Beyond A Wicked Kiss

by Jo Goodman

  West tempered his smile. "You will like this last information even less. The woman in the other illustration—"

  Ria interrupted. "You cannot possibly have a name to put to her face."

  "No. Unfortunately, no. But this same gentleman remembered something that Neville and Beckwith said while they were examining the engravings. They said Sheridan did not know the half of it when he wrote The School for Scandal, that Miss Weaver would have opened his eyes to what was of import in education." West held up his hand, staying Ria's questions. "I also wondered why he would recall such an exchange of words. He was only a printer's apprentice then. A mere boy. But perhaps his age explains his keen interest, and the reason Neville and Beckwith spoke freely, though rather cryptically, in his presence.

  "He had seen a performance of The School for Scandal only a few days earlier, so he understood the reference to the play. He thought Miss Weaver must be the name of the woman in the illustration. He linked the two immediately in his mind and has never forgotten. I think we can trust his memory on this, Ria, even though he did not comprehend the significance of what he heard."

  West approached her and took her hands in his. "You and I both know Neville and Beckwith were referring to Miss Weaver's Academy."

  Ria nodded jerkily.

  "Shall I say the rest for you?" he asked gently. "Or would you rather not hear it aloud."

  "Say it," she said. "Say it all."

  "It is most likely that both the young women in the illustrations were students at the school, chosen for their fine looks and manners to be of service in precisely the way you saw them on the page. It is equally likely that Miss Jenny Taylor is the Society's whoremistress."

  Chapter 14

  The reception was a squeeze. Ria inched her way through the gathering clogging the ballroom's entrance until she found an unoccupied niche beside a potted fern every bit as tall as she was. The delicate, feathery fronds swayed, sometimes brushing her cheek as currents of air were stirred by the sweeping circles of the dancers. Ria snapped open her sandalwood fan and used it to politely hide her unseemly yawn.

  Lack of sleep was taking its toll, she realized, no matter that she was a single nerve stretched taut as a bowstring. She'd had little enough rest on her journey to London and only a few hours since arriving. Elizabeth had insisted she nap before the reception, but after West's revelations, she found it impossible to do so. Lying on the bed in her room, she had merely stared at the overhead canopy and wondered why she did not feel something more than numb.

  And Miss Jenny Taylor is the Society's whoremistress. The words were no faint echo in her head. She could make them out more clearly than anything that was being said around her. While the voices in the ballroom hummed indistinctly, she still heard West's exact intonation in her head.

  She wished she might have fainted or even been sick. West had hovered momentarily as if he expected either of these reactions might occur, but the initial shock passed so quickly that Ria came to understand it was not precisely shock that she'd experienced at all, just benumbing resignation. That she did not feel his words as a physical blow made her realize how long she had been harboring similar suspicions. Not that she could have spoken them aloud, she understood now. Some thoughts were so appalling that they resisted even the most private of examinations.

  Emily Barret. Amanda Kent. Mary Murdoch. Sylvia Jenner.

  Ria turned over the names in her mind as if she were taking attendance. They had all been students at the school during her six-year tenure, and all of them had departed before their graduation. Unlike Jane Petty, none of them left unexpectedly, and no one worried what would become of them. The future of these young women had seemed remarkably brighter when they exited Miss Weaver's than when they entered it.

  "You are as colorless as curds and whey," West said.

  Startled from her unpleasant reverie by what was certainly an accurate observation, Ria's nerveless fingers lost their grip on the fan. It fell, still open, and dangled awkwardly from her wrist by its silk cord. She fumbled with it for a moment before managing to snap it closed and secure it in her palm.

  Seeing that her composure was badly strained, West offered his elbow. "Come, the portico is empty. Not many guests are willing to brace the cooler temperatures to enjoy the fresh air."

