Kathryn Caskie (8 page)

“Nevertheless, Hannah, you did say he was somehow different when you danced the waltz.” Lady Viola leaned forward. “A dance, he requested . . . for
you
.”

Hannah shook her head. “If it were simply nerves, he would not have reacted so strongly to my comment about his . . .
touching
.”

Now both of the ladies were leaning so far forward that their weight and sudden momentum caused the back feet of the petite settee to buck from the floor.

Lady Letitia’s eyes were wide and bright. “What, pray tell, did you say, dear?”

Hannah rose from the chair and walked to stand before the low fire. “I-I told him that I did not know what game he played, but that I knew its purpose . . . or something of that nature. And then, without a word, he bolted from the ballroom.”

“Ah, my lovely Miss Chillton,” came a deep voice from the doorway.

Good heavens. A twinge of panic pinched at Hannah as she recognized Mr. St. Albans’s distinctive voice.

Hannah spun around. She had not even heard the front door open, let alone Mr. St. Albans enter.

“I do apologize. How rude I must have appeared to you at the ball this eve.” He tipped a deep bow to the Featherton sisters, then seemed to limp slightly as he moved through the center of the drawing room and made for Hannah.

Lady Letitia tapped the floor as he passed. “Why are you hopping about, young man?”

“’Tis nothing, Lady Letitia. Struck it on a rail while trying to catch a bolting horse.”

“How noble of you, Mr. St. Albans. Not many gentlemen would be so gallant as to assist a rider in need.”

He smiled in that cocky way of his. “Well, as I said, ’twas nothing really.” When Mr. St. Albans reached Hannah, he confidently took her hand in his, then clapped his other hand atop it, assuring she could not pull away no matter how desperately she tried.

Which she did, of course, with all the strength she could muster without arousing the Feathertons’ notice.

Still, Hannah’s eyes shot to the ladies, and she pleaded with her gaze for assistance. As at the ball, however, they only gazed appreciatively at their handsome houseguest.

Mr. St. Albans looked down into Hannah’s eyes and sighed softly. “Please do forgive me, my dear Miss Chillton,” he begged so sincerely that Hannah herself almost believed him.

Almost
.

Hannah wrenched her gaze from his and focused her gaze out the window on the sweep of the rain-drenched crescent. “Leaving me on the dance floor was beyond rude . . . sirrah.” Her tone was much harsher than she meant it to be, but in truth he deserved nothing less for his behavior.

“Nevertheless, I do wish you would forgive me. Please, Miss Chillton.” Mr. St. Albans stroked the top of her hand irritatingly, as if he thought the soothing motion might calm her. “For I assure you, dear lady, there is a good explanation for what appeared to be my most ungentlemanly behavior.”

Hannah twisted her captive hand and pulled it from his grip. “And just what, I ask, might that be, Mr. St. Albans?” This she should like to hear.

And so, evidently, did the Featherton sisters, for the room fell silent, and all eyes seized upon the gentleman.

Mr. St. Albans curled his fingers toward his palm and brought his fist to his mouth just as he cleared his throat. Gaming for time, Hannah suspected.

Then he glanced at each woman in turn, as if hoping that at least one of them would release him from his obligation of explanation.

But none of the ladies did so.

“Very well.” He cleared his throat again. A flush of color filled the tips of Mr. St. Albans’s ears as he hesitantly supplied his excuse for racing from the dance floor.

“I . . . I fear it might have been . . . the ham.”

Chapter Six

Queen Square

W
hat in blazes? You send not a word for two full days, and now you tell me that
this
is the explanation you gave Miss Chillton and the Featherton ladies?”

Griffin St. Albans leaped up from his chair, nearly toppling the diminutive tea table Mrs. Hopshire had just set with a selection of cold meats, berries, and cheese. “Please, Garnet, tell me that you truly did not blame my sudden departure on my . . . bowels.”

“I’m afraid so, Griff. The moment I mentioned that the ham you devoured in the Tea Room—”

“But I had no ham.”

“No, but
I
did.” Garnet shook his finger at Griffin. “Do you wish a recounting of what I said on your behalf or not, brother?”

Griffin waved his hand resignedly, and Garnet continued, “Once I explained that the ham had caused a dreadful disturbance in your belly, the ladies were not about to speak another word of the entire incident.”

