Love and Other Perils

by Grace Burrowes

  “I did not come here to argue politics with you,” Peter said, slouching against the sideboard. “I came to extend an invitation. The sisters and I are to attend Lady Chalfont’s ball on Wednesday and we’d like you to join our party.”

  The autumn entertainments were fewer and less crowded than their springtime counterparts. Many families had already departed for the countryside, where they would spend Yuletide and greet the New Year.

  “I sent regrets to Lady Chalfont.”

  “Why would you do that? She hires excellent musicians and sets out a formidable buffet.”

  The first footman arrived with the tea tray, which—thank the good offices of a well trained kitchen staff—included some cheese rolls. Antonia used the delay to frame a reply to Peter’s question, though she resented the need to explain herself to him.

  “I would prefer to remain at home when the weather is so dreary.”

  Peter took the opposite chair and poured himself a cup of tea, adding milk and sugar, and putting two tea cakes onto his saucer.

  “But you trudge off to the library in a frigid downpour, Antonia, there to impersonate a cit’s spinster daughter while you fill your head with French political fairytales. What’s the real reason you declined her ladyship’s invitation? Do you fear to have an empty dance card?”

  Five years ago she might have admitted to that error. Now she feared being late for her shift at the library the next morning.

  “Few men have the height to partner me competently,” she said, paraphrasing Mr. Haddonfield. “Putting up with those who enjoy leering at my bodice grows tedious.”

  “My dear, you must not fault a man for admiring nature’s bounty when it’s immediately before his eyes.”

  Antonia was almost certain Peter had meant that as a joke. “I fault a man for poor manners. I suppose both Diana and Athena are attending this ball?”

  “Of course.”

  Antonia’s female cousins were bright women whose company she honestly enjoyed. One or the other of them would sit out most of the dances with her, and they’d pass an enjoyable evening among the dowagers and wallflowers.

  “Very well, I will attend, but do not expect me to make a late night of it.”

  “Save me your supper waltz, my dear.” Peter finished his tea in a few gulps, stuffed the two cakes into his pockets, and scampered off without bothering to bow over Antonia’s hand.

  She sat alone in the parlor, grateful for the solitude, already regretting her decision to attend yet another ball when she’d rather be home curled up with a book. The one fellow whose company she honestly enjoyed—the Earl of Casriel—had made a love match at the end of the previous Season. He and his countess were rumored to already be in anticipation of an interesting event.

  What would that be like? To conceive a new life in intimate congress with a man whom one loved madly? With a man who loved one madly in return?

  Antonia could read every volume in her library and still not learn what such an experience entailed, an odd and lowering thought for a woman whose idea of bliss was a rainy afternoon spent reading in solitude.

  “You’re next,” Max said to Beelzebub, who purred contentedly amid the morning’s calculations. The surest way to inspire a cat out from under the sofa was to spread work on the desk and commence measuring and recording. Wherever Max set down his pencil or ruler, there the cat was, looking as comfortable as a marmalade tom ever had.

  Though Beelzebub wasn’t a typical exponent of his gender. When the ladies called from the alley, he yawned and closed his eyes. When Dagger set out a saucer of milk, Hannibal and Edward both got their share at the same time, while Beelz hung back, waiting to lick up whatever the other two missed.

  “You content yourself on scraps and leavings,” Max said, scratching the cat behind the ears. “Maybe when you can settle into your own library, you’ll regain some confidence.”

  Clearly, Beelz had been somebody’s pet. He was tame to a fault and happiest curled up next to Dagger in the nook by the fireplace. Dagger had a way with the shy ones—or they had a way with him.

  As if Max’s thoughts had conjured the boy, the window banged open and he leapt into the room. “More day-olds,” he said, setting a sack on a corner of the desk. “Stinkin’ damned cold outside.”

  “Frigid,” Max said, peering into the sack. “Did you eat half the samples?”

  “Nah. Folk are buying more bread now the weather’s turned. I know to wait until you’ve done the measuring before I eat ’em.” He snatched a small loaf off the desk, tossed it in the air, and caught it. “You done with this one? I fancy some cheese toast.”

