A Lady's Guide to Improper Behavior (3 page)

“You have it, regardless. So argue with yourself.” She reached out to pull open the front door and held on to him while he hobbled out to the portico. “Your horse is waiting; you never intended to stay.”

Her tone was accusing, but considering that she was correct, he didn’t see any reason to deny it. “No, I didn’t. Hence me not caring about your apology.”

“With those manners, I’m surprised you were invited here at all.”

Bartholomew scowled. “They had to ask me; they’re family.”

“And thank goodness for that, or someone would have punched you.”

He sent her a sharp glance. “I don’t find you the least bit amusing, you know.”

She gazed straight back at him. “Well, you shall have to improve your sense of humor. Why don’t you spend a few minutes at the Haramund soiree tomorrow night?” she returned, taking his cane as he grabbed onto the saddle horn. “I do like to dance, Colonel.”

“I don’t dance.” With a stifled gasp he swung up on Meru and settled his bad foot into the stirrup. “Clearly.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to dance with you. You have no manners.” Shoving his cane into its straps, she
stepped back. “I meant that you can watch.” With that she turned her back and returned to the house.

“That little…” Bartholomew stopped. He had absolutely no idea how to finish the sentence. As far as he was from being a virgin, Theresa Wheeler in a matter of five minutes had set him so far back on his heels that he’d nearly fallen over. Literally.

He’d set out to be curt and uncommunicative. What he hadn’t expected was to be called on his poor behavior. The last time he’d been so unsure of his footing had been when he’d literally had his legs cut out from under him. He didn’t like the sensation any more now than he had then. This time, though, he could do something about it. Something simple. He could avoid the Haramund soiree.

The other members of the James family weren’t terribly pleased with her, Theresa realized, but compared with how she viewed her behavior, their opinion of her actions couldn’t possibly be worse than her own. Conversation throughout dinner remained stilted and far too cautious. Even Amelia sent her glances of veiled annoyance whenever no one else was looking, and considering that she’d promised conversational compassion, she couldn’t blame her cousin for her annoyance. Yes, the colonel had overstepped, but he didn’t pride himself on his manners. She did.

“What were you thinking?” her cousin finally demanded, wrapping both hands around her arm once they left the men to their cigars and port.

“I was thinking that he was rude,” Theresa whispered back, watching as Violet pranced upstairs to
the drawing room ahead of them. “I tried to keep my temper, but…well, there’s no excuse for my behavior. Should I leave?”

“No. Of course not.” Her cousin frowned thoughtfully. “You’re generally so much more careful about what you say.”

Yes, she was. “I apologized to him.” Well, she hadn’t, precisely, but at least she had helped him down the front steps. If he’d fallen, she would have been worse than mortified. “If you and Stephen and Violet wish to be angry with me, then do so. Heaven knows I deserve it.”

“Tolly didn’t used to be rude like that,” Violet put in unexpectedly. “When he last came back on leave three years ago, he was funny and warm and kind, just as he always was. He was awful tonight. Much worse than you were.”

Now she felt even more terrible. “I’m never rude like that, Violet. I’m so sorry if I drove him away.” Even though she hadn’t. The fact that he’d been attempting to goad someone into snapping back at him, however, didn’t excuse her. She should have been the last one to lose her temper. She
never
lost her temper. Not in thirteen years.

Amelia hugged her sister-in-law. “Everyone’s more than likely been prodding at him for months. Perhaps he just needs a bit of fresh air without being smothered.”

“I can hardly smother him if he won’t even tell me where’s he’s staying.” Violet shrugged free and plunked into a chair. “He is very mean now.”

“He’s hurt,” Theresa offered. “He deserves compassion.”

“At least you made him think about something aside from his injuries.” With a grimace, Violet looked away. Then the eighteen-year-old faced her again. “I’ve changed my mind,” she announced. “I’m glad you spoke up, Theresa. I wish I’d done so.”

With a forced smile, Theresa sat beside her. “I’m glad you didn’t. I suppose this way he can know you’re not happy with his behavior, and he can be angry with me instead of you. I’m more than willing to take that upon my shoulders.” She deserved to have it there.

