Elizabeth Powell (8 page)

“True. Capital idea.” A slow, wicked smile spread over the viscount’s handsome face. “No one would ever suspect we have an assignation.”

A strange wave of giddiness swept her. “You are impertinent, my lord.”

“Impertinent?” His smile broadened. “You have already declared me incorrigible. At this rate, my dear, you will quickly run out of epithets.”

Jane smiled, then ducked her head. She was enjoying this too much. “I think I had best return to my sister, my lord.”

“As you wish.”

They traversed the room, finally arriving at the corner where Penelope stood. Her older sister appeared to be enjoying an animated conversation with Mr. Havelock and Lord Nigel, and she seemed content and more relaxed than she had been in days. Jane’s heart soared, hovered, then reversed direction and slid into the soles of her dancing slippers when she realized that their mother would not allow Pen to consider either gentleman as a potential husband.

Lord Langley bent his head toward hers. “I shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow,” he murmured.

Jane shivered, suddenly very aware of the viscount’s presence—the warmth of his body, the crisp scent of his cologne, the pressure of his hand on hers. She nodded, unable to find her voice.

He bowed, then drifted away, headed for Penelope. Jane watched him go, then drew back when Lady Portia cast a venomous glance in her direction.

She found a vacant chair near the window and perched on the edge of it. She was not usually mistaken in her estimate of a person’s character, but it seemed she had misjudged Viscount Langley. Just this afternoon she had promised herself that she would avoid his company; now she found herself looking forward to their meeting
tomorrow morning, and not just because she needed to retrieve the List.

What a widgeon! She shook herself. It would not do for her to develop any feelings for Corinthian like him. She had an understanding with Augustus; she could not in good conscience renege on her promise to him. Besides, her mother would be even more incensed if she thought that Jane showed a preference for the viscount’s company.

A flash of silver and white caught her eye; she turned to see Penelope speaking with Lord Langley. The viscount must have said something particularly flattering; Pen blushed and hid a smile behind her fan. Jane bit her lip. They certainly made an attractive couple. Could he be the one? He met her sister’s criteria: intelligence, wit, amiability, a title. And he was heir to a fortune of his own. If he was half as charming to Pen as he was to her, Pen would be in love with him by the end of the week.

If only her own heart were immune.

“Why so pensive, Sebastian?” Jace asked, and he reached for the bottle of port. “I thought the evening went quite well. You danced twice with Miss Winthrop, and Miss Gray seemed to dote upon your every word. And although you did not manage to secure a dance with Miss Rutledge, she seemed to find you amusing, which is a step in the right direction.”

“Amusing is not good enough,” Sebastian replied sourly. “I had no idea the girl would be so skittish.”

“Then perhaps you should set your sights on an easier pigeon,” scoffed Nigel from the chair nearest the fireplace.

The viscount’s mouth hardened. “No. Miss Rutledge is perfect.”

“You mean her fortune is perfect.”

“She is everything I want and more. I simply have to make a greater effort to secure her regard.”

Jace refilled his glass, then settled himself on the plush divan. “Her mother made no secret that she approves of you.”

“Approves?” Nigel interjected with a snort. “Lud, she way she emptied the butter boat over you, one would think she had you leg-shackled to the girl already.”

“If only Miss Rutledge herself shared that same eagerness,” the viscount muttered. He paced the floor of Jace’s study, swirling the measure of ruby-red port in his glass. Though he had been at his most charming, Miss Rutledge appeared indifferent to him. When he did manage to engage her in conversation, she remained polite but elusive, revealing little about herself. What was she about? He could not even guess where he stood among her other admirers; she showed no particular interest in any one gentleman. Blast.

“What do you plan to do from here?” Jace inquired.

Sebastian heaved a sigh. “I cannot give up just yet. I need something that will make me stand out from her other admirers to break through her reserve, and to do that I need to know more about her.”

“Question their servants,” Nigel suggested. “Servants always seem to know everything about everyone in the house. They’re your neighbors, by Jove. It should not be difficult to get some information.”

“If she thinks me too premeditated in my pursuit, she may bolt,” Sebastian argued. “I have a better idea. Did you notice that most of Miss Rutledge’s admirers ignored
her sister? The beauty, I believe, feels those slights most keenly. If I befriend the sister, I gain an ally in my courtship of the beauty.”