  “I’m through with it. I’ve found a home for Beelzebub.”

  Dagger left off tossing his bread about. “Already? It’s too soon. Lucifer just left and Edward and Hannibal will mope. Beelz won’t get fat—he’ll never get fat as long as other cats are around.”

  “The library where Lucifer went wants another cat.” Not exactly true, though the two old ladies who read there day after day would enjoy a second cat. Miss Antonia was another matter entirely.

  Dagger gnawed a bite off the loaf. “Two cats in the same library?”

  “Lucifer is friendly. He and Beelz get on well, and two cats are hardly more trouble than one.” Max hadn’t quite convinced Miss Antonia on that point, but her practical air hid a soft heart.

  She was also pretty when she smiled, interesting when she didn’t, and not a typical librarian. Max’s curiosity where she was concerned refused to abate, even when he took up the pleasurable job of making the day’s measurements.

  “You having any luck with this batch?” Dagger asked, taking a quarter-round of cheddar from the window box.

  “That was a half wheel of cheese only yesterday morning.”

  Dagger flipped out a blade much too lethal-looking for the innocent smile he aimed at Max. “Growing boys—”

  “Don’t use that filthy knife on your comestibles. Use a proper cheese knife.” This lesson—different utensils for different situations—was an ongoing exercise in frustration. Dagger’s world valued efficiency, meaning tools that served in multiple capacities.

  The world Max had been raised in valued. . . he wasn’t sure what. Having many specimens of the same item, and justifying the proliferation of possessions by decreeing one knife was for fruit, another for steak, another for bread.

  And none of those would ever, ever be used for self-defense.

  Neither world suited Max, and thus he escaped into the world that did, where measurements, hypotheses, and careful observation advanced the welfare of the species.

  Dagger fetched the cheese knife from the sideboard. “If a body was hungry enough, he wouldn’t bother over which knife he used. You lot don’t get hungry.”

  “We do,” Max said, setting aside the last of his figures. “When you’ve finished eating, you can copy my calculations into the journal. No luck so far, but we have many trials yet to go.”

  “I’m getting tired of eating bread,” Dagger said, around a mouthful of cheese. “Never thought that day would come.”

  “Eat some apples with that bread and cheese, Dagger, or your bowels will seize.”

  Dagger paused in his chewing and farted. “They ain’t seized yet.”

  “Haven’t. They haven’t seized yet.” Max managed not to smile, but the boisterous, irreverent vulgarity of boyhood was cheering. Also ripe as hell.

  “Let’s see your pockets, Dagger. I’m off to call upon my sisters.”

  Anytime Dagger had been out by himself, Max subjected him to this indignity. Fortunately, the boy’s pockets were empty—this time.

  “I’ll be back before dark,” Max said. “Beelzebub goes to his new home tomorrow.”

  Dagger tossed the loaf of bread aloft again. “Not if he ain’t here he won’t.”

  “If he’s not here, then Hannibal will go instead.”

  Max wasn’t sure he could do that—Hannibal and Edward were a couple, and dear to him, but Da
gger had a scheming mind and was attached to Beelzebub.

  “He’ll be here.”

  “See that he is.”

  Max bundled up against the elements and prepared for the trek to Mayfair, mentally considering the day’s calculations. Walking was good for thinking, but today, science wasn’t interested in keeping him company.

  Instead he was distracted by a shy lady with fine gray-blue eyes, one who loved books and hadn’t yet learned how to put a bounder in his place. She and Beelzebub would get along famously, which was some comfort when a man contemplated parting from yet another friend.

  Chapter Three

  “You must join us at Lady Chalfont’s ball,” Susannah said. “You never get out anymore.”

  “Haddonfields are known to be charming,” Della added, draping a linen towel over the porcelain teapot. “You can’t be charming if you’re always off doing your experiments and burying your nose in scientific treatises.”