Amelia was looking at her again, her cousin’s expression more concerned this time, but Theresa pretended not to notice. The last thing she wanted was for Amelia to begin comparing her outburst tonight to the one that had inspired her concern with propriety, her booklet on proper behavior, and everything else she’d done over the past thirteen years.

Once Michael and Stephen rejoined them, Lord Gardner evidently realized that with Violet and Amelia no longer annoyed with her, he’d best give in as well. By the end of the evening they were all the dearest of friends once more.

That was just as well, because Theresa didn’t quite feel up to further explanations, or even apologies. In fact, she felt unusually distracted with trying to decipher why she’d allowed herself to be goaded into snapping back. She wanted to blame her odd behavior on the very provoking Bartholomew James. At the least he’d set her off kilter from her very first view of him.

It was quite late when she and Michael boarded their coach to return to Weller House. With a sigh,
she settled into the corner, happy to have a moment to sort through her thoughts.

“What the devil happened to you, Tess?” Michael asked abruptly, pressing the toe of his boot against her slipper.

“Stop that.” She sat upright. “I’ve already attempted to explain myself to Violet, and no one’s angry with me. Leave be.”

“I don’t mean your upset of our in-laws, Troll. I mean you lost your temper.”

Theresa scowled, as much at the use of his old pet name for her as his words. “I don’t know what happened. I’ve been trying to figure it out, and I can’t.”

“I’m actually relieved to know you still have a temper.” He leaned forward to pat her on the knee. “Still, you might have chosen your target a bit better.”

“Yes, I know. Colonel James is a wounded hero.”

“Not just that. Rumor is, these Thuggee don’t take prisoners,” he returned. “They ambushed his unit and killed everyone they could. Then they hunted down the survivors.”

“And Colonel James escaped.”

“That’s one story.”

She looked at her brother. He had a definite flare for the dramatic, and he did torment and tease her on occasion, but he sounded serious. “What’s another story, then?”

“That
he
hunted
them
down.”

“Oh.” If she asked, Michael would no doubt regale her with every gory detail, real or fantastical, but she could imagine it well enough herself. And she knew what he meant, now. That she’d begun an argument
with a man who killed people, and one who clearly wasn’t…balanced. “That’s only a story, though, yes? You don’t know for certain what happened.”

“Not for certain,” he conceded, clearly reluctant to do so. “Stephen wouldn’t say. He may not know, either. Colonel James doesn’t seem to be very communicative.”

“Violet said he didn’t use to be that way.”

“If I saw everyone under my command slaughtered and then either ran from or killed the men who’d done it, I wouldn’t be chatty, either.”

“No, you’d be chatty, regardless.”

“Ha-ha. Don’t antagonize him, Tess. That’s tonight’s lesson.”

Don’t antagonize him
. Theresa turned her gaze out the window at the darkness of Mayfair. Just to herself, without taking into account what she
should
be feeling, she could admit that she’d rather enjoyed unseating the colonel. And she half hoped she would have another chance to do so. Where no one else could overhear and be appalled, of course.

It didn’t seem at all proper, but it had been very…interesting.

B
artholomew awoke with a start, springing out of bed before his body remembered that his left leg would no longer support him in such an athletic move. With a sharp gasp he fell to the floor.

“Damnation,” he growled, shifting to straighten his leg, concentrating on taking short breaths to avoid shrieking like a chit.

In one sense, the pain was welcome. It roused him from an endless night of gunfire and screaming and the more muffled sounds and sensation of choking. He leaned back against the side of the bed. At least he could tell even in the pitch dark that he wasn’t back in India. The air was too cool, and faintly smelled of cigar and chimney smoke rather than forest and earth and dust.

Knuckles rapped faintly against his door. “Colonel?”

Scowling, Bartholomew glanced over his shoulder up at the bed. The very high bed. “Come in, Gibbs.”

The door opened. The Adventurers’ Club morning caretaker slipped into the small room. Wordlessly the stout fellow stepped forward and bent down, grasping Bartholomew beneath the arms and lifting.

