Kate Moore (6 page)

8

Susannah watched Lord Warne’s approach. He made way for his companion and himself as if the other guests, whatever their rank and wealth, were as unresisting a medium as air. His indifference to opinion was plain in that unwavering advance, and he was heading for Juliet.

Evelina gave a little moan. “Oh dear, it’s Warne.”

Brentwood broke off mid-sentence and turned a perplexed gaze on her ladyship. Susannah spoke up then, saying, “Lord Brentwood, what were you saying about the
roulade de boeuf
?”

“Mama,” Juliet whispered. “We don’t wish to meet Lord Warne, do we?”

“We cannot avoid it. He’s with Maria Sefton.” Evelina began to wring her hands and look about as if some avenue of escape might present itself.

Brentwood was once more lost in his own eloquence. Susannah smiled and nodded at him, but she felt Warne’s approach. It was not what she had expected, and she could not think what he meant by it. He must have heard the gossip, and he could not have liked it. She clutched her fan and felt the ivory sticks bend in her hand. And then he was there, and they were rising, Evelina affecting surprise and pleasure, Lord Brentwood confused.

Lady Sefton cast Evelina a calming glance and managed the introductions with creditable tact. Warne she described as a gentleman just returning to society and in need of friends. “I know how well-connected you are, Evelina,” she said.

Evelina smiled and nodded and fluttered her fan. Juliet made a scrupulous curtsy, but gave the marquess a frankly curious glance, as if she were looking for some resemblance to the young highwayman. The two men were of equal height, Susannah thought.

She heard herself named Mrs. Bowen, saw Lord Warne note her cap, and had the distinct impression his blue eyes questioned it. Then Maria Sefton drew Evelina aside with the mention of Byron’s latest difficulty, and Brentwood cleared his throat.

A frown creased his lordship’s smooth forehead. “I was just telling Miss Lacy about Shalford’s cook,” said Brentwood with mild belligerence.

“I have no objection,” said Warne.

Susannah glanced at him. The words were said with no apparent irony, but she had the feeling the marquess had just invited Brentwood to be stupid.

Warne reached for one of the little chairs and drew it near for Juliet, who dropped obediently into the seat. Then he was at Susannah’s side offering her a chair. Their eyes met briefly, his unreadable. He seated himself next to her and looked up at Brentwood, who abruptly turned to locate a chair for himself.

“As I was saying,” Brentwood began.

When she could, Susannah studied the marquess. What did he mean by securing an introduction to Juliet? His face wore an expression of polite interest, but she was sure the blue eyes missed nothing. He made her decidedly uncomfortable, as if a fox had been invited to a party of ducks and geese.

It was not his appearance that had such an effect. Not his hair, which was brown really, with hints of red and gold, fine and thick like a boy’s. Nor the blue eyes, which did not suggest guile so much as clear-headedness and wit. Nor the narrow nose, with its hint of a haughty curve. Nor the mouth, which stretched easily into a grin. Nor the way he disposed himself in the chair, one long, muscled leg stretched out. That muscled leg bothered her, she admitted to herself.

She had quite removed herself from men in her exile. There had been farmers and shepherds and furze cutters on market days, the vicar on Sundays, and Uncle John every day. But none whose manliness intruded on her notice. Even when the vicar had taken a brief fancy to her. He had always reminded her of wet dogs, and she had not been overly disappointed when Uncle John had discouraged the man’s suit even though there had followed a series of sermons on the sins of the flesh.

Here in this room with hundreds of men in their finery, Lord Warne’s leg was a shock. His voice, when he entered the conversation, was a low rumble at her side, the deep resonance of it unsettling.

“Miss Lacy,” he asked Juliet, “are you
very
interested in the domestic arrangements of the
ton
?”

“Oh no,” Juliet replied, with what could only be considered heartfelt sincerity.

Lord Brentwood choked, and Susannah came alert.

“Really,” Juliet said, “I am more interested in . . .” she glanced at Susannah, and finished, “. . . enjoying the season.”

“What is it, then, that you hope to enjoy in town?” the marquess asked.

Juliet looked down and arranged her skirts over her knees. “We only just arrived last night,” she said.

“Ah, just arrived,” he said. “Then Brentwood and I have been remiss in not asking you about your journey. Did you come post or in your own equipage?”

