Corey McFadden (4 page)

“Good,” she replied, hobbling quickly for the door.

“Excuse me.” He stopped her, just shy of her goal.

She turned with a questioning look on her face, and not so much as a “yes, sir?” Oh, the girl would be out in the alleyway by mid-afternoon, no doubt about it. “You forgot to curtsy,” he said, but did not manage to keep the smile from his face.

“I did, didn’t I?” she retorted, with a matching grin, and then slipped out of the door with no bend of the knee.

She very kindly closed it and he stared after her, bemused and amused. He had never been one to take off after female servants—considered it unkind to toy with their feelings and all that. But if ever there was one with some spirit to her, and a flash of devilment in her eye, she was it. Too bad he’d never see her again. He was unlikely to darken this doorway any time in the near future and she was likely to be turned off with no reference—any minute now. Still, this funny housemaid had offered him the best entertainment he was likely to have all day.

He continued his perusal of the library shelves, only half noting the tomes in front of him, the other half of his attention straining to hear approaching voices, not that he’d be able to lose himself further at this point. Coward that he was, he had already noted the room offered no concealment. He paused at the ladder, noting that the book the girl had been cleaning lay open on the top where she had placed it before scrambling down. Curiosity got the better of him and he reached for it. Something tumbled from the volume, hitting him on the toe of his well-polished black boots.

It was a pair of spectacles, obviously dislodged from its perch on the open book. Had Mrs. Quinn actually been reading this...what was it? Ah, a botanical treatise, well done by the looks of it, beautifully illustrated. He was about to lay the spectacles on the small table nearest him but as he set them down they seemed to stick rather unpleasantly to his fingers. Careful perusal through his own lenses revealed why. There were cobwebs caught all across one frame. Odd, that. Had the girl been wearing them? He was not sure he’d ever seen a housemaid in spectacles—no real need to go to the expense, after all. For no reason he could think of, he tucked the glasses into his waistcoat pocket with a smile, and then turned back to the books.

“So this is where you’ve gone to ground, sir!” boomed the voice of Bettina Quinn, as the door blew inward, bouncing off the wall beside it. He forced himself not to cringe at the onslaught, instead turning with a great display of sangfroid.

“Mrs. Quinn. How wonderful it is to see you again,” he lied, making an exaggerated leg and rising with a vicious smile. Might as well show the lioness his teeth. “Splendid library,” he went on, with an affected glance about him. “I am sure you and Caroline will derive a great deal of pleasure from these learned tomes.”

“Caroline is far too busy to indulge in such pointless pursuits, sir,” she replied with a dismissive glance at the clearly offensive books. “I’m sure we can leave that sort of thing to the bluestockings. We are in the drawing room, sir,” she announced, turning her back to him and parading from the room.

So now he was a lapdog, trained to trot at the heels of his mistress? No, worse. A toff of the
ton
, who must, perforce, allow impeccable manners to rule his every movement. Still, like a foot-scuffing, pouting child, he allowed himself a moment’s defiance, petty to be sure, but all the sweeter for that, and perused the bookshelves once again. Judging a sufficient amount of time had elapsed that he could not, precisely, be mistaken for a lapdog, he quit the room, throwing a rather longing glance behind him. There had been a treatise on modern agricultural theory that he would have been keen to borrow from anyone except Mrs. Quinn. No point in creating further obligation.

In the drawing room, Caroline graced the fussy, brocaded settee that Edgar had apparently ceded to her. Interesting, although perhaps not surprising, that Caroline chose to sit with her back to the windows. Daylight lit her golden hair, but left her face in artful, sculpted shadow. She looked, if anything, more beautiful than she had on her coming out some three years ago, when Julian had fallen, if only briefly, for her splendor. As he entered the room, she turned her face just slightly toward him and his breath caught at its perfection, features sleek and elegant, her appraisal cool and distant. As he, himself, had grown older, he had learned to appreciate a somewhat more mature beauty. They seemed less dewy-eyed and silly somehow, or, perhaps, he was merely hoping the ladies felt the same way about him.

Caroline gave him the slightest inclination of the head, less than she might the ostler at an inn, and appeared to barely notice his bow and greeting. Just as well, he was thinking to himself, when he caught the smirk on Edgar’s face. Then he forgot them both as he noted the look of calculation that had entered the eyes of Bettina Quinn.

