A Wicked Gentleman (27 page)

He set down his goblet, and said heavily, “I'm sorry. I can't give you what you want, sweetheart.” He opened his hands palms up in a gesture of helplessness, his expression drawn, his eyes lightless.

“Why can't you?”
she demanded. She wanted to shout the question but it emerged as a fierce whisper. “Tell me, Harry?
Why can't you?
” But even as she asked the question, she knew it to be futile. He would not tell her for the same reason he couldn't give her what she wanted.

He shook his head slowly. “I'll leave you now.”

But she couldn't let him go. Her mind held no sway here, only the imperatives of her heart and her body. She couldn't let him go…and the consequences be damned.

She put out an arresting hand.
“No.”
Her voice was strong and decisive. She stood slowly and went into his arms.

 

Nigel didn't think he'd stopped shaking since he'd run from the George and Dragon. His present lodgings were, if anything, even worse than the last, and to make matters yet more desperate, he knew he had to wean himself from the brandy that had enabled him to forget reality.

He didn't understand why they wanted something so absurdly ordinary as a thimble. It made no rational sense at all, and to his muddled brain the getting of it seemed impossible to execute. He had seen it on Cornelia's finger, had actually touched it when she'd taken his hand between hers, but how on earth was he to get it now?

But the consequences of failure had been laid out to him in gruesome detail. Running from his tormentors had proved a lamentable failure, so somehow he had to do what he was told.

But how? He could hardly go back to the Coltrain mansion. He'd left without so much as a scrawled note of explanation. He had no funds for a decent town lodging; anything of value, including clothes, had all been pawned. He was debt-free, true enough, but he was in no fit state to show himself to society. He no longer possessed even one decent suit of clothes. He couldn't possibly turn up on his cousin's doorstep in his present condition. They wouldn't turn him away, but if his family ever found out the trouble he was in, they would disown him. And he wouldn't blame them either.

On a desperate impulse he left the dingy squalor of his room in the equally squalid lodging house in Billingsgate and set off to walk to Gray's Inn. There he would find the Greyhound Tavern. His instructions had been crystal clear. When he had accomplished his task, he was to leave the small piece of sealing wax they had given him in the flowerpot on the window, and return after three hours precisely. It all sounded so far-fetched sometimes he could almost believe he was dreaming, but the grimness of his surroundings was all he needed to remind him that this nightmare was indeed reality.

He didn't know why he was going to the rendezvous now, but somehow he had the idea that if he looked at the place, thought about how, once the sealing wax was in the flowerpot, he would wake up again to a sane world, then an idea would come to him.

He stood for a long time in a fetid alleyway on the other side of the Gray's Inn Road, staring at the inn, at the cracked flowerpot on the sagging windowsill. He watched the customers stagger in and out of the tavern, ill-kempt drovers, carters, barrow boys for the most part. In his present guise he would fit right in, he thought sourly. He had a handful of coins, enough for a pint of gin. Maybe one kind of spirit would move the other to inspiration.

When he emerged from the tavern an hour later, drunk enough to feel no pain, he had the beginnings of an idea.

 

“So, are you enjoying yourself, ma'am?”

Cornelia turned her head slowly, a smile hovering on her lips, as Harry stepped up beside her in the window embrasure. Behind them in the ballroom at Almack's the orchestra was playing a cotillion. “Not particularly,” she said, but her smile widened as she looked at him. “Perhaps that will change now.” Evening dress suited him, but then so did everything, including his birthday suit, she thought, feeling that telltale jolt of unbidden arousal in her loins.

His eyes gleamed as if he'd heard the thought, felt the jolt himself. “I'll do my best to alter things,” he said, sliding a wicked hand down her hip. “Any better?”

“Hush,” she said, biting her lip to suppress her laughter. “Don't stand so close.”

“But this embrasure is so small,” he murmured. “I don't appear to have much choice.” His fingers did a little dance against the blue silk of her gown, pressing into the warm flesh beneath.

Cornelia hastily stepped backwards out of the embrasure, and he turned, laughing, to stand with his back to the window, facing her. “I expected to find you with a full dance card,” he remarked, accepting the end of that little play.

“I've been dancing for two hours,” she responded in a tone remarkable for its lack of enthusiasm.

“You don't care to dance?” He sounded surprised. She was such a graceful creature, he couldn't imagine she was anything but a delight on the dance floor.

Cornelia shook her head with a moue of distaste. “In truth, I find this kind of dancing utterly insipid. Or perhaps,” she added, “it's my partners I find insipid. Does no one in London have any sensible conversation at all?”

He inclined his head consideringly. “The weather is a popular topic…and last night's rout ball at Lady Bartram's…oh, and I've heard much discussion on Miss Gossington's marital prospects. It seems she'll catch Lord de Vere after all.”

Cornelia laughed. “Oh, you are absurd, but that is about the size of it.” She turned to look around the ballroom. “Liv is enjoying herself though. That's the second time she's danced with that gentleman…I don't recall his name.”

Harry followed her gaze. “Ah, Strachan…I hope she's not setting her cap at him. He hasn't two pennies to rub together.”

Cornelia turned back to him, regarding him for a second in haughty silence, before declaring, “Liv would never be so vulgar as to
set her cap
at anyone, my lord.”

He returned smartly, “Forgive me, ma'am. I didn't mean to imply that Lady Livia was no different from the rest of the aspiring females in this room. Her sensibilities are of course far superior.”

Cornelia couldn't hold on to her indignation. His eyes were too full of laughter. “Sometimes I dislike you intensely,” she said without any conviction. “If you're not minded to be pleasant, my lord, I suggest you find someone else to talk to.”

“Come, let's dance,” he said suddenly, reaching for her hand. “I can promise I won't be an insipid partner.”