“Oh, in Papa’s carriage, of course,” answered Juliet, giving her fan a languid wave.

Susannah cast her charge a warning glance. Juliet seemed to think she could play this game, but the marquess took swift and dangerous control of the conversation and turned it toward his ends.

“You make light of such a journey, Miss Lacy, but did you have postilions and outriders enough for your safety and consequence?” he asked.

“Just Tim Dachet and John Coachman as always,” said Juliet with a shrug.

“What do you think, Brentwood?” asked the marquess, turning to the other man. “Was Miss Lacy trusting too much to luck, or are the roads safe enough for young ladies traveling by private carriage with but two guards?”

Lord Brentwood’s hands went into motion at once as he informed them of the extent of criminal activity in the environs of London. The marquess studied Juliet, and Susannah had the feeling that no sign of her cousin’s uneasiness would escape him. When a gasp from Juliet interrupted Brentwood’s account of the bludgeoning of a family of four, Susannah intervened, turning to the marquess and drawing his gaze. “Surely the dangers of travel by private coach have been exaggerated,” she said. The keen blue eyes seemed to measure her intent.

“Oh yes,” Juliet agreed. “There’s hardly enough adventure to suit me. Travelling is mostly tedious, for Coachman will go slowly, and Susannah—”

The mention of her name appeared to distract the marquess briefly, but he turned and asked Juliet, “What, no adventures, Miss Lacy? Surely every heroine deserves one good adventure on the road to London.”

“But I am not a heroine, Lord Warne,” Juliet replied, plainly perplexed by the suggestion.

“Not fated like your famous namesake to meet some masked Romeo at a ball?” he asked lightly.

“Oh,” said Juliet with evident dismay, clearly recognizing the marquess’s trap now that it had sprung on her. She fanned her bright cheeks vigorously. “No . . . such thing would ever happen to me, I’m sure.”

“Of course not,” interrupted Brentwood. “A perfectly respectable ball this, no need to alarm Miss Lacy with fate.”

“Yet,” said Lord Warne, “I had the distinct impression Miss Lacy did not wish to be . . . dull.”

The strains of the orchestra resuming its playing reached them, and Susannah turned to Lord Brentwood, suggesting that what Juliet wished for above all was to be dancing. She smiled at the viscount, who failed to take the hint. He had a point he wished to make about fate.

“You are not engaged for this set, Miss Lacy?” Warne asked, and Juliet admitted she was not. She had only time to cast a quick worried glance at Susannah as the marquess rose and offered his arm. He looked back over his shoulder as if to acknowledge the advantage he had gained, and Susannah frowned at Brentwood.

***

Juliet and Lord Warne danced a quadrille of the more intricate variety, which allowed but a few occasions for conversation. Susannah watched those exchanges closely but could detect no signs of displeasure or discovery in the marquess. When the set ended, he returned a thoughtful Juliet to Susannah’s side.

“He’s not so mean as Mama says,” Juliet confided.

“He did not press you any more about your adventure?”

Juliet adjusted the modest neckline of her gown to a more daring degree. “Not at all.”

“What
did
you talk about?” Susannah asked. She feared that Lord Warne was quite capable of encouraging Juliet to make indiscreet revelations.

“Just things. Berkshire, Mama, you.”

“Me?” Susannah could not prevent the note of surprise in her voice.

“Yes. Lord Warne wanted to know how long you had been a widow. I told him I didn’t really know,” said Juliet. “Since before you came to us, I suppose.” She gave Susannah a sly look.

“Why else would I have come,” Susannah said lightly, but she felt a little knot of fear inside. Long ago she had invented the fictional Mr. Bowen, a hero who had died with Sir John Moore at Corruna, but how easily that lie could be exposed.

Juliet regarded her now with frank curiosity, and Susannah strove to compose herself, grateful when Lord Brentwood interrupted their exchange to claim a dance. She had no qualms about her cousin’s dancing with the prosy viscount and took one of the seats reserved for chaperones.

At the end of the set, Juliet stepped from Lord Brentwood’s side into a circle of gentlemen—Cousin Clara’s work—wishing to be presented to her. Clara presided over these introductions, and Susannah could have laughed at such an improvement in Juliet’s social position after just two dances, one with Lord Warne. But she was too familiar with society’s fickle nature. Juliet could again become the subject of gossip and be shunned. Look at Byron, who had been lionized, and now was universally reviled and Susannah herself, who had been foolish, and condemned for it, and who, with the false name of Bowen, was acceptable again.