  Ria placed her arm on his and allowed herself to be drawn outside. While she had only been able to move through the crowd in fits and starts before, on the Duke of Westphal's arm, guests made way for them. At the edge of the wide portico, Ria disengaged from West and braced herself on the marble balustrade. The night was clear and crisp and stars glittered in the deep indigo sky with as much luster as the diamonds in the ballroom.

  "Shall I send you back to Oxford Street?" asked West. "I can have my driver take you. You do not have to leave with North and Elizabeth." Her hesitation was telling, he thought, but she finally shook her head, and West doubted he could change her mind. "I cannot stop you from blaming yourself, Ria, only say that you are wrong for doing so. You couldn't have known about the others."

  It did not strike Ria as at all odd that West should have divined the tenor of her thoughts. "But I did know," she said softly. "Or at least it seems that I did. I should have told you about them at the outset. I should not have waited until you confronted me with the whole of it."

  West turned and sat on the edge of the railing. He laid one hand over Ria's. "What should you have told me? That four students left Miss Weaver's because families came forward to take them in? It must have seemed like reason to celebrate, rather than the opposite. It is only hindsight that allows you to see similarities to Miss Petty's situation."

  Ria knew he was right, yet it was no easy thing to absolve herself. "All of them had benefactors on the board of governors. They came to the school at an early age, every one of them from workhouses. They were easily among the prettiest girls. Mary and Emily showed talent on the pianoforte. Amanda Kent was lively and cheerful, very popular with the other girls. Sylvia was the best student, quieter than the others, scrupulously polite and always charitable." Ria glanced sideways at West. "Like Jane, Miss Taylor took a special interest in them. I thought it was because they had no one." Her smile faltered, at once rueful and self-mocking. "I suppose I was not wrong. Not really. What do you imagine has become of them?"

  West had no answer to that. In fact, he tried not to imagine. By Ria's account, it had been a little more than a year since Sylvia left the school. Her departure occurred just before Ria had been assigned the position of headmistress. The other three had gone earlier. Months, sometimes years, separated the exits. Emily was fifteen when she went with the childless couple from Nottingham. Amanda and Sylvia had each just passed their sixteenth year when they left the school for homes in London. At fourteen, Mary had been the youngest to go.

  "You cannot be certain they were not taken into homes and families that welcomed them," West said.

  "I'm certain," Ria said dully. "So are you. I would rather you did not try to raise my spirits with false hope."

  West conceded that she was right. It seemed to him that it was Ria's turn as headmistress that made the governors reluctant to remove girls from the academy in the usual manner. There would have been some trepidation among them about appointing her to the position, but he suspected those misgivings were quieted by her connection to the duke. Still, they must have worried that she would be more thorough than her predecessor in looking after the girls once they were gone from the school. She was, perhaps, not so likely to be lulled into complacency by an occasional letter penned by one of them. Ria Ashby would take it upon herself to visit the young women who were expressly in her care and make certain they were doing well and fulfilling their promise.

  When Jane Petty had sufficiently matured to catch the eye of Sir Alex Cotton, he conceived a different approach. This time there would be no family. Jane's sudden departure would point to an impulsive elopement and result in nothing more than a nine days' wonder. What Sir
Alex couldn't have known was that Jane would keep her gentleman admirer a secret from everyone but Amy Nash, and that Amy Nash would take so long to come forward with that information. In the meantime, it simply seemed that Jane had disappeared, raising more alarms than it quieted. Hiring Mr. Lytton to find Jane provided temporary respite, but Sir Alex and the governors were confounded again by the death of the duke. They must have realized the enormity of their mistake in naming Ria headmistress when she went straightaway to London to ask the new Duke of Westphal to involve himself in the school's affairs.

  "I do not like leaving you here," said West. "I am not certain you are at all well. You ate very little at the supper."

  Ria straightened. They were beyond the circle of candlelight coming from the ballroom, but she could make out his features sufficiently to mark his concern. "You mustn't worry about me. I have promised a set to Eastlyn when Sophie sits with Colonel Blackwood, and I am certain North and South will be obliged to take a turn with me when their wives are similarly occupied. The colonel has promised to entertain me as well, and I have so many questions for him that he is sure to regret the offer."