Cornelia allowed herself to be led onto the dance floor, and they took their places in the set. It was a country dance, and there was little opportunity for much conversation, insipid or otherwise, but whenever they came together, Harry contrived some small gesture, a hand squeeze, a conspiratorial wink, that kept her smiling.

As they walked off the floor at the end of the dance, he said rather gravely, “I didn't mean to insult Livia, earlier, it was just a word of warning. One that I'm delighted she has no need of.”

Cornelia frowned and said with a little sigh, “I suppose it's what everyone will be saying. I do so loathe this business. It's so superficial.”

“It is if you believe, as these women do, that the pinnacle of female ambition must be a husband,” he pointed out. “And how else is she to catch one, except on the marriage mart?” He gestured at the salon thronged with eager-eyed young women, fluttering fans, gazing worshipfully up at whatever man was paying them attention. Their chaperones sat along the wall, gossiping, tittering, even as their own eyes never left the activity on the dance floor, watching for the moment when a maternal intervention would be required.

Cornelia looked at him sharply, seeing the slight derisive curl of his lip. “You think so little of my sex?” she questioned.

“Ah, Nell, you know better than that,” he protested, his voice once more an undertone. “You of all women should know that's not true.”

She flushed a little, the undercurrent in his voice sending prickles of lustful anticipation along her spine.

“Besides,” he went on, watching her with the smile once more in his eyes, “I was merely agreeing with you. I like this social dance no more than you do.”

“Then why take part in it?”

“I don't, as a rule,” he replied. “But I couldn't resist the opportunity to spend the evening in your company.”

“Permit me to inform you, sir, that I consider that a shameless piece of flummery,” she declared, trying not to laugh.

“Indeed it is not,” he protested, lifting her hand to his lips. His eyes glowed, his voice dropped to a whisper, “I'll prove it later tonight.”

Cornelia's tongue touched her lips. He was playing with fire. He might not have a reputation to preserve, but she most certainly did. The middle of Almack's assembly rooms was no place for dangerous flirtation. She withdrew her hand from his and said loudly to be heard by those around them, “Excuse me, Lord Bonham, my sister-in-law is beckoning me.” She walked quickly away from him.

Harry watched her, a smile lingering on his lips. Her ball gown of azure blue silk suited her coloring to perfection. A short train fell straight from her shoulders accentuating her erect posture. Her hair was dressed in her favorite Greek chignon, banded tonight with black velvet sewn with seed pearls. The pearls at her throat were particularly fine, too, he noted. A family heirloom, he guessed.

All three women drew the eye on this their first major venture into society. They were unusual, as much because they appeared so naturally confident, so blithely indifferent to the sometimes rude stares, the behind-the-hand speculation, that always accompanied the arrival of a newcomer on London's social scene.

They had drawn up in the teacup, which, as they had all predicted, created an instant stir. Had they appeared at all self-conscious about this extraordinarily old-fashioned method of transport, they would have been laughed out of court, branded as country simpletons, and they would have languished in Cavendish Square until, crushed, they decided to return whence they came.

But that had not happened. They were being talked about in every corner of the salon. Everyone knew who they were, their lineages were impeccable if not of the truly upper echelons of the aristocracy. Their mothers were known to have made reasonable if not spectacular alliances. Lady Sefton and the duchess of Gracechurch had vouched for them, so society was disposed to be kind, unless given reason to be otherwise.

And the women were far too astute, far too clever to make a mistake. They were here for Livia, and neither Cornelia nor Aurelia would queer that pitch.

He saw that Livia was leaving the dance floor with her partner, who escorted her to a little gilt chair in a window embrasure and went to the refreshment room. She sat fanning herself, her cheeks a little flushed from exertion in the overheated room.

Harry made his way towards her. “Good evening, Lady Livia. May I procure you a glass of lemonade?”

She looked up with a ready smile. “Oh, no thank you, Lord Bonham. Lord Strachan has gone to fetch me one.” She patted the seat beside her. “Won't you sit down?”

Harry did so, gracefully settling his long figure in black silk knee britches onto the fragile chair. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

She gave him a quick up from under smile. “Truth, sir?”

“Truth, ma'am.”

“It's all so insipid,” she stated. “No one has anything to talk about, and no one listens to a word one says. They're always looking over your shoulder for someone more interesting.”

“Not so much someone more interesting,” he said, smiling. “More to see if there's anything worth gossiping about. One must always be in the forefront of gossip, m'dear.”

Livia chuckled. “I'm sure that's so, but it's still mortifying to be in the middle of a sentence and realize that your partner hasn't heard a word you've said.”

“So what did you think of Strachan?”

“Mildly amusing. When he ceases to be so, I shall tell him I haven't a penny and I'm certain he'll take his congé immediately.”

Harry laughed. “Nell said as much.”

Livia's black eyes were suddenly shrewd. She closed her fan, tapping it lightly into the palm of her other hand. “I can't help noticing, sir, that you appear to be on much less formal terms with Nell than with Ellie and me.”

“I find it difficult to be formal with any of you,” he said swiftly. “Sometimes I forget, particularly when there's no one around to hear the slip.” His smile was winning. “I trust you don't object, Livia.”

Livia appeared to consider this. “No,” she said. “I don't object in the least. But don't underestimate either Ellie or me, Harry. And you should bear in mind that Nell's well-being is close to our hearts. You jeopardize it at your peril.”

“I am duly warned,” Harry responded with the flicker of an eyebrow. “Ah, here is your escort back from his errand.” He rose from the chair and bowed. “If you'll excuse me, ma'am. Strachan…” He strode off, aware of Livia's too shrewd gaze on his back. He had promised Cornelia he would never divulge their secret. He hadn't done so, but something had alerted Nell's friends. He wondered if she knew.