Follow My Lead (4 page)

“If only it were that simple,” Jason murmured. “If only I could convince Jane to do it.”

“Are you certain?” Jane’s voice broke into their conversation. “Absolutely and completely?”

“For the last time, yes.” Phillippa sighed.

“Excellent. Jason,” Jane called, bringing both men to attention. “I am assured that there will be no more unexpected guests at this party.”

“See if I offer my hostessing services again,” Phillippa muttered under her breath.

“What was that?” Jane asked sharply.

“Nothing,” Phillippa replied brightly.

“Good. As I was saying,” Jane continued, turning back to Jason, “shall we introduce you to some lovely
sane
young ladies?”

A
s the carriage rolled away from the Worth mansion on Grosvenor Square, Jason could not contain his relief. After being properly introduced to the most eligible of the Upper Ten Thousand’s daughters, he needed to escape as far away as possible. To Timbuktu or the wilds of India. To the Americas or the moon. Or at the very least, across town.

And a drink. He could use a drink.

The tea had to have been the worst of it. Too sweet hot tea served on a very warm May day, and he must have drunk a large pond’s worth, while chatting with the Earl of Whomever’s daughter and Viscount Something’s niece. All he had wanted to do was run. His preference for flight at full alert, Jane had moved him from one group of young ladies to the next, thankfully everyone on their very best behavior, no one trying to corner him behind shrubbery or tackle him in a locked cellar.

He shuddered at the memory. Really, the three misses were enough to put a man off women altogether.

Not that the afternoon had been wholly terrible. Indeed, Jane introduced him to a number of young ladies who managed to flush and flutter at all the right moments, but also didn’t stammer or threaten to faint—hell, a few managed to hold an easy conversation. One young lady—Miss Sarah Forrester, if he recalled correctly—had even managed to tease him.

“The south hedge.”

“Hmm?” His head had come up at her words.

“I think it’s likely the easiest means of escape.” Miss Forrester had raised her eyes to his, shy and laughing. She continued when he only blinked in reply. “I can make a small distraction if you need. Then you can run for it.”

At that, Jason was the one left blushing and stuttering. “Is my discomfort that obvious?” he had said.

“No. Maybe. Maybe I scouted the south hedge for my own escape.” Miss Forrester laughed a little to herself. Just then, her mother’s voice had interrupted their thoughts.

“And you should see my daughter’s screen painting, Lady Jane, there is simply nothing like it!” she had been crowing to his sister.

“But alas, I fear I would be caught,” Miss Forrester had whispered.

“Me, too,” Jason whispered back mock-ruefully, and then had his attention brought around to the other ladies of the circle.

The memory of that moment gave him comfort—if for no other reason than it was the one small success in a sea of bare survival. The question that Byrne had asked—and his own answer to it—haunted him as the carriage racketed down the cobblestone streets toward the Thames and Somerset House.

Because it’s what comes next. Such a broad, empty answer. Yes, getting married was next on the list of his life. He had taken up the role of Duke of Rayne. Had learned to manage the estates. And if he hadn’t found fulfillment, per se, at least he had a sense of accomplishment at the end of most days. Marriage was what came next. It would not be the death knell that all his (married) friends took unremitting joy in telling him it would be. Certainly not. It would, instead, cure this vague loneliness that had begun threatening the edges of his life. It would be a beginning. It would be what came next.

So why could he not quell that old, familiar urge to run and hide?

When that urge overcame him, at least he didn’t have to run far. His driver lurched to a familiar stop, and his footman opened the carriage in front of Somerset House, a grand neoclassical structure that sat along the Thames, housing the great learned fraternities of the day: the Royal Society (known far and wide as the Royal), the London Society of Antiquaries, and Jason’s personal refuge, the Society of Historical Art and Architecture of the Known World—or the Historical Society for short. Somehow, in the past few years of overseeing his estates, and oh, just being ducal, Jason had actually managed to complete his long overdue academic paper on the “Damage to Medieval Architecture in European Cities after the Napoleonic Wars.” Mostly from notes he had made when he had gone on his grand tour after graduating from Oxford. Maybe not with a First, but he had graduated, thank you very much. Dukes, he had been informed, had no use for Firsts.

And, once he had that pamphlet published (using his own printing establishment, which he had acquired the controlling interest in just the week before, but published nonetheless), he had petitioned for and been granted membership to the Historical Society. And now, he was free to use the Society’s offices and rooms at his leisure. It was essentially his club, but different from White’s or Brooks’s or the other gentlemen’s establishments that lined St. James. This club hosted some of the best minds in the country and held some of its most interesting treasures, and best of all—absolutely no one there would dream of an offer of marriage from him.

He disembarked from the carriage, nodding to his driver. “This little adventure may take longer than anticipated,” he said, earning a cackle of good humor from Bones, his driver.

“I know what that means,” Bones replied. “It means head on home for supper, and maybe you’ll wander back around three in the morn.”

“That happened
once
,” Jason countered, but with a smile. Bones had been with him for years, through more than one misadventure, so his informality with his master was easily forgiven. “Go have supper,” Jason conceded. “But I expect you back here within two hours to collect me!”

Bones, not one to waste his master’s generosity, tipped his hat to Jason and put the horses into trot before the Duke could change his mind.

