She tried to distract herself and succeeded, but then she had new ideas, new plans, even some new information that might be useful—and no way to convey them.

  She tried to focus instead on things she could control. She thawed her demeanor at tonnish events, hoping to encourage one gentleman or another. She started preparing information for the talk she was going to have with her relatives. She tried to keep herself as busy as her churning mind—which led her, one day, to a bookseller and stationer’s shop, in search of paper for a project.

  She had two weights of paper in hand, comparing them for sturdiness, when a girl rounded a corner too quickly and bumped her.

  “Oh!” The papers slipped from her grip.

  “So, sorry, Miss!” The girl, young and scrubbed clean but dressed in homespun, bent to help her. She handed the sheets over and met Addy’s gaze with a significant look and a wink.

  Addy stared as the girl skipped back the way she’d come, then noticed the small, folded note atop the papers in her hand.

  Newman and Co. in Pall Mall. Ask for the red gauze with chenille embroidery

  The papers were abandoned and she was out the door in seconds. She refused to allow Henry to find a hack, but set out on foot, an absurd mixture of relief and anxiety lending speed to her stride.

  The linen draper’s shop was bright and airy, the merchant himself short and broad. She asked after the fabric and he smiled.

  “You obviously have exquisite taste, Miss. Allow me to escort you to our private showroom.” Bowing low, he led the way to a back corner and opened a door with flourish.

  Vickers stood there, in the center of a tiny room shelved floor to ceiling on every wall and stuffed to the brim with gorgeous fabrics of every description.

  “Ohhhh,” she breathed. Her eyes locked with his dark, intent gaze. “Such beautiful fabrics,” she added belatedly.

  Stunning, in truth, although perhaps not up to her breathless state of enthusiasm. But better admit to a fabric-induced excess of delight than the truth, for the room was small and once inside, she stood disturbingly close to Vickers.

  “Thank you, Newman,” he said.

  “Of course, sir. Call if you need aught.” He swung the door shut.

  Leaving her alone and in intimate proximity with—Vickers’ neck cloth.

  A wonderful creation, crisply creased and intricately folded, functioning as the perfect compliment to the hard edge of his jaw and the strong angle of his cheekbones.

  And the only safe place for her to look, for below sat the shoulders she’d gripped when last she saw him and atop sat that lovely, determined mouth that had plundered her own.

  “Come in.”

  A small round table sat in the middle of the space, partially covered in designs and swatches and accompanied by two chairs. She took one, and he the other—and here they were again, close, isolated . . . nervous.

  “Hestia charged me with a delivery.” He handed over a large packet.

  “Thank you.” She pulled out a neat, detailed description of several rooms in London, each furnished and as inexpensive as could be had without sacrificing respectability. The distance to Crawley from both was also marked.

  “Another note with a similar report on Sussex leases will come soon.”

  “Thank her for me?”

  He nodded. “I wanted a chance to talk to you, thus—” He waved a hand.

  “However did you arrange it?” she asked, taking in all the wonderful sarcenets and silks.

  His mouth quirked. “I’m the Wicked Vickers. I know every pretty nook and cranny in London.”

  She grinned. “Then I look forward to seeing more of them.”

  His half-smile faded. “We must speak of that.”

  “Yes,” she agreed eagerly. “I’ve news! I’ve found a way to help you.”

  In the same instant he said, “We must put an official end to our agreement.”

  “Wait,” they both exclaimed at once. “What?”

  “Hestia’s right. You must take care of your reputation. Especially if you wish to take that course,” he pointed at the packet. “After last time . . .”

  “Forget last time. Please, listen? I’ve finally found a way I can be of real use to you.” Hestia’s comment about Vickers having no friends to turn to had haunted her. “Hear me out.”

  He sat back with a resigned look.

  “It’s true, you scared Rosamond. She doesn’t wish to talk to you.” She held up a hand at his protest. “However, she does seem inclined to talk about you. She’s worried, and she’s fretting out loud. She’s begun talking of her . . . friendship with your father.”

  “To you?” he scowled.

  “Yes, and I’m happy to tell you what you need to know, as long as we follow the parameters of our original agreement.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not a good idea.”

  “Really? Because she told me that a mutual acquaintance paired them together. She didn’t say whom, but the way she spoke implied that it was someone with influence. She agreed to spend time with your father, act as his hostess as he held entertainments, and to be sure certain of her friends became acquainted with certain of his.”

  “She told me nearly as much already,” he said dismissively. “It’s not worth the risk.”

  “Perhaps she did, but I’m convinced I can persuade her to reveal more. I have time and circumstance on my side.”

  “Why? Why would you go to such trouble?”