Jace arched a quizzical brow. “Do you really think that will work?”

“I will know soon enough.”

“Well, the sister already seems to think very highly of you,” Nigel said, then pulled a face. “Egad, now
there’s
an antidote if ever I’ve seen one. Careful, Sebastian. In my opinion that is the type of female who, overlooked and overshadowed by greater beauty, grows desperate for any scrap of consideration thrown her way. Pay her attention and she’ll take to following you around like a faithful spaniel.”

“Gammon,” Sebastian said with a scowl. “She is no more spaniel-like than you are.”

“You do feel pity for her, don’t you?” Nigel prodded.

“That is not the point.”

“Then I sincerely hope you can tolerate that drab little creature. She possesses little refinement, no distinction of character, and absolutely nothing of beauty to recommend her.”

Jace regarded him with disgust. “Is beauty all you care about?”

With a laugh, Nigel leaned back in his chair and propped one foot atop the nearby table. “What else is there?”

“Not all ladies have the good fortune to be beautiful,” Havelock riposted, “but they have other admirable qualities. Had you deigned to talk with Miss Jane, you would have found her very amiable, as I did.”

“Then perhaps you should take up with her and spare Sebastian the trouble,” Nigel sneered.

Jace levered himself from the sofa and stalked to the
sideboard. “One of these days, Nigel, you will discover that women have a very long memory for the casual slights you seem to think amusing and dispense with impunity.”

“As if I give a fig for the opinion of such a plainfaced nobody. She is nothing but a little country mouse! Most likely she will end up a spinster or a companion to a nip-cheese dowager who keeps a houseful of incontinent pugs.”

Jace glared at him. “Nigel, you’re as high on the instep as that brother of yours.”

“Thank you.”

“I did not mean that as a compliment.”

Weary of his friends’ bickering, Sebastian set aside his empty glass. “Well, gentlemen, I must be off,” he announced.

“So soon? It’s barely past midnight,” Nigel complained.

“I have an appointment early tomorrow morning,” the viscount replied, “one I cannot afford to miss, so I must bid you good evening.” Despite their objections, Sebastian sketched a bow and took his leave.

As his carriage rumbled through the darkened streets of Mayfair, Sebastian settled back against the leather squabs, Nigel’s warning still ringing through his mind. Did his strategy run the risk of capturing the affections of the wrong woman?

No … the imp had her own admirers, he was sure of that now. After he had danced with her, a few other gentlemen followed suit, and she did not lack for partners. Why else would both sisters be in London, if not to find husbands? Then there was her journal. When he mentioned it during their dance, she had lost all color, and though she had feigned nonchalance, only a fool would
fail to recognize how important it was to her—and he was no fool. She wanted it back, and quickly. He understood her sense of urgency; if anyone else were to find out, it would embarrass her at best and ruin her reputation at worst.

One other question nagged him. Why did the imp seek only titled beaux? Had no one else struck her fancy enough to merit an entry in the journal? Had their overbearing mother declared that each of her daughters must marry a peer of the realm? That was a possibility, but Jane had no fortune that he was aware of, nor did Lady Portia display the same indulgent regard for her younger daughter as she did for her elder. He had a theory but could not yet determine if it was correct.

He sighed and settled himself more comfortably into one corner of the carriage. In a few hours, if all went well, he would know enough about the Rutledge sisters to make sense of this puzzle.

Jane touched her heel to her horse’s flank and urged him to a canter. Tamerlane responded with a rush of energy that she barely managed to restrain; he wanted to gallop, but proper young ladies did not gallop in Hyde Park, so Jane held him in. The dapple gray tossed his head and tried to take the bit in his teeth, but she remained firm. At last he capitulated with what sounded suspiciously like a snort of equine disgust.

“I quite agree,” Jane said under her breath. “It’s not Wellbourne, but it must do for now. Come on, old boy.”

The lush, misty landscape flashed by as Tam settled into a comfortable, ground-eating stride. Given the overcast skies and the patchy, low-lying fog that hugged the ground, very few other riders occupied the park. All the better.

