by Archer, Kate
“Though, Sir John,” she said, “how would one go about getting the copies?”
“I will see to it, Miss Dell,” Sir John said gallantly. “In the usual case, I would say that these papers are not suited to the female intellect. However, I believe your mind quite up to the task.”
Kitty could not help but be flattered. Sir John was not the most lively and amusing fellow, but he saw her mind. He really saw what she was capable of. Further, how exciting it would be to engage in the hunt for the mysterious Veritas!
The distant sound of the door knocker reached them and Sir John rose. “You will have other callers and so I will take my leave.”
Kitty and the baroness rose. “Thank you for your call, Sir John,” the baroness said pleasantly.
“And thank you for your offer,” Kitty said. “I can hardly wait to begin reading.”
“Though we will have many other things to attend to,” the baroness said firmly.
Sir John made his bow and left the room.
Kitty heard Penny out in the hall. “Sir John,” she said, her voice all enthusiasm. “How charming to encounter you here.”
Kitty did not hear his reply, as his voice was deeper and did not carry as well as Penny’s. It was not a moment before her friend was in the room.
Penny curtsied to the baroness and skipped to Kitty’s side. “I see he has wasted no time in calling,” she said.
Kitty blushed and studiously ignored Penny’s hint.
“And what say you, baroness, on further acquaintance?” Penny said.
The baroness smiled. “He seems a pleasant enough gentleman,” she said.
“Yes,” Penny said, “I think so as well. He is so like Kitty.”
“In some regards,” the baroness said softly.
*
Giles had arrived to Destin’s in good time and secured a private room. He had told Dalton he would go there to meet Crackwilder, as Dalton might very well turn up there himself at some hour. It had become a more and more favored spot, as Marty was one of the few people they owed money to that did not constantly point it out.
Giles had not told Dalton the reason for meeting his lieutenant. Dalton would have thought him gone mad and locked him above stairs.
Dalton might have been right in the assumption. Really, it was one thing to chase a lady, but what was he doing now? He’d hired himself a tutor so that he might become learned. It had never been one of his ambitions to store great collections of uninspired facts in his mind. Give him Byron over Aristotle any day of the week. Give him tales of love and adventure, highs and lows, foibles and redemptions. It was those things that were the stuff of life, not dry measurements and dusty theories. And yet, here he was, preparing for a lecture on he knew not what sort of tedium.
Perhaps it would not be so bad. After all, he supposed he was reasonably intelligent, his downfall had only ever been a lack of interest and effort. And, would it not be a delight to spring his improvement upon Miss Dell? Would it not be a delight to spring it upon the puffed-up Sir John as well?
In any case, he supposed learning something of the sciences would not kill him.
Crackwilder came in, his hands full of a stack of papers. Giles eyed them with trepidation. There seemed to be far more than he had anticipated. Did these fellows spend their entire day writing?
“You are on time,” Crackwilder said. “It is a miracle.”
Giles shrugged as Marty Destin came in with the coffee tray. “It is only miraculous that I hurried LaRue,” he said. “My valet was entirely out of sorts and is certain my neckcloth is not as it should be, but I refused to allow him to start over.”
Crackwilder sat down and said, “You describe it as a battle hard fought and won. I really do not know how you survived an actual war.”
“You certainly do,” Giles said, “as it was you who saved me.”
After Marty Destin shut the door, Crackwilder said, “I have never told anybody that I pulled you down to the ground as you were straightening a cuff while bullets sailed over your head. Nor will I ever. It does not do either of us credit. You are an excellent swordsman and a crack shot, but neither of those attributes would have saved you from yourself.”
“Never mind my idiocy on a battlefield,” Giles said. “Today you are to rectify my idiocy in a drawing room.”