Damned if he couldn’t feel the trap closing around him!

“We are so fortunate that our dear Miss Quinn has chosen to grace us with her presence here in Bath, are we not, Julian?” said Edgar, facing enough away from both the ladies to allow a wicked gleam in his eye. “She has been the toast of any number of London Seasons, as I’m sure you know,” he went on cruelly.

Did Julian imagine it or did a brief flash of anger flare in Caroline’s eyes? Surely the girl couldn’t be upset by such an insignificant little jab. She’d been made of stronger stuff a few years ago. But if Caroline stifled her own reaction, Bettina Quinn did not bother. Her eyes narrowed and two spots of red burned high on her cheeks. Julian knew enough of Edgar to know that the man never minded drawing battle lines, the earlier in the Season, the better, to insure a continuing line of entertainment for himself and his circle.

So Caroline was to be Edgar’s victim this year? It hardly seemed fair, particularly since
on dit
had it that Caroline had turned away many a smitten swain. She was hardly a wallflower and couldn’t be more than—what? Twenty-one, perhaps? Twenty-two? No spinster surely. Julian should have been able to sit back and watch with amusement, betting on Caroline to best Edgar at his own game. Edgar was a diffident sort of opponent, with no real malice in him, just a bored, small man with not much else to do. Indeed, Julian wouldn’t have tolerated him at all, but that they had been friends since school days, when the larger and more popular Julian had taken the boy under his wing and made a place for him in the rigid school hierarchy. But now, seeing that Caroline looked slightly pale, Julian was having second thoughts. Women were rather unpredictable. And so vulnerable, when all was said and done. In the marriage mart, for all that a likely looking, well-heeled girl could afford to be choosy, there was no real equality. She had to wait to be asked, after all. And at a certain point, never visible until one had crossed it, it was simply too late.

“I understand you have broken any number of hearts, Miss Quinn, since you made off with mine. Not that any of us should presume so much...” he let the pretty compliment trail off, like the meaningless silliness it was.

“My Caroline can afford to wait for a man worthy of her, Mr. Thorpe, as everyone knows,” Mrs. Quinn put in, smiling at Julian in a way to make his flesh crawl. His remark had also earned a smile from Caroline, languid and deep, her full pink lips parting just slightly.

“And where, may I ask, is your lovely cousin-from-the-country?” asked Edgar, clearly unwilling to let things deteriorate into a mere civilized social call.

The smile disappeared from Caroline’s lips with the speed of a candle being blown out, and her eyes went cold. It seemed the cousin was already a thorn in the lovely flesh of Miss Quinn.

“Our dear Cousin Elspeth is...indisposed at present,” Caroline offered, with not even the affect of concern. “It seems the much vaunted country constitution is not all it is made out to be. A journey of short duration and the woman is prostrate.” She wafted her hand across her eyes in an affectation of faintness.

“Woman, you say? Is she so very old then?” asked Edgar, catching the scent of fresh prey. Julian shot him a dark look that went unheeded by all save Wesley Ames, who chewed on his lip to keep from grinning.

“Certainly, one would not say ‘old,’ Mr. Randall,” put in Bettina Quinn, but she had taken on that kindly tone, the one used when speaking of the aged and infirm, and she let the remark hang, tempting all to wonder exactly what one would say. “I am sure when the...girl”—there was just enough emphasis to make the point—“recovers from her journey she will make for delightful company. She is frightfully well-read, you know.”

Well, now there was a death sentence pronounced, as effectively as ever heard in the Inns of Court. Even Edgar seemed too taken aback to speak, a condition lasting less than a moment, however.

“I can’t tell you how much I look forward to making her acquaintance,” he finally remarked, and this time he let everyone see the wicked gleam. Caroline’s answering, indolent smile had more of devil than angel in it this time.

