No Place for a Dame (18 page)

And now here she sat next to a young, eligible, bona fide peer. How many of those young ladies from whom she’d been so carefully segregated would have traded all their family’s silver for such an opportunity? A trade she’d have been glad to have made if it meant getting off this ridiculous, precarious-looking contraption.

Perhaps she could just close her eyes for the duration for the drive.

“Are you ready?”

Before she could answer, the team bolted forward and Avery clutched the rails, slamming her eyes shut, and praying that she lived long enough to tell Giles she was sorry she’d broken her promise.

Very
sorry.

Chapter Seventeen

B
lister me! Would you just look at that cow-handed clunch!” The exclamation broke the hush that generally permeated White’s Gentlemen’s Club during the afternoons. Most of its members were either at their own homes or sunk into comfortable chairs scattered throughout the front room, snoring away the last remnants of the previous night’s folly before seeking out the next.

“I have a guinea says he upends his rig by the time he reaches the end of the street,” said another man.

At the casually tossed-out bet, several of the club’s more ardent gamblers hastened to their feet. No one bothered to secure White’s infamous book on their way to the window; there wouldn’t be time to enter any bets into it.

Giles set aside the note containing Sir Isbill’s acceptance of the invitation he’d sent him and glanced without much interest out the window. He’d spent a long night unsuccessfully hunting for some clue as to Jack Seward’s whereabouts. The suicidal antics of would-be bloods held little—

With an oath, he surged to his feet, drawing the attention of those
nearest him. He barely noted them, his gaze fixed on the certain disaster unfolding on the street below.

A black curricle barreled down the avenue, its steaming, lather-flecked team stampeding in their traces. Their young driver stood straight up on the floorboards, frantic-eyed and hauling ineffectually on the reins. The vehicle careened and teetered as it came, each rut in the road threatening to tip it over, each icy cobble the potential for disaster.

“Best call out now, Strand,” one of the club members advised. “Does the driver make it to the end of the street or not?”

“He damn well better make it,” Giles said grimly. “Because that’s my protégé clinging to the side.”

“Oh!
That was glorious!
” Avery cried out when Neville finally managed to haul the team to a halt. “Can we do it again? Let’s do it again!”

“No,” Neville barked with unnecessary force before he folded like an accordion and landed heavily on the seat. His hands were shaking and sweat beaded his brow.

Startled, Avery studied him and was amazed to realize that rather than being flushed with excitement, he was ashen faced with terror. For the first time, it dawned on her that their race down the avenue hadn’t been planned. Hard on the heels of this realization came another: not only hadn’t it been intentional but the horses had been completely out of Neville’s control. Only dumb good luck had saved them from disaster.

The knowledge should have frightened her. It
should
have made her go weak in the knees like apparently it had Neville. It should have made her head spin and her stomach clench. But it didn’t. Oh, it made her pulse race faster, all right, but out of pure exhilaration.

Who would have guessed speed and danger were such a heady combination? Or that she would find oscillating wildly atop a high moving perch so electrifying! And all the more so for being unanticipated.

“I say, Lord Neville, terribly kind of you to take young Quinn driving
and all, but do you think it was necessary to scare him half to death while doing so?”

At the sound of that dry, soft, and unmistakable drawl, Avery’s head snapped around. She looked down into the enigmatic, cool gray gaze of Lord Strand. He stood in the street below her, his golden head bared to the elements, a few flecks of snow melting on the wide expanse of his jacket’s shoulders, and spatters of mud debasing the mirrored shine of his boots. Though it was cold and dank and he wore no coat, he looked no less at ease than if it had been high summer.

“I trust you aren’t going to toss up your accounts?” he asked her. The sobriety of his searching gaze belied his insouciant attitude and caused an unexpected feeling of warmth to blossom in her chest.

“No, I—”

“
He’s
not the one likely to retch,” Neville broke in. He found a handkerchief in his greatcoat’s pocket and mopped his forehead. “You misunderstand the situation entirely.”

“Do I?” Strand tipped his head. Though his words were no louder than a murmur, the color came rushing back into Neville’s face.

“Yes, sir,” Neville said miserably. “I mean, no. ’Struth, the damned horses
had
bolted but young Quinn here wasn’t shouting out of fear, he was screeching at the bloody beasts to go faster!”

His pronouncement caught Strand off guard. His brows dipped and an unmistakable flicker of surprise crossed his face. He looked at her. “Have you lost your mind?” he murmured.

She followed the direction of his gaze, noting a half dozen finely dressed men standing outside the door of a white stone building with a large bow window, watching them. Too late—far, far too late—she remembered her promise to be inconspicuous.

She wet her lips. “Possibly.”

“Damned if Providence don’t always shine on you, Strand. You are truly her favored son.” A man Avery recognized as Lord Vedder sauntered over. “Take your winnings.”

Strand turned and smiled, holding out his hand. Vedder dropped a gold coin into it.

“Tell me,” Vedder said. “What made you think the bloody carriage would stay upright? By all the laws of nature it should have tipped over halfway down the street.”

Avery started. That Strand had wagered on her physical well-being both shocked and distressed her at some elemental level. She looked at him, afraid her hurt was clear in her eyes, but he only affected exquisite indifference.

“’Tis as you said, Vedder. Providence would never inconvenience Her favored son with having to arrange a funeral. And just think how the obligatory mourning period would wreak havoc with my social calendar.” He shuddered. “No. She could not be so unkind.”