  “Della is right.” Susannah aimed a look at Max over her embroidery hoop. She was stitching a scene of gamboling puppies for what looked like a throw pillow cover. Her husband, Willow Dorning, was dog-mad, and Susannah in her quiet way was Willow-mad. Della was rumored to have set her cap for another of the Dorning brothers, but that rumor was apparently false—or premature.

  Both sisters were biding for the nonce at the Haddonfield family town house. The owner of the dwelling and oldest Haddonfield sibling, Nicholas, Earl of Bellefonte, had taken his countess out for an ice. That excuse covered myriad deceptions, such as when Nick and Leah sought a private hour in his woodworking shop behind in the stables.

  “One can be charming anywhere,” Max said, “but what’s the point of being charming to a lot of young ladies who see me only as a means of marrying into a titled family?” He had a respectable competence from a deceased pair of great aunts, but he used that to fund his experiments.

  Della rose to move the fire screen, though the parlor struck Max as cozy enough. Della was small and dark, the Haddonfield changeling. The rest of the siblings were tall, and but for Max, blond. He had been born blond, but as he’d matured, his hair had darkened. His brothers had claimed that was evidence of his brain curdling as he became more enamored of science.

  He’d always felt that the lack of blond hair gave him something more in common with Della than with the rest of their siblings. She was the youngest girl, he was the youngest boy. She was as yet unmarried, and he was. . .

  Running a foundling home for stray cats. “Why did you marry?” he asked Susannah. Of all his sisters, she’d been the most bookish and retiring, something of a Shakespeare scholar.

  “Because I could not imagine life without Will. He saw me for who I truly am, and he became a part of my heart. If we live in a hut in the Outer Hebrides subsisting on cabbage soup, I want to be with him.”

  They did not dwell in a hut, but they did live a retiring life on a small country estate with a bloody lot of canines.

  “I cannot imagine life without science.”

  Della passed him a tray. “Have another sandwich. Life with science left you peaky and gaunt.”

  Like Dagger, Max wasn’t all that keen on eating more bread. His experiments left him awash in bread, most of which Max gave to Dagger to do with as the boy saw fit.

  “There will be mistletoe at Lady Chalfont’s ball, Max,” Susannah said, resuming her stitching. “You could steal a few kisses.”

  “Not a Haddonfield male born who wasn’t interested in that undertaking,” Della added, taking the place beside Max. “Admit it.”

  Max liked kissing and he liked very well all that came after it. He did not like emotional complications, entanglements, or drama. When he’d first come down from university, one young lady had set her cap for him and nearly seen him compromised. Fortunately, his sisters had taught him to pick locks with a hairpin, and what could have become an awkward scene in a linen closet had passed without incident.

  “If I were a lady,” Max said, “I would not want the fellow who kissed me only under the safe passage of the mistletoe tradition. I’d want the fellow who asked my permission before he took liberties, the fellow who sought to kiss me rather than have a holiday lark beneath a bit of greenery.”

  “You are simply no fun at all, Max,” Della muttered. “Have you considered that you might find sponsors for your investigations at the Chalfont ball? The card room will be full of older fellows who no longer want to stand up for every set. You can prose on to them about the ascendency of science and progress and all that other whatnot, provided you aren’t rude about it.”

  Susannah held her puppies up to the firelight. “You can mention in passing that you’ve made progress, and when they politely reply, you suggest the matter might be better discussed at a fellow’s club. You do still belong to some clubs?”

  “Three.” All of which were concerned exclusively with science.

  “Say you’ll come.” Della’s smile was a little forced, suggesting she wanted an ally. “If nothing else, you can partner me after Will has finished his duty set with me.”

  She was too small to be a good match for Max on the dancefloor. A pity Miss Antonia wouldn’t be at the ball. Max would enjoy partnering her, but what were the chances he’d cross paths with Mayfair’s only waltzing librarian?

  “I suppose I can put in an appearance,” he said, rising. “And in case you’re wondering, my experiments are uniformly failing these days.”