  “Because you did me such a good turn, and you didn’t even realize it.” She fiddled with a swatch. “I told you how important my stories are to me? Well, they were lost to me for a good while. Grief killed the words and scenes and people of my inner world. Eventually time passed and we all began to live again, but I couldn’t find them. Then I met you—and you looked right at me. You made it easy to be my old self again—and it all started to come back.” She felt tears welling and hated to show such weakness, but willed him to see how serious she felt about this. “It started with that poor young girl, then with you . . . and now they are all back! My head is full again. I wrote a new piece for my father—we just got word that he is delayed in Spain—he’ll be thrilled to know that I’m not so alone anymore.”

  “I’m happy for you.” His tone, as gentle as she’d ever heard from him, sent a shiver along her spine and right into her core.

  “I’d like to return the favor. I’d like to be your friend.”

  “But the risk—”

  “To my reputation? We’ve done well enough so far.” She waved her hand. at their seclusion.

  “Yes, but I trust Newman completely. We’re safe today, but can’t come back here too often.”

  “You just said you knew all the good spots.”

  “There’s more. It’s not just your reputation to consider, but mine as well.”

  That gave her pause. “Yours?”

  “Yes. What if we’re caught? What if we were somehow compromised? I like you well enough, Miss Stockton, but you are The Celestial—the most proper debutante on the marriage market. I can’t marry someone l
ike you. It would play right into my father’s hands.”

  She ignored the stab of pain his words wrought. “I don’t think I understand.”

  “I told you that scandal is my greatest weapon, yes? He abhors it. He hates when I drag the family name through the muck. He also, deep down, harbors the hope that I’ll one day repent, that I’ll recall what I owe my family and step back in line.”

  “Not surprising, I suppose.”

  “Which means I can never take a respectable Society girl to wife. If I do, he wins a major battle, and I lose a potentially powerful weapon against him. I’ve never made the threat, but I don’t have to. I keep the idea in reserve, and in the meantime, just the thought that I’d choose the wrong sort of wife keeps him up at night.”

  “Yes, but how do you think to end the stalemate?” Those wonderful brows broadcast her skepticism. “Wait until you are in need of a scandal and marry a . . . a . . . lightskirt?”

  “In all likelihood. I’d considered marrying one of his, but that didn’t turn out,” he said. “I even briefly considered Lady Mitford, but the time isn’t right and truthfully, I need to save the threat for when I really need it.”

  He was entirely serious.

  Shock stole her words, but only for a moment. “You’d go that far?”

  “I’ll go to any lengths,” he answered quietly.

  She stared. “Then you truly do need a friend.”

  He rose from his chair and turned away. She didn’t think he was contemplating the lutestring.

  “There’s one other consideration.” Spinning, he speared her with a glance. “What’s between us is not friendship.”

  She searched for a denial, but all this talk of battles and compromise and marriage unsettled her even further.

  “You know what I mean,” he said, low.

  She stood, too, determined to be as resolute as he. “I know.” What he meant was currently buzzing along her every nerve, making her brave and hot and reckless. “That kiss is in the air between us, stirring up uncertainties. How does he feel? What is she thinking? Will we do it again?” She advanced on him.

  He retreated. He didn’t get far before his back came up against a shelf full of peau do soie. She stopped before him, her heart racing.

  “I know the perfect antidote to that. Do you?”

  “No.” It came out strangled. By that gorgeous neckcloth, perhaps.

  “We’ll tell each other how we feel, what we are thinking. We retain control. We act like adults. I can do that, for the sake of a friend. Can you?”

  He didn’t answer. “You forgot one,” he said instead.

  “Will we do it again? That one?”

  “That’s the one.” His gaze had fixed on her mouth.

  Well, then he was going to go cross-eyed. She leaned in, touched her fingers to his hard-edged jaw, closed her own eyes—and kissed him.

  Softly at first. Then just a bit harder. Silently, she asked for more, because she was willing enough, but unsure how to take it.

  He showed her. His lips danced sweetly, but then his tongue captured hers. They consumed each other for a long while as the world slipped sideways, then faded away. Nothing existed beyond that kiss. There was only raging heat and mutual desire and a great, yawning emptiness below.

  She struggled to pull back, to resurface before she asked—begged—him to fill it.

  Though her chest heaved as if she’d run a mile, she stepped back and lifted her chin. “There. No question now, is there? We did it again. It’s done. Now we know and there’s no need to wonder or to do it again.”

  He looked like she felt—like the howling wind was still blowing inside, screaming for satisfaction.

  “Is there?” she demanded.

  He cleared his throat. “No. No need. Now we know.”

  “And we can continue, acting as adults, helping each other?”

  He paused, considering. Or gathering his shaken senses, as she did. Mrs. Siddons be damned. Addy was giving the performance of a lifetime.

  “For now.”

  She sighed. “Good. Now let’s settle the logistics. We’ll need to be able to reach each other . . .” She sat, hid her shaking fingers and presented a picture of calm rationality. Really, if there was any justice in the world, someone would be here to witness this and give her a silent, standing ovation.