Crackwilder laid the stack of papers on the table. “Here are the papers published by the society for the past two years. Read them, and I will clarify anything you don’t understand and quiz you on the contents. That should prepare you to have a reasonably literate conversation with Miss Dell. Further, if you stumble upon anything that seems suspect, point it out. The society has reason to believe there is some sort of counterfeiter in the mix and he must be discovered.”
Giles pulled the papers toward him as Crackwilder helped himself to coffee. The task did not sound difficult. Only read some dusty papers on dusty subjects and he would be able to go toe to toe with Sir Gloom. As he knew that the knowledge contained in the papers was the only thing Sir John had over him, the man would be easily defeated and got out of the way. As for any counterfeiter in the mix, he could not care less. His aim was to impress Miss Dell, not become one of the society’s Bow Street Runners.
He thumbed through the papers, reading the titles, to get an idea of precisely what he would be tackling. As he did so, he became more and more suspicious.
He laid them down. “Very amusing,” he said. “I see your purpose—point out to your stupid friend exactly how gullible he is. Now that we have got past that, where are the real papers?”
Crackwilder stared at him. “Those are the real papers.”
“They cannot be,” Giles said.
“But they are,” Crackwilder said. “What did you imagine they would be?”
“I cannot say, but really, Crackwilder?” Giles said. He pulled a paper from the stack. “Look at this one,” he said. “An account of the feet of those animals whose progressive motion can be carried on in opposition to gravity.”
“Yes,” Crackwilder said. “What of it?”
“It is about how house flies land on walls without falling off! And this, the formation of fat in the intestine of a tadpole! Or how about, an examination of fossil remains of a rhinoceros at Plymouth! Or a description of the teeth of a dolphin!”
“The society’s members have varying interests,” Crackwilder said, shifting in his chair.
“And this is the sort of thing Miss Dell is interested in?” Giles asked, incredulous.
“Apparently so,” Crackwilder said. “In any case, it is of no importance whether or not you are interested in a subject, only that you have read the latest research on it.”
“So you are telling me,” Giles said, “that there are fellows who spend their days contemplating such things? Staring at a house fly and wondering why it does not fall off the wall? And that these gentlemen are respected for their observations?”
“Yes.”
“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard! What a waste of life! This author, this fool, Everard Home, had been better to call a footman to kill the fly thereby giving him some time to read Shakespeare! I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.”
“Richard II?” Crackwilder asked.
“Indeed,” Giles said. “And why are some of his papers signed Mr. Home and some signed Lord Home? Is he a recent?”
“Very recent. Titled less than two years ago. In any case, I did not think these papers would suit you,” Crackwilder said. “If there were a Royal Society of reading Shakespeare or the romantics, or even Miss Austen I suspect, you would be its president. But scientific observations will never be for you. Therefore, Miss Dell will never be for you.”
Giles crumpled the corner of the paper in his hand. “Nonsense, Crackwilder. I can learn all about flies walking on walls if I must.”
*
Kitty had dressed in her most subdued gown—a pale blue organza with simple trimmings. This evening was the Countess of Thor
nbridge’s ball and the baroness had thoroughly briefed Kitty on what was certain to be a very odd affair.
The countess had a peculiar interest in the ton’s lineage. It was said she even employed a genealogist to document histories and that she had no interest whatsoever in people she termed recently arrived. She was determined to make matches between suitably old families and held the ball every year to accomplish just that. As her idea of suitably old was very, very old, the ball would be exceedingly small and awkward.
The baroness said it was only their own bad luck that Lord Penderton’s family had been barons since the fifteenth century and the baroness’ own family reached just as far back. While it would be an affair happily skipped, the countess was known to hold a grudge for as long as the ancient histories she admired.
Frederick had sent a note claiming a serious illness the season before, and this year he wriggled this way and that with every excuse he could think up, to no avail. Both he and Kitty would attend, and console themselves that it was only one evening.
As they waited in the line of carriages proceeding to the lady’s door, that line being short as so few people qualified to attend, Frederick said, “My friend Jost is always forced to come. He told me there is a lady named Miss Blaise who turns up every year, has alarming fish eyes, and will swim toward a gentleman like a carp after a minnow.”
