Burning Bright (Brambridge Novel 2) (29 page)

“And as a drunk?” Harriet said slowly.

“And as a drunk.” Kean paused and laughed. “You know not to listen to any manure that a person spouts whilst grasping a bottle of red wine.”

“I think it’s time I went,” Harriet said quietly. But no one was listening. They were too busy looking at Kean and laughing. She took a step to the door and looked back. Freddie was roaring with laughter along with the rest of them.

“I’ll find my own way home,” she muttered and stepped into the dark corridor. Freddie didn’t follow.

CHAPTER 28

James stared down at his boots, the highly polished sheen reflecting the bright light of the ballroom around him. He scuffed gently at the sole of his right boot. Willson had missed a piece of mud. Poor man, from dedicated soldier to an occasionally sober man’s butler. How the mighty fall.

“James, have a glass of champagne.” Anthony grasped two glasses from a passing footman and pushed the long stem into James’ hand.

He let his boot fall back to the floor and, gazing over the rim of the delicate glass, surveyed the dancing figures around them.

“Funny place this.” Anthony took a deep drink of the champagne and nudged James with his elbow, jerking his head at the fireplace. “Guthrie bought it years ago. Didn’t touch it. Now he’s got a new wife, everything’s changed. Take a look at the fireplace. I know that ancient Greece is all the rage, but really, Oedipus? In the ballroom as well?”

James gazed up at large painting that hung above the fireplace. As the flames of a thousand candles lit the painting, it seemed to come to life and move. He swallowed. Oedipus was a complicated story with a rather unsavory ending. But it had all started with a prediction that forced the events to happen.

Was that what was happening to him? His life was following a path because he was a Stanton and he would always be that way, his fate inextricably bound up with a house that breathed discontent? Unless he broke the cycle and fought for himself, he might end up being the man in the portrait. He gave small grunt of mirth. Not married to his mother. That would never happen. God, the apathy. And the nagging…

What would it be like with Melissa? He had never stopped to consider. Cecilia had kept trying to point it out to him. A loveless marriage, she said, look at our parent’s marriage. He’d brushed her off without really putting any thought into it.

James hunched his shoulders and scuffed his shoe again. The mud refused to move. It was as unyielding as the coaching yards he’d got it in. He’d ridden the length of London, to each coaching inn that the post coach visited on the normal route from Honiton. Of the innkeepers and ostlers he had managed to speak to, none of them had seen a lad and a young woman alight from the coach the few weeks before. Most of them said honestly that there were too many people travelling the route and it was too long ago to remember. He’d even spoken to most of the drivers, though there was one left who was in Honiton at that moment who he was waiting to speak to. He didn’t hold out much hope; the answers were always the same, a flat and resounding
dunno guv
.

As James looked around the crush of the ball, as crowded as the streets of South London, his head sank into his collar. Harriet didn’t want to be found. She’d told him not to look for her. He couldn’t blame her. Stupid Lord Stanton. Killer Lord Stanton.

“Excuse me, Lord Stanton?”  James swung his head sharply to the right. The approaching footman took a step back. “Your lordship, Lord Lassiter was looking for you.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

The footman hurried away, visibly relieved.

“Thought you were going to run him through, James,” Anthony said easily, taking James’ champagne glass from him. He looked round and pushed the glasses onto a small table. “Shall we go and find Freddie?”

“Yes. I haven’t seen him since last night.” James gave one last scuff of his foot and finally dislodged the annoying clod of mud. He slid it across to the wall and turned back to Anthony. “He said he was going to the theatre. Not sure why he was going, never known him to be into that sort of thing.”

“I think it is something to do with the lady he is interested in. She’s very taken with the theatre.”

Harriet would love the theatre. James closed his eyes. What he would give to see her watching the performance, the delight on her face, the ever-changing expressions flooding her face as the emotion rolled over her. He opened them again. “Didn’t he say he would introduce us tonight?”

“Hmm yes. Although I met him on the stairs last night. He seemed a little despondent, and, well, bosky to say the least. Kept muttering about the Pink Canary Club.”

“Oh dear.”