  James Vickers, heir to the Viscount Vickers, libertine, high-stakes gambler, all-around cad and particular pain in his father’s posterior, had done some stupid and dangerous things in his time. This must top them all.

  Why? Not because of an irate husband, cheating black leg or brute of a moneylender. Oh, no. Because of a slip of a lovely, inviting, dangerous girl.

  He should end this ridiculous arrangement. But the lure of information to use against his father tempted him strongly—and that was as nothing compared to the appeal of the girl herself.

  Which left him suspended in the midst of this conundrum.

  At first they kept to their usual routines. But he began to check in with her nightly during her social events. He’d wait for a private moment, sidle up and ask her to dance. Each time she would come up with a more outrageous reason to turn him down. Each time he would suffer that sharp pang, they would share a laugh, he would occasionally advise her on the gentlemen attending, and then move on.

  But he did arrange for a communication system. Hestia had a small network of street children who kept ears to the ground for her, and ran the occasional errand in exchange for food, a bed, shelter and someone who cared. Vickers commandeered the lot of them and arranged a schedule in which one of them should be conveniently near Addy Stockton’s house at all times.

  And in fact, she was the first one to call a meeting.

  It was mid-morning and he was just leaving his rooms when young Francis Headly dashed up to him on the street.

  “Yer gentry mort wants words wit’ ye,” she announced.

  “Good morning, Flightly.” He grinned. “I thought Hestia was working with you on your speech.”

  Her tone and demeanor changed in a flash. “Indeed, she is, sir. Unfortunately the streets make a poor venue in which to exercise such skills.”

  He chuckled. “Very nice. I shall give you a good report.” Taking out a card, he scribbled on it.

  One hour. Hyde Park. Chesterfield Gate. Follow the boy with a red hoop.

  He handed her the card and a coin. “Send Jed to me right away, will you? And deliver this back to the lady.”

  “Aye, aye!” With an impudent salute, she was off, and he went back inside to make plans.

  A little over an hour later, he perched upon a low branch in a small clearing in the midst of a good-sized cluster of trees in Hyde Park. Just minutes later, rustling heralded her arrival. Stick in hand and hoop over his shoulder, Jed held a branch high so that Addy might pass through, then he dropped it and disappeared from where they’d come.

  Vickers stood. She looked beautiful in sprigged muslin and a light blue spencer. Her eyes widened when she spotted him and an impish grin lifted that alluring mouth. “Worry for our reputations, indeed! You’ve brought me to an assignation in the Park!”

  “I hear they are all the rage. Wasn’t there gossip just yesterday about Brodham sneaking off with an American chit?” He sobered. “Did anyone see you?”

  “No, no. There were some children and nannies at the gate, but I saw no one once we took the footpath heading north. Is the reservoir near?”

  “Just beyond.”

  “It is lovely.” She glanced around at the mix of sun and shade and at the bees flirting with clover and a few straggling wildflowers at the edges. “What is this place?”

  “Actually, it’s a trysting spot well-known amongst a select group of high-flyers. Safe enough in the daytime, but don’t come near at night unless you are prepared for a shock.”

  She shook her head. “I won’t. But I am glad you could make arrangements so quickly.”

  “Sit down?” He waved to his former seat.r />
  “I will, although I’m imagining some of the creative uses this branch has been put to.”

  He laughed, feeling uncommonly light. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in such a good mood. “Before you deliver your news, a bit of advice. I noticed you danced twice with Nowell last night. Don’t pin your hopes there, he’s not ready for a leg shackle.” He froze. “Damn! If I’d had a head on my shoulders, I should have brought a musician along. You could scarcely deny me a dance here, Miss Stockton.”

  “Of course I could,” she said irritably. “And you might as well call me Addy, as you’ve kissed me twice and we are now trysting in the Park.”

  Lascivious images rose up in his head. His fingers twitched.

  “And another thing, why does your advice always address the men I shouldn’t bother with? Can’t you think of a single gentleman who might actually consider me as a marriage prospect?”

  Hell, no, his gut responded instantly. Not a man in the ton or out of it deserved her.

  Including him.

  “I’ll try,” he muttered. His good mood began to wane.

  “Thank you. Now, I must tell you what Rosamond divulged. She got quite tipsy at a soiree last evening and quite talkative in the carriage home. We rode past Compton Street and she pointed out a house—one that she says secretly belongs to your father!”

  Every last vestige of good humor vanished. “I know it.”

  “That’s where she acted as his hostess and coordinated their social maneuvering. Rosamond wouldn’t give particulars, but she hinted that he and his cronies get up to some highly questionable activities there.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? I said I know the house.” His knee began to jig up and down until he set the branch to bouncing. He stood. “I know all the vile tricks they get up to there.” He’d seen the orgies of violence and sex, heard the plotting against both their enemies and their peers. He rounded to face her. “You must make sure that Rosamond never reveals that she was there. If anyone finds out, all her newfound acceptance with the ton will be ruined forever.”