“And how were you so sure of the direction of their reaction?”

“Well, Griff, they are ladies after all, and as such can be counted upon to respond . . . well, gently.” Garnet leaned over the table and snatched up a thin slice of pork and popped it into his mouth, seeming to delight in the irony. “So you see, it was the best of all possible explanations.”

Griffin set his elbow on his knee and rested his forehead in his hand. “So help me to understand. Miss Chillton now believes that I was playing the rogue on the dance floor until I was compelled to find a chamber pot?”

He looked at Garnet, who was supping on yet another swirl of ham and smiling back at him as he chewed.

“Yes, Garnet, I can see how that is the best possible explanation.”

“Glad you agree.”

“Are you mad? How could anyone agree with your solution? Damn it all, Garnet, just what the hell were you thinking?”

Garnet chuckled to himself as he polished his signet ring on the lapel of yet another new coat supplied by the earl. “I assure you, I only had your best interests in mind, dear brother.” Then he huffed what sounded like a sarcastic laugh. “We both know that the truth was clearly out of the question. This little charade of ours is not only affecting your romance, brother, but mine as well.”

“Yours?”

“Your darling Miss Chillton introduced me to the most beautiful miss. Someone I greatly desire to know better. But I could not do so at the ball—for I was being . . . well,
you.
”

Griffin exhaled a frustrated sigh as he rose and moved to the drawing-room window, just as a magnificent carriage turned into the square and, surprisingly, drew up before their door.

He gripped the mullion and leaned closer, for surely his eyes deceived him. “Oh,
no
.”

A pang of dread pinched at his middle, and Griffin held his breath as he waited to see who would emerge from the carriage, praying it was not who he believed.

The footman opened the cabin door, and who else should step out but the ebony-garbed Pinkerton followed by the squat Earl of Devonsfield himself.

Griffin spun around to warn Garnet, but even as he did so, he heard the click of the lock followed by the whine of rusted hinges as Mrs. Hopshire opened the heavy front door.

It was too late.

“Where is Griffin?” Though he was still standing outside on the front steps, the earl’s usual gruff voice sounded thin and distressed.

“Griff?” Garnet’s eyes were as wide as his tea saucer. “You failed to tell me that the—” As his words broke off, Garnet’s expression shifted from abject shock to absolute delight as his eyes alighted on the earl and his man, Pinkerton. “Dear sir, I had not expected you. How wonderful, though, that you are able to visit . . . and
all
the way from Devonsfield as well. What an honor you pay us.”

The earl’s beady eyes shifted from Garnet to Griffin. “What is this folly, boy? From your wrenching missive I was led to believe Garnet was missing and that you feared the worst. Yet here he stands.”

Garnet stared at his brother. “Griff? What is this about?”

“I beg your pardon, my lord.” Griffin swallowed deeply. “Did you not receive my second missive informing you that my brother had been delayed, but had just arrived in Bath?”

“Do you think I would be standing here in your doorway had I received it? Do you? Think you Devonsfield is just around the corner?”

“No, my lord, I suppose not.”

“Of course
not
. Why, I left the very instant Pinkerton apprised me of the dire situation.”

Damn me.
The day had just sunk from bad to horrid.

Garnet called for Mrs. Hopshire to fetch a decanter of brandy, then managed a jovial smile for the grimacing earl. “But now that you are here, my lord, I must tell you of my brother’s progress. Why, I wish I had half the good fortune he has had in finding a potential bride.”

The earl turned his head from Griffin to Garnet, then back again, so quickly that his wig did not quite follow in time and now sat slightly askew atop his head.

“A potential bride, you say? Well now, perhaps coming to Bath is not wholly a waste after all. Might stay a while and observe the proceedings. Yes, yes, indeed I shall,” the earl muttered to himself before turning an eye to his man. “Pinkerton, be a good man and see what the delay is with the brandy. I own the journey from Devonsfield has left me quite parched.”

Pinkerton nodded and, as requested, disappeared silently into the entry hall.

The earl crossed the room to the sofa, flipped up his coattails, and took his ease on the plump cushion. “Now, lad,” he said to Griffin, “sit down and tell me all about your young lady.”