“Yes quite. Ah. I can see him now. Things don’t seem to be quite so bad, he’s got Miss—“

“James!” Freddie’s cheerful voice carried across the crowd. “Might I introduce you to Miss Beauregard? She’s here in London with her aunt visiting Lady Colchester.”

Miss Beauregard? James shivered. Miss Beauregard must be a very common name. Perhaps she was a relation to Harriet?

Freddie’s cane appeared through the last collection of people in front of him.

Red hair. That must run in the family.

Oh, hellfire.

“Pleased to meet you, Lord Stanton.” The beauty raised a well-defined eyebrow at him. “Freddie hasn’t spoken much about you, but I feel as if I know you already.”

The little minx.

“Likewise.” It was all he could manage.

James could feel Freddie staring at him. He took a step back, his boot crunching on the mud. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward again. “Might I ask you for a dance?”

Good. Her throat moved. She wasn’t as in control as she thought she might be.

“I’m not sure.” Harriet looked at Freddie, who was swinging his head between the two of them as if at a tennis match.

Damn propriety. Without looking at Freddie, he took Harriet by the hand and led her off into the crowd.

At the edge of the dance floor, he stopped. He hadn’t thought, couples were still dancing. They would have to wait until the next dance. His fingers tightened on Harriet’s hand. She gave a small gasp. He risked a look at her.

Harriet stood staring at the dancers. But she didn’t remove her hand from his. Slowly he circled his thumb around the inside of her palm, their hands hidden from the crowd by her skirts. James watched as she gasped slightly again, a pinkness travelling slightly up her neck to where her flaming hair was confined in an elaborate coil. He resisted the urge to lean in. Would she still smell of apple blossom, this lady? He couldn’t stop his own sharp intake of breath.

The music of the dance finished. James held onto Harriet’s hand as they were buffeted by the returning couples. The musicians plucked at their strings and then launched into the opening bars of a waltz. Pulling lightly, James led Harriet onto the dance floor. She followed him like an automaton, but her feet moved lightly across the floor as if on air. Turning to face her, he slid his arm around her waist and pulled her hand up from her side.

She tipped her nose up to look at him. James inhaled sharply. Apple blossom. Yes. He held his breath as her other hand floated up, and, hesitating, landed gently on his shoulder. Without thinking, his feet began to trace out the steps. Staring over her shoulder, he gazed unseeingly into the crowds collected at the edge of the ballroom.

It was then that he realized, when he looked back down at Harriet to see that she had her eyes closed, her mouth curved up at the edges, and yet she was still moving with him through the steps as if she had been born dancing. A thrill ran through him. He was throwing over this for a house and a past, neither of which he ever wanted to revisit? He should have seen it when he arrived back in London and the ennui set in. The feeling of flatness that vanished as soon as he was kicked in the legs by a red haired sprite.
This
was the future that he wanted. Harriet would save him from becoming yet another cold hard Stanton hung in a gallery in a dark unhappy house.

As the music came to an end, James swung them to a gentle stop. Harriet opened her eyes, and blinked.

“Where did you learn to dance like that?” James asked, still holding her hand tightly. He wasn’t sure he could ever let her go.

Harriet cocked her head on one side. “Lady Colchester hired Monsieur Bertrand, I’ve been having lessons.”

“Lady Colchester?”

“Yes.” Harriet bowed her head and then looked back up at him. “Apparently she used to be a good friend to Aunt Agatha before she had to come to Brambridge to look after me.” She looked at him intently. “James. What if I told you I wasn’t just a simple village person? That I had money, that I could—”

“It doesn’t matter,” James said, dropping her hand, and grasping the one at his shoulder. He shook his head. “It never mattered.”

Harriet gasped. James tightened his hand on hers as the hurt that he’d seen before in the cave started to seep through Harriet’s face. He swallowed as her shoulders hunched. “You don’t understand…” he said desperately.

“Ahem.” Freddie appeared at James’ elbow. “Terribly sorry old chap, but I’m afraid I have to take Miss Beauregard away.”