Jane ducked her head and looked behind to see if Will had managed to keep up with her; the groom lagged behind at a discreet distance. Good. She steered Tamerlane toward Rotten Row.

She leaned forward over the gelding’s sleek neck. The wind sang a wild song in her ears, and the rhythmic drumming of Tam’s hoofbeats formed a counterpoint.
The fog swirled around them, and she fancied herself soaring like a bird, away from London, away from all the worries that plagued her.

From the moment they left the Symingtons’ ball, Lady Portia had hounded Penelope about her seemingly indifferent behavior toward Viscount Langley, especially when Lady Portia had made it clear that she approved of the gentleman. Jane had rushed to Pen’s defense, but their mother, in high dudgeon, would hear none of it. She accused her elder daughter of everything from ingratitude to deliberately trying to embarrass the family, and warned that if Pen did not do her duty and bring a lord up to scratch soon, she would lock Pen in her room and arrange a match to the first peer who offered for her, no matter what his age, and that there was nothing Pen could do about it. She went on to ring a peal over Penelope’s head for being too particular, too reserved, and too unfeeling of her mother’s sensibilities and all the sacrifices she had made on her behalf.

When they reached home, poor Pen, in tears, dashed straight up the stairs to her room. Lady Portia claimed a sick headache and retired to her chamber, refusing to speak to anyone. Jane knocked on Penelope’s door to try to comfort her, but Pen did not answer, though Jane could hear her sobbing.

What to do? Only once before had she felt this helpless, and she hated it no less now.

First and foremost, she needed to retrieve the List. Several new candidates, including Lord Langley, had presented themselves at the ball. She needed to convince Pen that her situation was not as desperate as their mother had made it out to be. At least, she hoped she could; never had she seen her sister so distraught as she was last night.

Jane gritted her teeth. Once Lady Portia had made up
her mind, she was as inflexible as a block of marble, and no one had the power to persuade her to reconsider her decision. In the past, Jane, Pen, and their father had been able to find ways to circumvent Lady Portia’s unyielding stubbornness, but Jane had the sinking feeling that if she so much as attempted to dissuade her mother from this course of action, she would be packed off to Leicestershire, leaving Penelope in London to fend for herself at the mercy of their single-minded parent.

Her hands tightened on the reins; her mount tossed his head in protest.

“Sorry, Tam,” she said. “I am not angry at
you
.”

She slowed the horse to a walk, then glanced up at the sky; pale sunlight glowed faintly through the curtain of the clouds overhead. The mist that swirled around Tamerlane’s hooves would soon begin to dissipate, as would the damp chill in the air.

As she approached Rotten Row, the gelding lifted his head and smelled the air, nostrils flared. A man astride a chestnut mare appeared from behind a stand of trees. Jane recognized Viscount Langley instantly; he cut a very fine figure in his Egyptian brown jacket and buckskin breeches.

“Good morning, imp,” he greeted her. He tipped his hat, then squinted up at the sky and gave a lopsided grin. “Such lovely weather you’ve arranged for us.”

Jane wheeled Tamerlane around so the two horses stood abreast. “Good morning, my lord.” She did not return his smile.

His merriment faded. “Is something wrong?”

“Nothing of importance,” she replied hastily. “Did you bring the—my property?”

The viscount glanced past her to her groom, who remained
a respectful distance away. “Can your man be trusted to be discreet?”

Jane followed his gaze, then nodded. “I have known Will since I was a girl. I trust him implicitly.”

“Good.” He reached into the leather pouch behind his saddle, then handed her a neat bundle wrapped in paper. “I believe this is what you were looking for.”

Jane tore one corner of the paper to see a patch of her periwinkle-colored wool shawl. She could feel the hard outline of the List within its folds; the tension in her neck and shoulders eased. “Thank you, my lord.” She quickly tucked the packet into the oversize reticule she had slung over her saddle bow, then rearranged her skirts to cover it.

“You seem troubled,” he persisted. “If you’ll pardon me for saying so, imp, you look as though you did not sleep a wink all night.”

Jane seized her lower lip between her teeth. She desperately wanted to confide in someone; she had held so much inside for so long. The viscount had been so kind to her last night—dare she trust him?