“Frederick,” the baroness said scoldingly.
“It is true, though,” Frederick said. “Jost says he was lucky the past two rounds as Miss Blaise had her sights set on Lord Ashworth, but now that he’s married, nobody knows who she will turn her big eyes to.”
“Aside from your terror of Miss Blaise, does Jost say anything of the gentlemen who will attend?” Kitty asked.
She was certain she would not see Sir John at the ball, a foreign title would not do for the countess. What she was not certain of was whether she was disappointed over it. On the one hand, she enjoyed conversing with the gentleman and could only be satisfied with his recognition of her scholarship. He did not treat her like an empty head. On the other hand, he did not set her heart fluttering or her palms or cheeks warm. How she wished that he did! He was precisely what she looked for—comely enough, learned, and willing to engage her intellectually.
“All I know about the gentlemen who will come,” Frederick said, “is there is never enough of them. I shall be on my feet all night. At least, that’s what Jost says.”
“Perhaps Jost,” the baroness said, “might keep his thoughts to himself from time to time. The evening is not likely to be filled with merriment, but one does one’s duty.”
“Father does not,” Frederick said. “He’s home snug in his library with a book.”
“Your father,” the baroness said sternly, “has his own duties to accomplish. Considering the prosperousness of the family’s estate, you can have nothing to object to.”
Kitty hid a smile. Frederick should have known better than to complain of what Lord Penderton chose to do. His wife would defend him to her dying breath.
“Good God,” Frederick said, peering out the carriage window. “There’s Grayson just getting off his horse. It is a miracle he arrives at all—his neckcloth appears to have taken a thousand years to compose.”
Kitty sat stock still. She did not look out the window or show any outward interest in the news.
The baroness smiled at her indulgently. “Perhaps the evening will not be so dull after all.”
*
Giles had arrived to Lady Markham’s ball in good time. It was one of the very last places he would like to be, but his mother was a stickler on it, he must attend.
He supposed the duchess was charmed by the idea that he might encounter a girl from a very old and storied family, but he also supposed that was because his mother had never bothered to attend. It was always dreary, and now he had not even the company of Ashworth to entertain him.
One thing he did know about this evening—one must be always alert to who might be creeping toward him. Out of the corner of his vision, he noted Miss Blaise drifting in his direction.
He turned to avoid meeting her very alarming eye.
As he turned toward the door, he felt a momentary breathlessness, as if he had ridden after a fox for some miles over rough ground. Miss Dell stood at the entrance to the ballroom.
She was marvelous! Amid the jewels and lace and ribbons and net overlays surrounding her, Miss Dell stood simple in an elegant organza gown of the most charming pale blue.
Of course, a lady like Miss Dell had no need to pile on mounds of sparkle and fountains of fripperies. A lady of Miss Dell’s caliber had no need for shopped-for distractions.
And her demeanor! She did not simper and peek under her eyelashes as if she hardly knew how she got there or where she was supposed to look.
She was all elegance.
As Miss Blaise crept every closer, Grayson defeated her plans. He strode away from her with all vigor. He must secure Miss Dell at once.
“Lady Penderton, Miss Dell, Mr. Dell,” Giles said, bowing.
“Lord Grayson,” the baroness said, “how charming to see you here. I should have realized you spring from ancient stock.”
“Ancient enough, I suppose. My ancestor fought alongside Henry Tudor,” Giles said. “Though in retrospect, perhaps it was not his finest hour.”
The baroness laughed and said, “It was, according to the countess.”
“Miss Dell,” Giles said, holding his hand out for her card. “May I?”
The lady handed over her card, and he was delighted to see that her supper was still free. Of course it would be, Sir John would not be invited into this hall if he tried to beat down the door. He wrote his name down with alacrity.