“Thank you,” Bartholomew grunted, as he pulled free to sit on the edge of the bed again. “Sommerset doesn’t have you listening at my door, does he? This isn’t precisely the club.”

“It is a part of the club, Colonel. And no one is in the lounge, so I thought to take a bit of a stroll.” He gestured at Bartholomew’s bad leg. “Want me to have a look at it?”

Tolly started to refuse without even considering his answer; he could barely stand to look at it himself. That was one of the reasons he wore a pair of old trousers to bed; so he wouldn’t have to see it. The other reason was habit. Over the years he’d become accustomed to having to rise in the middle of the night. The army didn’t precisely keep regular hours. “No.” The pain had begun to subside, and he didn’t think his leg could get much worse without falling off completely.

“I’ll see you in the morning, then.” With a nod, Gibbs turned on his heel.

“Gibbs.”

The servant stopped. “Yes, Colonel?”

“Do you know how I might go about obtaining an invitation to a soiree?”

Gibbs pursed his lips. “Which soiree?”

“It’s at Haramund House. Tomorrow night. Or tonight, rather.”

“Haramund House. Lord and Lady Allen. I’ll see what I can come up with.”

“Thank you again, then.”

Tolly lay back as the servant left the room and closed the door quietly behind him. He had no idea why the devil he was even considering attending the damned party. Hopefully Gibbs would turn out to be less resourceful than he generally seemed to be, and no invitation would be forthcoming.

If he did attend, however, Theresa Weller was not going to have the last word. He wouldn’t even watch her dance. In fact, he would make a point of not watching her dance, and of making certain she knew that he wasn’t watching.

For a time he attempted to return to sleep, but the memory of the dream provided very little incentive to succumb. Finally he sat up again, threw a shirt on over his head, then grabbed his cane and left the bed chamber for the main sitting room of the Adventurers’ Club. The back wall was lined with books and maps. Most of them were Sommerset’s taste, but in his favor at least the duke was well traveled and an avid collector.

Settling for a silly and highly erroneous history of the Indian Sikh, no doubt written by an accountant who’d never left the protection of Fort William, he lit a candle and sat close by the fireplace. As Gibbs had said, no one else was about—which was pleasant for a change. The club never closed its doors, and he wasn’t the only member who didn’t sleep well.

He glanced toward the door in the far corner. It led into Ainsley House proper, Sommerset’s London res
idence. Whatever had possessed the duke to create a very exclusive club in his front rooms, Bartholomew at least was grateful for it. Here no one gave a damn who was rude or who wasn’t, and no chits teased him about dancing.

“The Sikh Mystery
?”

His eyes shot open, his fingers instinctively reaching for the rapier hidden inside his cane. Sommerset sat in the chair opposite, eyeing him. Judging by the light pouring in through the set of generous-sized east-facing windows, he’d missed daybreak by at least an hour. “Damnation,” he muttered, lifting the book from across his chest.

“I purchased that book for a laugh,” the duke continued, taking a swallow of steaming tea from a delicate china cup. “Glad to see it’s served a purpose other than for kindling.”

“A cure for sleeplessness, yes.” Bartholomew motioned at the tea. “Is there more of that?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Sommerset gestured, and Gibbs appeared a moment later, carrying another cup and saucer. “Thank you, Gibbs.”

“I live to serve, Your Grace.”

The duke lifted an eyebrow as the servant vanished again into the shadows. “I would say he’s become high in the instep, but he might well have been serious just then.” He took another swallow of tea. “That reminds me. Here.” Producing a folded note card from one pocket of his coat, Sommerset handed it over.

Bartholomew opened it. Embossed and complete with a small blue ribbon dangling from the bottom
edge, it was an invitation to the Haramund soiree. “This has my name on it,” he said aloud, then sent a glance around the large room.

“It’s just you and me in here for the moment,” Sommerset commented, following his gaze. “And it’s not a crime to attend a party.”

“But this is addressed to me.”