“He can
tell
you about her, my lord, but if you wish, you may meet her yourself—this very eve.” Garnet removed a lavender-edged card from his pocket and waved it teasingly in the air.

Griffin snatched the card from his brother’s hand. “’Tis an invitation to the Featherton ladies’ house on Royal Crescent—for a precomet soiree.”

The earl cleared his throat. “Precomet soiree? What sort of nonsense is this?”

Griffin, who only a moment before had been of like mind with the earl about the nonsensical nature of such a party, read on, and as he did his heart began to pound inside his chest. He lifted his chin and stared directly at Garnet.

“
Miss Caroline Herschel
—why, she’s England’s foremost authority on comets—will be in attendance? Here, in Bath?”

Garnet nodded in that bored way of his when a topic of discussion did not revolve around him. “Yes, I believe that is right. Some astronomer of note will be the Feathertons’ honored guest this eve.”

Griffin stuffed the invitation into his own pocket. “Thank you, Garnet, I shall be delighted to attend.”

The comment snared his brother’s full attention. “No, no, no. ’Tis a
party
, a social gathering—which means . . . my territory. The invitation is clearly inscribed to Mr. St. Albans and guest.”

The earl’s tiny blue eyes took on a keen focus. “I will be the guest.”

“Absolutely, my lord. I would consider no other for such an occasion.” Garnet turned from the earl and lifted an eyebrow as he addressed Griffin. “Surely it must be clear to you that only
one
of us may attend the soiree. And you do not wish to jeopardize your budding relationship with Miss Chillton by making some social faux pas, do you?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, then,
I
should be the one to attend.” Garnet shot a smile to the earl. “We should leave the house before eight o’clock, my lord. Can you dress so quickly?”

“Can you not see that I
am
dressed, boy?” The earl shook his head, which, to his fortune, turned his wig perfectly back into place.

“Yes, eight o’clock. But
I
will be the St. Albans in attendance, Garnet. The house is to be full of astronomers and members of Bath’s philosophical society eager to discuss the comet—something you know nothing of. I, on the other hand will be able to attend to such discussions with expertise.” Griffin clicked his heels. “Do excuse me, my lord. Garnet will see to your lodgings above stairs. I must dress if we are to depart by eight.”

“Did you see what he just did?” Garnet asked the earl with incredulity.

“Yes, I did, boy.” The earl leaned back on the settee and considered the exchange he’d just witnessed between the lionhearted Griffin and the highly polished Garnet.

Yes, coming to Bath had been a very good decision indeed.

Hannah followed her duennas and their esteemed guest, the diminutive Miss Caroline Herschel, into the candlelit drawing room. Viewing her from behind, as Hannah was, it was nearly inconceivable that Miss Herschel was a woman grown.

And yet, she was.

Still, at two-and-seventy years, the frail Miss Herschel stood barely over four feet tall. Her impeded growth, she unabashedly had admitted to them at dinner, had been the result of typhus when she was but a girl of ten.

Her ailment did nothing to contain her spirit or her mind, however, for Miss Caroline Herschel was by many accounts the most brilliant astronomer and mathematician of the day—man or woman.

And as their private dinner progressed, Hannah found the elderly woman to possess a singularly wicked sense of humor as well. What a contrary little package this woman was.

An hour later, the expansive candlelit drawing room was filled with members of Bath society and the international scientific world. As cordial, brandy, and sherry were served to the guests, Hannah sat before the forte-piano, regaling the Feathertons’ guests with a selection from Haydn.

It was a simple piece for her. One she’d played at least one hundred times before, which now afforded her the freedom to allow her gaze to drift from the music and across the drawing room in search of the rake, Mr. St. Albans.

The Featherton sisters had informed her that evening, several times actually, that he would be in attendance. She was sure he would be, knowing of his interest in astronomy, and yet he had not returned to Number One Royal Crescent all day, which was entirely out of character for the man. If nothing else, he would have wished to dress for the soiree.

In the third time in as many minutes, when Hannah glanced up from her music, she finally saw him. He looked rather dashing, she supposed, in his dark blue coat and buff breeches. Like several other guests, he seemed completely enraptured by what Miss Herschel was saying and, indeed, seemed to be questioning her on several key points.