  West did not miss the note of forced well-being in her voice, and he smiled because she meant him to. He did not point out that he had found her hiding in the shadow of a potted fern. "I suppose if you mean to interrogate Blackwood, I cannot be gone overlong, else I will have no secrets left."

  Ria nodded, searching his face. "You will be careful, won't you?"

  "Yes." He bent his head and kissed her lightly on the mouth. Her lips were dry and cool and passionless. "I will make it right, Ria," he whispered, taking her into his arms. "I promise you I will make it right."

  She made no reply, but held him tightly until he gently drew back. Without a word passing between them, they returned to the ballroom, and he slipped away in the crush of guests.

  Ria did not want for companions. The marquess approached her first and reminded her of their promised set. Ria accompanied him onto the dance floor and took her place in line. Eastlyn proved himself to be an easy partner, engaging her in just enough conversation to keep her from dwelling on West's activities.

  "He knows what he is about," East assured her.

  Ria noticed that the streak of fire in his chestnut-colored hair flashed as they passed under the crystal chandelier. "Would he admit it if he did not?"

  "He would." His half-smile appeared. "But I wouldn't."

  She frowned slightly, uncertain of his meaning. "Are you saying that—" She fell silent, stumbling when she caught sight of Sir Alex Cotton standing at the edge of the crowd. He appeared to be attentive to the animated conversation of a woman who was batting him playfully on the forearm with her fan.

  "Chin up, Miss Ashby," East said, helping Ria recover gracefully. "Eyes on me. My wife says I am a handsome enough fellow and that I improve upon acquaintance, but you will easily convince me otherwise if I cannot hold your attention for the length of a single reel."

  The pink in Ria's cheeks might have been from the heat of the room or the exertions of the dance, but they both knew it was not. "You will not let me faint, will you? I have only ever done so once, but I did not manage the thing with any grace."

  "I will hold you upright if I must stand you upon my toes." He saw that his solemnly made promise raised her faint smile. "Is it Cotton that you spied?" he asked. "Or Herndon?"

  "Sir Alex. Who is he with?"

  "She is Lady Powell. Several years a widow and an inveterate flirt. She has independent means and no designs on marriage. It makes her a much desired companion."

  Ria wondered at Sir Alex's interest. Was it feigned? Lady Powell was certainly attractive enough to capture a gentleman's notice, but Ria knew something about this gentleman's tastes that made her think the lady might be too long in the tooth for him. Then again, perhaps the girls at the school were merely a diversion, an entertainment enjoyed once, then easily dismissed. It might be that he was genuinely intrigued by the trifling attentions of a woman who was his social equal.

  Eastlyn drew Ria's attention back to him. "This summer past I thought she would set her cap for Southerton, but he managed to elude her."

  The viscount stood taller than many of the men at the periphery of the dance floor. Still, Ria heard his laughter before she caught sight of his shock of thick black hair. His head was slightly thrown back, his long neck exposed, and his enjoyment of the moment was evident. Although she could not see Miss Parr, nor either of South's parents, she suspected they were nearby and being vastly entertained by him.

  "Do not think he is distracted from his task," East told her. "I am certain he knows the precise location of his quarry."

  "I didn't think it for a moment. He is watching Herndon, then?"

  East nodded. "And North is responsible for Cotton, at least as long as I am with you."

  Ria thought the marquess had pulled the short straw. She said nothing because he was sure to gallantly deny it. Instead, she concentrated on matching his steps and allowed the music to fill the silence between them.

  North invited her for a turn on the floor next, then South appeared to do the same. Made easy by their confidence and diverted by their good humor, Ria occasionally was able to forget that she felt so abominably guilty and found pleasure in their company.