“I am a duke, you know. If I can’t perform a miracle here and there I might as well be a butler in expensive clothes.” He brushed at the sleeve of his well-tailored brown coat. “And butlers don’t get to dance with attractive women.”

“I don’t dance,” Bartholomew returned, considering that he’d twice in the space of one day had to inform people of that fact. It should have been damned obvious. Fleetingly he wondered if Gibbs had mentioned the circumstances under which he’d made the request for the invitation, but then he decided that he didn’t care. It wasn’t the first night he’d awakened screaming. And Sommerset, he’d observed, tended to be very well informed. “Thank you for this.”

“You’re welcome. And I presume you’ve put a stop to your family asking after your whereabouts?”

“Yes. If they want to reach me, they’re to leave word at the Society.”

“Good.” Sommerset finished off his tea and stood. “And while I don’t give a damn what our club members choose to attire themselves in, you’re getting blood on my Persian carpet.”

With a curse, Tolly straightened. His bare left foot was spattered with blood, while more of the stuff soaked his trouser leg up to the knee. “Apologies.”

“Don’t bother with that. I’ve sent for Dr. Prent
iss. And it’s been better than eight months since you were wounded, has it not? Shouldn’t you have healed by now?”

There were a great many things that should have been, and weren’t. “Infection,” he said stiffly. “Mostly gone now, but it wouldn’t knit. And I fell on it last night.”

“Speak to Prentiss about that. He’s saved the lives of at least two other club members since their return to London.”

Ah, the do-this-and-be-cured conversation. He’d had them before, but hadn’t expected to hear such nonsense from the Duke of Sommerset. “Thank goodness. I’d wondered when the miracle would occur. I should be dancing by midnight, don’t you think?”

The club door opened, and Lucas Crestley, Lord Piper, walked in. The duke nodded at the morning’s first arrival, then returned his gaze to Bartholomew. “What I think, Tolly,” he drawled, “is that yesterday you would have been skeptical about walking by midnight.” He tapped the Haramund invitation with one finger. “Someone’s got you thinking about dancing.”

As the duke walked back toward the private door leading to Ainsley House, Tolly silently reminded himself that the Duke of Sommerset, even at the relatively young age of two and thirty, was one of the most brilliant men he’d ever encountered. Clearly Tolly was going to have to work harder if he wanted to keep his affairs to himself.

On the other hand, what did he care if Sommerset discovered that some chit had teased him about
dancing? The answer was that he didn’t give a damn, of course. Clenching the Haramund invitation in his fist, he pushed upright. Grabbing the cane with his other hand, he stood for a moment until he was sure of his balance, then headed through the back door to his small, borrowed room to shave and dress, and to wait for the miraculous Dr. Prentiss.

And yes, damn it all, he was thinking about dancing.

Theresa looked from the black cat on her lap to the black cat curled into the one sunny spot on the window sill. “If that one is Blackie, then who is this on my lap?”

Grandmama Agnes, Lady Weller, chortled as she spooned another lump of sugar into her morning tea. As she told it, in her day she’d been a diamond of the first water, while today she’d faded to a mere emerald. With her bright green eyes and vivacious smile, she looked like one. Her wit, however, remained diamond-sharp, if a bit eccentric. “He’s Midnight,” the family’s matron said.

“How do you tell them apart?”

“Blackie has one white back paw, and Midnight has one white front paw. I do believe that Millicent had her eye on Midnight, but I was far too clever.”

“Of course you were. I’ve yet to see Lady Selgrave best you in a cat negotiation.” With a grin, Theresa finished off her own tea and put Midnight off her lap. Then she had to stand quickly; she’d discovered that if she remained seated in her grandmama’s part of the house for longer than a heartbeat, she would have
a cat on her lap. “Are you certain you don’t wish to go walking with Leelee and me this morning?”

“Oh, no. Mrs. Smith-Warner and I are going to visit Lady Dorchester. She has a terrible case of the gout, you know. I’ve told her to take the waters at Bath, but she refuses to miss any of the Season even for the sake of her health.”

“Give her my best wishes, then,” Theresa said, leaning down to kiss her grandmother on the cheek.