Before he could say anything further, he was slapped on the arm by a fan. He turned to find Miss Blaise.
“Lord Grayson,” she said, tittering, “you are very bad!”
Giles might have been nonplussed over what he’d said or done that was so very bad, but for knowing Ashworth’s experience with the lady. Somehow, a whack on the arm and condemnation of being very bad was some sort of compliment.
“Miss Blaise,” Giles said smoothly, “allow me to introduce you to Mr. Dell. He was just inquiring who that lady might be who so elegantly wielded the gold fan.”
“Inquiring!” Miss Blaise nearly shouted. She cracked her fan across Frederick’s arm and said, “Very bad, indeed! Do not be so bad as to take my supper, Mr. Dell!”
*
Kitty had said nothing at all on Lord Grayson’s approach. She’d done nothing but hand over her card. She had not been able to ignore her feelings in the carriage when Frederick had noted Lord Grayson getting off his horse.
It had been pleasant, and yet unnerving. Almost as if she’d had a great shock. It felt very like the time she’d lost her footing at the top of a steep hill. In the moment before she’d tumbled, every inch of her skin had prickled.
She scolded herself for being so easy to sway. A handsome face should not send a shiver. But then, he’d come to her so quickly and he did look so charming. Frederick might complain that the lord’s neckcloth took a thousand years, but the result was so very pleasing to the eye. A frivolous thing to notice, but there it was.
Perhaps she should not mind that she found some sort of attraction in him. After all, it was only a dance and a supper. In truth, it was likely to be the most pleasant dance of the evening. Since Lord Grayson had taken himself off, she’d been led to dance by nothing but callow youths and aging lotharios.
As well, she could not deny that Lord Grayson was amusing. How could she help but smile over his devilishness at handling Miss Blaise? That lady was now engaged for supper by Frederick, her brother having been boxed right into it. Frederick was irate, but the baroness had laughed behind her fan all the way into the card room over it.
Just now, aging lothario Lord Bradford was listing all of his various accomplishments as if he applied for a position. Kitty was to know that h
e was a keen birder—watching birds, not shooting them. He had already expounded on his theories of cooking meat. Apparently, when the lord’s cook deemed a roast exceedingly done, the lord ordered it roasted an hour more. Meat should be dry, as God intended it. This had been coupled with his ideas of drinking wine—a half-glass on Sunday, in honor of our Lord God.
Kitty stifled her laughter over imagining what the future Lady Bradford would face on a usual day—meat as dry as a desert, accompanied by weak lemonade. That is, if there ever were a future Lady Bradford.
No, Lord Grayson might be foolish and might have sent her a ridiculous book. But he was dashing and amusing. She could not fault him for that.
*
Giles had successfully gained Miss Dell for supper and avoided Miss Blaise for the same. He could not, however, avoid the lady entirely. He’d taken her first, thinking it was well to clear that fence earlier, rather than later.
She did not do too much fan-hitting, as she was less interested in his own very badness and wholly focused on Frederick Dell’s very badness. The lady interrogated him mercilessly about Dell and what he did not know, he invented. According to Giles, Dell was the catch of the century. He thought that would keep Miss Blaise off his trail for many seasons to come.
Giles assumed Dell was furious, but that could not be helped. When it came to the Countess of Thornbridge’s ballroom, it was a battlefield. Everyone must seek to survive any way they could.
Now, finally, he led Miss Dell to the floor.
She’d blushed when he took her hand. Certainly, that was a very good sign.
Giles was also cognizant of the various looks of envy on gentlemen’s faces. Lord Bradford, in particular, seemed put out. The fellow was absurd, always talking about how one ought to cook meat and how he rarely accepted dinner invitations because all too often the meat was not sufficiently dry.
Miss Dell’s brother was not so much looking envious as he was throwing him daggers. Perhaps he should not have foisted Miss Blaise upon him. He did not wish to make an enemy of any of Miss Dell’s relations.