  It was no different once she was seated beside the guest of honor. Between interruptions by those in attendance who had not yet offered their congratulations, Colonel Blackwood spoke knowledgeably of art, literature, music, and, finally, of West. Ria was attentive to every part of their conversation, but especially to the last. It was not necessary to interrogate the colonel. He spoke freely, and with evident affection, of West as a younger man. She was quite certain there was a lot that of necessity was left unsaid, but Blackwood filled in a great many of the gaps that West had not.

  The colonel finished off his drink and rolled the empty tumbler between his palms. "I am boring you," he said. "Is that it? I have regaled you with one too many of his harrowing exploits, and they no longer have the power to astonish."

  Ria quickly lowered her fan. "What? No! That could never be the case."

  "My dear," the colonel said gently. "Although you are yawning with considerable delicacy behind your fan, you are yawning nonetheless, and I do not think I am mistaken that your occasional darting glances are in aid of finding West or discovering the time. I can say with complete assurance that West has not returned, else he would put himself immediately at your side. As to the other..." Blackwood consulted the timepiece inside his frock coat. "I make it to be half past the ten o'clock hour."

  "So late." Ria had nerves enough left to modulate her distress but not hide it entirely. "Why hasn't he returned?"

  "Because he is not finished," the colonel said simply. "You think I am making light of his absence, but I am not. Trust me to know my men, Miss Ashby. West is nothing if not thorough."

  "You are not afraid for him?"

  Blackwood stopped rolling the tumbler and regarded Ria gravely. She seemed young to him of a sudden, or perhaps it was only that he felt so old. "I will not insult you by saying that I've never been afraid for him, but it has rarely been about the things you think." He smiled softly and let her make of that what she would. Holding out his glass, he asked, "Dare I impose upon you to—"

  Ria stood immediately and took the tumbler from his hand. "I should have offered before," she said. "I will only be a moment." She was grateful for the opportunity to do something, even something so small as refilling the colonel's glass. Since arriving at the reception, she had been watched over and coddled. She was all but suffocated by the cotton wool of good intentions.

  Clutching Blackwood's empty glass, Ria seized this chance to escape. Refreshments were served in the adjoining room, and Ria set off determinedly in that direction. It was not distance that posed the problem but the veritable clot of people at the entrance. Sidling and occasionally ducking, begging the pardon of two matrons and one elderly gentlem
an for treading on their toes, pausing occasionally for a polite exchange of inconsequential pleasantries, and finally wielding her closed fan like a poker, Ria was able to move through the crush with no injury to herself and only minor inconvenience to others.

  As was so often the way of these things, once she broke through the tight pack of guests in the doorway, the people milling about the refreshments room numbered exactly eleven. A footman, who had evidently been deterred by the crowd, stepped forward quickly and relieved Ria of her glass. She followed him to the large crystal punch bowl, but when he lifted the ladle, she stopped him.

  "I don't think it is ratafia that was in there," she said. As she was negotiating the entrance, she'd had the colonel's tumbler pressed close to her chest. It was not the scent of fruit juice and brandy, nor the sweet flavoring of almonds that she detected rising from the glass. Leaning forward in the manner of sharing a confidence, Ria told the footman, "Whiskey, I think. The best that you have. It is for Colonel Blackwood."

  "Of course." The footman turned to the sideboard behind him and in short order produced the tumbler with two generous fingers of whiskey. He handed it to her and waited in expectation of a request for herself.

  "I am not certain I can manage two glasses," Ria said, glancing back the way she came.

  "There is another route." The footman let his eyes slide sideways, pointing Ria to his left.

  She followed his gesture and saw that the walnut wainscoting was not a single, solid piece and that the mural on the wall above it cleverly concealed most of the outline of the door. The small brass ring set into the wall was what had drawn her eye and revealed the rest. Smiling gratefully, Ria said, "If you can produce a glass of sherry, I shall gladly accept it."

  "Certainly." He turned again, poured, and gave her the delicately stemmed glass. "It will take you to the gallery," he said. "From there you will find the hall or pass into the library. Will you not allow me to take your drinks and escort you?"