“You are a dear heart, Tess.”

“As are you, Grandmama.” Halfway to the door, she paused. “You are still attending the Haramund soiree tonight, aren’t you?”

“Lord Wilcox has promised me a waltz,” Lady Weller said with a chuckle. “Since he’s been attempting to learn the dance since last Tuesday, I must attend.”

“I would like to see that myself.” Especially considering that Lord Wilcox had only given up wearing powdered wigs two years ago. “He’s become very progressive, hasn’t he?”

“I think he’s smitten with me, and you know how progressive I am.”

“Indeed.” Smiling, Theresa slipped out the door into the main part of the house.

Some gentleman or other was always smitten with Grandmama Agnes, though Theresa suspected if they knew how many cats the dowager viscountess owned, they might be less enthusiastic. Or perhaps they wouldn’t be, considering how much property her grandmother owned thanks both to her blue-blooded parentage and to her marriage to the late Viscount
Weller. Plenty of room for cats, when a fortune came along with them.

Ramsey opened the front door to admit Amelia just as Theresa finished tying on her bonnet. “You’re ready, Tess,” her cousin exclaimed, after greeting the old butler.

“Of course I’m ready. You said ten o’clock.”

“But I’m five minutes early.”

Theresa deepened her smile. “A lady should take the time to put herself together well, but neither should she lessen the affect of her appearance by being tardy.”

“Ah. I seem to remember reading that somewhere.”

Of course Amelia had read it. Even though her cousin had seemed a little hesitant to assist in any way with the booklet’s publication, once she’d realized that Theresa meant to do it anonymously, she’d read every word of it. At least Theresa supposed that had been the reason for Leelee’s hesitation—the worry that Tess would be looked at askance for publishing. “Did you hear that Gilroy’s has their new hats on display this morning?” she asked aloud, shaking herself.

“Oh, heavens. Come along, then.”

Once they were well on their way, Theresa slowed a touch and wrapped her arm around her cousin’s. “Now, you must tell me. What do you know of your husband’s brother?”

“Tolly?” Amelia sent her a shocked look. “You’re not interested in him, are you?”

“I admit he’s very handsome, but heaven knows he could stand to acquire some manners.”

Amelia stopped so quickly that Theresa nearly lost her balance. “No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’? I made a mistake at dinner, and I wish to correct my error. There is a way to draw anyone into polite conversation, and I should never have lost my temper.”

“Colonel James is a very troubled man who was lucky to have survived his ordeal in India. He nearly lost a leg—and from what Stephen says, he may still do so. He’s not…social enough for you, nor is he concerned with such things. Leave him be.”

No, he wasn’t social. There was something else entirely about him, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. And that was more than likely what intrigued her. And it was more than likely why her own poor behavior where he was concerned troubled her. She wouldn’t make the same mistake a second time.

“I didn’t say I wished him to court me, or any such thing,” she said aloud, forcing a chuckle. “I only want to know about him. Single gentlemen are so rarely deliberately rude in polite company. Especially in my company. Even if I hadn’t worked so diligently at knowing the rules of proper behavior, I do have a dowry of two thousand a year.”

“You are incorrigible.”

“That has nothing to do with it. Most single gentlemen know by now that they have nothing to gain by rude behavior. Not in my presence.”

Amelia laughed reluctantly. “I heard Olivia Grey referring to you as ‘the paragon’ the other day. And she meant it.”

“Then you know I have no ulterior motive. Tell me about your brother-in-law.”

“Very well, but you’re going to be disappointed, because I don’t know very much.”

“You know more than I do.”

Her cousin took a deep breath. “Tolly is twenty-eight, three years younger than Stephen. He’s been an officer serving in Europe and then in India for ten years. Just over eight months ago he and his company were escorting a local zamindar or chieftain or whatever they call him, to Delhi. They’d been sent to accompany the fellow because of a rash of robberies by highwaymen. There was some sort of altercation, and Tolly was the only survivor. He arrived back in London just a month ago, and that’s only because the weather was favorable on his return voyage.”