The rest of the visit, although short by the clock, seemed interminable to Julian. Caroline continued to bestow that private smile on him. No mistaking the invitation in it. He did find that she still possessed a certain allure, but then, so had the sirens who tried to lure Ulysses’ men to their doom. At last, Edgar seemed to feel he had wrung as much fun as he could from the visit, and he rose to begin the
adieux
. Caroline held Julian’s proffered hand just an instant too long, giving him a deep smile straight into his eyes. Mrs. Quinn was less subtle, her look of appraisal similar to those cast at the finer cattle offered at Tattersall’s. Julian had rarely felt so relieved to make an exit and vowed to give the Quinn household a wide berth in the future. Except for one small bit of business. He patted his pocket to make sure the saucy maid’s spectacles remained tucked discreetly away. He’d send them around with a note to the butler. If the girl got the sack, as he was quite sure she would at any time now, perhaps he could find her employment elsewhere. Impertinent baggage that she was, she should not be thrown into the street.

Chapter Three

“That décolletage is simply indecent on Elspeth, Mama,” Caroline snapped loudly, shattering the elegant hush in the private fitting room at the shop of the finest dressmaker on Milsom Street. “She has a long neck and it gives the appearance of entirely too much bosom showing.” Caroline stood in the center of her own circle of frantic activity with no fewer than three assistants fussing about her, but couldn’t seem to keep her eyes from straying jealously to Elspeth’s modest corner of the fitting salon.

Aunt Bettina nodded her vague agreement in the direction of the modiste’s assistant who now looked confused, but who set about dutifully repinning the neckline, up several inches. Not that Elspeth minded. She was certainly not comfortable with the latest mode. The remark did seem odd, however, coming from Caroline, whose décolletage left nothing but the tiniest pink detail to the imagination. Satisfied now, at least for the moment, Caroline turned her attention back to her own fitting. She was draped in a beautiful amber confection that, even half-finished, was finer than anything Elspeth ever hoped to own.

“Mama, this color is dreadful on me. Makes me look three days dead. I will not wear it!” Caroline declared, in high dudgeon. Actually, Elspeth thought it rather did bring out a sallow cast in Caroline’s complexion, but she had learned quickly during her short stay in Bath to keep her opinion to herself.

“The color is all the crack, Caroline,” said Aunt Bettina, showing, as usual, a great deal more patience with Caroline than she did with anyone else. “Her Grace wore it last night at the musicale, if you will recall.”

“Her Grace is forty years old, Mama...more, most like. She already looks three days dead. And anyway, it doesn’t fit at all. You call yourself a modiste?” She turned her temper on the hapless dressmaker, who immediately assumed the properly abashed expression.

“It was cut precisely to Miss Quinn’s excellent figure,” the modiste demurred, “but if Madame would like, I shall refit it myself.” She directed her remarks to Aunt Bettina, aware, obviously, that tangling with Caroline was not worth the effort.

“Caroline, the dress fits perfectly, and it’s not a ball gown anyway,” her mother snapped, her patience obviously wearing thin. “Take it off and put on the rose one.”

Elspeth watched as the offending tawny silk confection was slipped over Caroline’s blonde head and the magnificent rose gown took its place. This fitting had lasted several hours so far, and didn’t appear to be nearly over, to judge from the pile of clothing still left, untried, on the chair nearest Caroline.

Elspeth cast a surreptitious glance over to the chair that held her small pile. Four dresses, two for day, two for evening, modest in fit, modest in quality. They were simple in design, but Elspeth thought them all the more elegant for it, with their clean lines, cut precisely to her figure. And if the colors, a dove gray and dark green for the day dresses, and a deep blue and dark violet for evening, were more favored by the older ladies, well, then they would suit her perfectly. She had no wish to be accused of being ‘mutton dressed as lamb.’ Of course, they would last her well into the years to come, and no matter how simple these gowns might be here in the center of the
beau monde
, they were magnificent compared with what she was used to, or apt to see at home.

“Is this one more to your liking, mademoiselle?” asked the modiste in her questionable French accent. “It’s better,” Caroline snapped, but her eyes held a haughty approval as she beheld herself in the large cheval glass tilted just so for mademoiselle’s pleasure. Elspeth made do with a smaller glass attached to the wall some distance away, but it was good enough for her.

The modiste glanced, wisely, at Bettina, who nodded her approval, then the little dressmaker turned her attention in earnest to the precise measuring of the hem that puddled, unfinished, on the floor. “These shoes, the heels are of the same height as those you will order to match the gown, mademoiselle?” she asked.