James grasped tightly onto Harriet’s hand and glared at him. “Go away, Freddie. I need to talk to Harriet,” he said.

Freddie coughed and pointed at where they stood. “Firstly you are still in the middle of the dance floor and everyone is staring.” James whipped his head round. His friend was right. He could see the curious gazes of the crowd tilted in their direction.

“And secondly,” Freddie continued, “Miss Beauregard’s aunt has been refused entry to the ballroom, and I am rather worried that Miss Beauregard will also be ejected by association.”

“What on earth?” Harriet shook her head and stared at James. She tugged at her hand. “Where’s Aggie now?” James didn’t let go.

“Lord Anglethorpe has her. Sent me to get you.”

Harriet shook her head. “I still don’t understand why she was turned away.” She pulled at her hand, trapped in James’ palm. “Oh James, let go. Please let me go,” she repeated in a low voice. “Why do you persist in this? Why are you tormenting me? You’ve made it clear you don’t want me. Just let me go.”

A small tear slid down Harriet’s cheek. James let go of her hand in horror. He had made her cry. Harriet never cried. Freddie took her by the elbow.

“Apparently your aunt has some history with Lady Guthrie,” Freddie said quickly. “Lady Guthrie was away from the receiving line when we arrived otherwise the same might have happened to you too given you share the same surname.” Turning, he took Harriet’s elbow and led her to the edge of the dance floor. James followed them. At the edge of the crowd, Freddie put out his cane and barred James’ path. “I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to come with us, old chap. She’s asked you several times to let her go.”

“Neither of you understand, I’ve just realized…” But James was speaking to thin air. Freddie had already escorted Harriet away through the crowd, which closed up swiftly after them. Several pairs of eyes followed James as he tried to push through the crowd, but people were resistant to letting him pass.

“Killer lord.”

James swung his head. Who had said that? Backs turned as he stepped through the crowd.

“Mompesson.”

James whirled. Who knew? How had his secret got out? God, what if Harriet knew? He had to tell her. Tell her everything, get her to listen to him without her interrupting, without being kicked in the shins.

But first he had to break off his engagement.

As James reached the edge of the unyielding crowd, he felt as if the chains had fallen away. He hadn’t even jumped when Freddie had appeared unexpectedly, nor reacted with his customary anger.

Willson greeted him solemnly at the door to Freddie’s house in Berkley Square. His wig was askew and his trousers hitched over his boots at the back. James couldn’t resist grinning at the sight.

Willson stared at him, looked back into the hall and then stared back at him again. “Sir? Are you alright, sir?”

“Of course I am, Willson.” James frowned. Willson gave a sigh of relief. Why had Willson asked him if he was alright?

“You have a card, sir. From Lady Colchester.”

James took the card and hurried up the stairs to his room. With relief, he shut his door on stacks of so called antiques that lined the hall. A small writing desk had been set up next to the window. Lighting a candle from the fire that blazed low in the grate, he hurried over to the desk and slit open the card with his dagger.

You are cordially invited to a House Party at Berale House, Brambridge on the 18
^th
of this month.

Yours, Lady Colchester.

Hmmm. Lady Colchester. James drew out two sheets of paper and dipped his quill in the ink pot that was set into the writing desk. He hesitated before starting. Which to begin first?

Dear Lady Colchester.

I would be delighted to accept your invitation.

Yours,

Lord Stanton.

James tapped the note with a finger. Should he add anything else? Shaking his head, he folded the letter and sealed it. Now for the harder letter.

Dear Melissa,

Or was it Marie? Melissa was easier—it was what he had known her as. No. That was too familiar. What he had to say was not for the faint hearted.

Dear Miss Sumner,

I am very sorry but I can no longer marry you. I will return on the 18
^th
to explain everything.

Yours, Lord Stanton.

James sighed in relief.  He had never been one for writing. She’d seemed reasonable, beautiful too. She’d marry someone else in no time.

CHAPTER 29

Edgar Stanton stroked at his moustache and blocked Harriet’s vision of the door. Impatiently, she took a step across the sumptuous Persian rug towards the fireplace that lay at the center of Berale House. Smiling broadly, he did too.