  “Who was it that said the failed experiments often yield the most interesting results?” Susannah replied, getting to her feet. She linked arms with Max and escorted him to the door, tucking his scarf around his neck as if he were eight years old.

  “Why don’t we ever gather for a family meal, Susannah? Ethan, Will, and George all pass through Town regularly. We could get Beckman up here if we enlisted Sara’s aid. Daniel and Kirsten could get away from headmastering for a few days if we asked it of them.”

  As the youngest son, Max barely knew Ethan, the firstborn half brother who’d been sent off to school and estranged from his siblings at a young age. Beckman, the spare, gloried in the life of a country squire near Portsmouth, while George was making a good start on the same role in Kent.

  The Haddonfields were thriving, but must they thrive at such distances from one another?

  “They would all come to Town for a wedding,” Susannah said, patting Max’s lapel. “If you married a well-to-do lady, your science would benefit.”

  This had become a refrain from his sisters, and their suggestion was sensible. Max could offer family connections, the lady would bring some means to the union, and everybody would pronounce it a fine match.

  Though some means was hardly a compelling motivation to make a lifelong commitment. “I’ll see you at the Chalfonts’ do,” Max said, tapping his hat onto his head. “Don’t expect me to stay long.”

  “You haven’t asked when it is.”

  “As it happens, my evenings are free for the foreseeable future. I’m guessing Wednesday, to avoid conflicting with parliamentary duties.”

  “Wednesday it is. See you then. And Max?”

  “I know. Have my evening clothes pressed. Tuck a flower into my lapel, though no sensible flower blooms this time of year. Be charming.”

  He kissed her on the cheek and escaped into the cold smoky air, already regretting his decision to attend the ball.

  “Why do I bother?” Antonia muttered, fanning herself slowly. “Why did I let Peter talk me into this again?” To any onlooker, she doubtless appeared to be chatting pleasantly with her cousin. Diana had found them a bench among the potted palms, out of sight of the men’s punch bowl.

  “Dancing was never Peter’s greatest strength,” Diana replied. “Athena and I figured that out before he’d landed either one of us on our bums.”

  Peter had nearly sent Antonia sailing into an older couple, though the gentleman had neatly caught Antonia by the arm, winked, and set her back on her feet.

  “As soo
n as the next set begins, I’m off to repair my hem. To think I nearly careened into Their Graces of Windham.” The duke and duchess not only danced on the beat, an accomplishment that eluded Peter, they looked enormously happy to be waltzing with each other.

  “Their Graces were a love match,” Diana said, raising her fan to keep the words private. “My abigail said the duchess comes from modest wealth, but her antecedents weren’t that impressive.”

  What did that matter, when Her Grace of Windham was so clearly the duke’s partner in every regard?

  “You will excuse me,” Antonia said, passing Diana a nearly full glass of punch. “I must away to the retiring room.” Not that any other man would ask her to dance, not after the near-fiasco with Peter.

  She ducked through one of the ballroom’s side doors and into the gallery. The cooler air was a benediction, as was the quiet. The guests raised their voices to be heard over the music and the thump of the dancers’ feet. The musicians played more loudly to be heard over a hundred conversations, until the ballroom pulsed with sheer noise.

  I miss the library.

  That thought surprised Antonia and pleased her. She’d taken on the volunteer position in an effort to do something—anything—more meaningful than literary committee work, tatting lace, and calling on acquaintances. The job wasn’t exactly thrilling, and Mr. Kessler had let his skepticism regarding Antonia’s abilities be loudly known. Nonetheless, she was beginning to look forward to the library days and to hope that the paying post would be offered to her.

  She rounded the landing on the way up to the retiring room and once again nearly landed on her bum. A pair of strong male hands on her arms steadied her, and she found herself gazing up into familiar blue eyes.

  “Mr. Haddonfield.”

  “Miss Antonia. Good evening, and my apologies for not watching where I was going.”

  The men’s retiring room was typically on the same floor as the ballroom, lest ladies and gentlemen encounter one another at awkward moments.