He glanced up at Avery. “I commend you, Mr. Quinn, on having the good sense not to make the transition from celebrated pet to annoying corpse.”

The men behind him broke into appreciative laughter. Avery’s head snapped back as if she’d been slapped.

“Lud,” another man exclaimed, “I believe you’ve hurt the whelp’s feelings. Look at his expression. He’s wounded, by Jove. He thought he held a greater portion of your affection, Strand.”

Heat flamed in Avery’s cheeks. How dare the fellow presume to interpret her expression! She’d thought no such thing! She’d simply been shocked that Strand could be so caustic. In the library discussing Louis and later playing cards he’d been so… so unlike this.

“Fustian,” Strand said, without a glance at her. “The boy thinks no such thing. I only met him a few weeks ago. Picked him up as a project to chase away winter’s ennui.

“It was either take up with Quinn here or go to Italy to visit me mum and frankly, my Italian is atrocious. Why, last time I was there I gave orders that the landlord send ‘un piccolo agnellino’ to my room for supper. Imagine my embarrassment when a signorina in a state of interesting dishabille showed up instead.”

“Embarrassment or delight?” someone asked.

“Oh, embarrassment. I already had company, you see.” The men guffawed appreciatively. Including Neville, Avery noted venomously, who was trying too hard to sound hearty.

“Here, Strand. You’re making the young man uncomfortable,” a handsome young man with military bearing said. “He isn’t used to your debauchery.”

“I suppose not, Mandley. And God forbid he ever is.”

“What’s this? Sentiment, Strand?” Vedder asked with a light sneer.

The corner of Strand’s mouth lifted. “Not a bit of it. I just don’t want those stargazing chappies after my head. They would be most unhappy if an intellect of Mr. Quinn’s caliber threw over his studies for my sort of pursuits. I may be a wastrel, me dear fellow, but I abhor waste.”

More laughter greeted this.

“If we stay out here much longer we shall soon make the transition from uncelebrated life to celebrated death,” another gentleman said. “At least me wife will celebrate it. Let’s adjourn inside. Bring your baby genius along, Strand. You come, too, Demsforth. We’ll have a groom take your carriage ’round to the mews.”

Neville nodded eagerly and leaned towards her. “That’s White’s Gentlemen’s Club,” he whispered. “One of the most exclusive clubs in all of London.”

“We don’t have to go,” she whispered back.

“Yes, we do!” Neville’s eyes were wide with shock. “It will add greatly—
greatly
—to our consequence.”

She couldn’t help but smile. Neville’s longing to be accepted by the elite members of the ton was almost painful in its conspicuousness. “
Our
consequence? What consequence do I have that I need to add to it? Oh, don’t look like that. Of course, I shall go in with you if you deem it important.”

“I do.”

“If you are quite finished with your little tête-à-tête, perhaps you would care to join me inside?”

On hearing the cool note in Strand’s voice, Avery looked down. He still stood in the street below them, looking both bored and annoyed.

Flushing deeply, Neville scrambled down from his perch and withdrew to the far side of the street, leaving Avery to face Strand’s inimical silence alone.

She turned and took hold of the side rail, sticking one leg down to hunt around for a toehold. Her leg dangled ineffectually for a few seconds. Drat and drat! She squatted lower, angling her head to see where the despicable foot bar had been hidden—

She heard a low curse as suddenly large hands clasped either side of her waist, plucked her bodily from the side of the carriage, and deposited her on the street. She turned, intensely aware of Strand’s hands
skimming over her waist. Even through layers of padding she imagined she could feel their heat and strength.

Strand’s hands dropped to his sides. “You were beginning to look ridiculous.”

“I should expect I did. I’ve only ever seen such a vehicle as this a few times in my life. I certainly have never ridden in one.”

She gazed up at him. He hadn’t stepped back and this close she could feel the slightest aura of heat rising from his lean, broad-shouldered body. She had the sudden, insane desire to take a step forward and press herself against him, to absorb some of his warmth. Except any physical warmth she managed to steal would be offset by an emotional arctic blast.

He looked aloof and disdainful. And he had every reason to be. She’d not only failed to stay inside his house, but she’d appeared in public in such a way to draw intense scrutiny. She swallowed, prepared to take the dressing down she richly deserved.

“Damn it, Avery.” Though he spoke quietly, his words rumbled up between them like a growl. “A few weeks and this would be over. Was it so much to ask?”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have accepted. I didn’t mean to. I forgot to send word and he arrived and then… I was lonely.” The words came out in a rush.

A shadow passed over Strand’s gray eyes and his expression went from cold anger to dismay. For a second, he didn’t say anything but when he did, the frost had disappeared from his voice. He shook his head. “Well, at least you seem as if you enjoyed yourself.”

Her response was immediate, stemming as much from relief that he was not angry as from her enthusiasm for the carriage ride. “Oh, yes! It was so… Oh, I felt so alive, Giles! Invulnerable and fearless and free and… and…” She trailed off, at a loss as to how to put words to her feelings. He was regarding her with an odd expression.

“What?” she asked.

“I don’t believe you’ve ever called me Giles before.”

“I beg your pardon. I forgot myself.” He didn’t seem angry anymore. In fact, all traces of coolness had disappeared from his expression, yet she could not read what supplanted it. Her heart seemed suddenly too large for her chest, thudding like a panicked prisoner against its walls.