When the orchestra took up an entirely new tune, Juliet’s admirers asked Susannah if Miss Lacy were permitted to waltz. Susannah shook her head. There was a groan from the young men, but one, perhaps kinder than the rest, offered to sit the dance out to keep Miss Lacy company. His friends accused him of baser motives, and all agreed to stay by Juliet’s side.

Susannah found herself squeezed out of the circle, but her seat allowed a clear view of the dancers. She had heard of the waltz, of course. Not long before, the dance had been censured by nearly everyone, including Byron, but Susannah and Juliet had practiced the steps. They had purchased
The Correct Method of German and French Waltzing
by T. Wilson, Dancing Master, King’s Theatre. But whirling about with Juliet unaccompanied by any instrument, the waltz seemed no more than a mild exercise, not an intimate union. And Susannah had failed, without hearing the music, to comprehend its seductive power. She could see now that it produced a soaring giddiness more intoxicating than champagne. Even as she sat with her slippers firmly planted on the floor, she could feel the melody tugging at her, lifting her, seducing her from sense and prudence and duty. She clutched her fan tightly with both hands.

“You will break the sticks, Mrs. Bowen,” said a voice at her side. She started and lifted her gaze to find the marquess standing at the edge of her chair, studying her intently. He took her hands in his and loosened her grip on the little fan. The manner in which it was done, at once careless and gentle, sent a hot current of sensation through her. When he released her, her hands burned from the contact, and she buried them in her lap.

“You do not dance?” he asked, seating himself beside her.

“Of course not,” she replied.

“You have no wish to cut a dash among the ladies of the
ton
?”

Susannah touched one shaky hand to the little lace cap on her head. It was still there. “Cut a dash? Lord Warne, you cannot make me believe you are ignorant of the nuances of ladies’ dress. Do you see one woman dancing with a cap such as this? Such as chaperones wear?”

“Not one,” he agreed cheerfully. “But I do see Mrs. Trentfield, a widow, whose year of mourning has just this day ended if the gossips may be believed. Your cousin says that you have been a widow for many years.”

Susannah lowered her gaze and spoke the familiar lie. “Yes. Bowen has been dead since Corunna.”

“Then you wear your cap because you failed to snare another husband in the interval?”

“Snare?” she said, lifting her chin to stare him full in the face, ready to relieve herself of a blistering condemnation of gentlemen who imagined that all the treachery of love was on the woman’s side. She saw a teasing gleam in his eyes and knew that she had fallen into his trap. She shut her mouth abruptly and lowered her gaze. She had revealed a weakness to the clever man at her side, and no doubt he would use it against her.

The lilting music filled a brief pause, but Susannah felt his scrutiny.

“How do you manage it?” he asked.

“What?”

“That trick of lowering your lashes to hide the fire inside.”

Susannah gripped her fan tighter and strove to recall her purpose. “I am not here to seek dancing partners or a husband,” she told him. “My duty is to my cousin. Her match is my concern this season.”

“Her mama’s too, of course,” he said, looking across the room at Evelina engrossed in earnest conversation with a woman Susannah did not know. Her aunt appeared to have forgotten Juliet entirely.

Susannah blushed and straightened. The man was too shrewd. Either her aunt was irresponsible, or her own chaperonage of Juliet was redundant and officious.

“My cousin’s parents do not entirely agree on the most suitable match for her,” she said firmly, meeting his gaze with a level look of her own.

“And you are here to represent your uncle’s views?”

“Yes.”

“A serious responsibility that allows no time for dancing?” His gaze shifted to Juliet and the gentlemen surrounding her.

“My lord, I will see my cousin safely wed,” she said.

“
Safely
?” With a look of swift comprehension, his eyes returned to Susannah. “Hence Brentwood, Mrs. Bowen?” He shook his head.

Susannah stared at him. “My lord, excuse me. I can’t think what you mean,” she said.

“But you can, Mrs. Bowen.”

“If I do understand you,” she said with heat, “you are presuming to suggest that Lord Brentwood is not a proper suitor for my cousin, with whom you have the merest acquaintance. And that is a piece of long-nosed effrontery—”