Jason sighed the deep sigh of the utterly free. Finally. For the first time all day, he felt free of the exhausting task of trying to find a mate, free of the weight of being the Duke of Rayne—he could enter this columned and storied establishment a clean man, one whose only purpose was to improve and amuse his mind via other men of interest.

Ah, freedom.

Of course, that was when—as Jason turned left in the courtyard toward the Historical Society’s wing—he ran directly into the outstretched hand of the tawny-haired lady who would turn out to be the cause of the greatest tangle of his life.

Miss Winnifred Crane did not intend to smack the young gentleman. Truly, she didn’t. He simply, sort of
ran
into her hand. And really she shouldn’t be blamed for her hand being as outstretched as it had been.

George should.

It had begun when she had rounded the corner from Aldwych onto Strand, some minutes before the stately carriage bearing the poor soul whom she accidentally smacked appeared. She had been so startled to come upon Somerset House so suddenly, the building that held all her hopes and aspirations, that for the barest of seconds, she lost her nerve.

She made it as far as the courtyard before she had to stop, had to take a moment to gather her strength.

“Do not become overwhelmed,” Winnifred whispered to herself, clutching her folio of papers to her chest. She wished briefly that she had worn her thick coat, as a chill ran down her spine. But the coat was unfashionable, and she at least had to try for what fashion she could afford in London. Besides, it was a warm day, and the chill could easily be ascribed to other sources than the weather. “You are not doing anything against their rules, nor against the law. You were invited. You even have a letter of introduction.”

As gentlemen in top hats and coats walked past her up and down the steps, more than a few giving a curious glance to the small woman paused at the central fountain, she hesitantly took the first few steps.

Somerset House was a large columned structure, one side lining the Thames, the other folding itself along a courtyard of some impressive acreage. It was home to numerous endowed learned societies and government agencies, and as such, it was almost impossible for Winn to know precisely where she needed to go.

The naval offices were straight ahead, she knew, marked easily by the building’s central dome. But after that it became a bit hazy. She thought back to her father’s descriptions of the building. The Royal Society was . . . to the left? No, the right. It had a lovely exhibition hall, for those men who wished to see the progress of the world. The London Society of Antiquaries was its younger cousin, relegated to a few rooms in the attic and basement. So that must mean the Historical Society’s rooms were to the left of the courtyard.

She turned and, with the conviction of purpose, moved toward her destination.

Until an oversized, strong hand grabbed her by the arm.

“Not so fast,” George Bambridge, her cousin, said in her ear, his breath coming in heavy gulps. He must have run very fast to catch up with her. Damn it all. If only she had not paused by the fountain! She would have been in the building, at her audience with Lord Forrester, and George would have had to vent his spleen in the street alone.

“You left me sitting in the park with bloody Mrs. Tottendale,” George said once he finally managed to catch his breath.

“And she was supposed to keep you from following me.” Winn rolled her eyes. “How did you know?”

“That you’d come here? Winnifred, it’s been the only thing you’ve spoken of since coming to London,” George replied, smirking superiorly. “Nor are you that difficult to spot. Would you like to know why?”

“Because I’m the only one here in a skirt?” she guessed drily.

“Because you’re the only one here in a skirt!” George cried. “And that’s because there are no women allowed into the Historical Society!”

“Yes they are,” she replied calmly. “For exhibitions and lectures, women often attend.”

“Those are public functions.” The wispy dark hair that fell over George’s brow shook precariously. If he was not careful with his temper, he would reveal to the world his carefully hidden receding hairline. “Women are not granted entrance to the Society’s main rooms as they are not granted membership. And I should know, because of the two of us,
I’m
the one being considered for such.”

“There is absolutely nothing in their charter that forbids women,” Winn countered rationally.

“And how do you know so much about the Historical Society’s charter?”

“Because my father helped write it. And he told me.”

That flummoxed George, causing him to gape like a fish for some moments.

“Winnifred,” he began calmly, though he did not loosen his grip on her arm. “I feel responsible for you, not just as your only living relative but, I would hope, as something more. So please believe me when I say this is not a good idea. If you so ardently desire to be introduced to Lord Forrester, I will endeavor to have him invited to dine, and I’m sure he will find you and your infatuation with art history extremely diverting. But not here.” His voice lowered to a desperate whisper. “And not now!”

As Winn’s reaction ratcheted from a weak queasiness to annoyance to utter lividity at George’s impassioned speech, she clutched her small folio of papers all the tighter to her chest. When he was finished, she spoke in a very low, very clear voice.

“George, if you want me to leave this establishment, you will have to physically drag me away, kicking and screaming.” Her gaze bore into his, so sharp it could cut diamonds. “In front of all these people you are
dying
to impress. Now, you may be a foot and a half taller and five stone heavier than me, but do you really think imposing yourself on a tiny female in such a manner is something you should do?”

George paused. For the first time, he seemed to recognize the potential they had for making a scene. Right now, talking low to each other, they were just two ordinary people—although one suspiciously other-gendered—but all it would take was one scream and suddenly those men in top hats and coats who walked past with their noses in the air would know who they were.

And as Winn knew, for George, there was such a thing as bad press.

His hand slackened on her arm. Only slightly, but enough that Winn could wrench it away from him.

And smack said arm directly into the young man who was rushing past them.

“Amomph!” was the muffled, indistinguishable cry from said gentleman, who staggered back some paces.