Miss Antiqua's Adventure (16 page)

“Without doubt, my dear. Refreshingly so,” he agreed. “You shall make a hit, Miss Greybill, of that I am certain.”

Antiqua murmured a polite reply while the Lady Julianne rushed up to present Sir Giles’s cheek with a brief kiss. Then, saying there was but one thing more needed to make Miss Greybill quite
perfect
, Julianne darted from the room. Antiqua’s bewilderment appeared to amuse her host, through his tone, when he spoke, was as kind and even as usual.

“My wife is a creature of generous impulse, Miss Greybill. She has, in addition, that unique Vincent trait of giving her affection sparingly, but fiercely. She desires to see you looking your best.”

“Lady Julianne has been overly kind,” she responded. “Far more than I deserve.”

At this point, the lady under discussion returned, bearing a spangled gauze shawl. “Here you are! The
very
thing!” She draped it artfully across Antiqua’s shoulders and over her gloved arms. “
Now
you look stunning! Doesn’t she, Giles?”

“Absolutely,” he concurred, letting his gaze sweep past the girl to rest upon his wife, dressed in a pretty rose-colored gown.

With a shake of her blond curls, Julianne shooed her escort and charge out to the awaiting coach with a great deal of characteristic flutter.

Antiqua had fully expected to spend an insipid evening at Lady Townsend’s. Upon arrival it appeared her fears were to be entirely realized. The party seemed to consist of frivolous people with whom she had little in common. Everyone seemed disposed to discuss nothing but the shocking new developments in
l’affaire Byron
. His dramatic departure from England dominated conversation throughout the length of the Countess’s sumptuously filled supper room.

Seated between two gentlemen, one very thin and the other very fat, Antiqua endeavored to stifle her mounting frustration. The scandals of the club-footed poet were but trivialities when compared to the possible escape of Napoleon Bonaparte from St. Helena. But Antiqua could not, as she so much longed to do, scream this knowledge out to the fashionable gathering.

Her two dinner companions at first thought the lovely Miss Greybill oddly distracted. The stout Mr. McCartney on her right clucked over her lack of appetite and pressed food upon her, but Antiqua, lost in her problem, ignored him. Nor did she pay the least attention to the skinny Mr. Lennon on her left. Both men soon came to believe the pretty child simple-minded and left her to her musings. By the time they stood to leave the table, she had admitted to herself that she would have to cajole Archie back into her good graces, for he was her only confederate and she desperately needed his help.

As the company moved through a set of French doors into a spacious music room, she concentrated on the composition of a pretty apology to Lord Rosewarren. Sitting upon a japanned chair with curved legs so thin, she feared it could not hold even her slender weight, she woke from her meditations to realize with dismay that the Winthrops were no longer at her side. A glance cast over her shoulder informed her they had been trapped at the back of the room by a gentleman whose girth alone could have held Wellington’s army at bay. He was speaking with animation to the accompaniment of much arm-waving.

Antiqua felt certain her companions would be detained too long to take their places beside her. She began to rise to join them when a smooth voice detained her.

“We meet again, Miss Greybill. As indeed I hoped we would.”

She whirled round to behold the friendly visage of the Viscount Balstone. Her first open response dissolved unspoken as she took in his velvet burgundy evening coat and white satin breeches. From the frills of his snowy jabot to the clocks on his white stockings, it was obvious the Viscount was not a man in mourning. Surely, she thought in bafflement, he must know of Thomas Allen’s death by now.

As she hesitated, Balstone’s own smile faded, resignation covering his face in its stead. “I suppose it was to be expected,” he said, “though I had in truth hoped otherwise. Vincent has led you to think ill of me.”

“No, not at all,” she hastened to deny. “Indeed, he had scarcely spoken of you. It is just—”

“Will you
please
take your seat, my lord,” a woman behind them caustically requested. “Miss Butterworth is about to begin her performance.”

With an apologetic smile, the Viscount placed himself gracefully on the chair next to Antiqua. At the front of the room, there stood the triangular frame of a harp. As a hush fell over the audience, the seat before the harp was occupied by a sharp-faced lady whose nose vied with the gilded instrument for prominence in the room.

Antiqua sat through Miss Butterworth’s performance in a fever of impatience. To know when and why Lord Balstone had returned to England burned within her. Whenever she could, she cast a sideways glance at him. He appeared relaxed and untroubled. She began to believe he could not have discovered that his brother had been deep in intrigue and had died for it. A tide of pity for the handsome Viscount swelled within her. He had a right to know, poor man, at least to know that his brother was gone.

Polite applause informed her that the harp had finally stilled. She joined in mechanically, then leaned toward his lordship and whispered, “My lord, there is something I must tell—”

“
Shhh
!” hissed the woman from behind.

Gritting her teeth, Antiqua saw that Miss Butterworth had been persuaded to entertain them once again. She tugged at her gloved fingers in vexation. At length, however, the harpist came to the end of her performance. Then Lady Townsend announced that her niece would be playing the piano for them. Amid the rustling preceding this new entertainment, Antiqua rose, forwardly clasped his lordship’s hand and led him from the music room.

Once beyond the double doors, the Viscount took the lead, cupping her elbow and guiding her through a side door into a salon filled with the hushed concentration of card-players. On the other side of the room, past several tables, was a curtained aperture. He drew the yellow silk wide and ushered her into a tiny alcove with nothing beyond a cushioned bench and a pair of ornate girandoles hung above it. Altogether, Antiqua decided as she sat upon the primrose squabs of the bench, an admirable niche for confidences. She wished, however, she was about to confide something less sorrowful to his lordship.

Balstone pulled the yellow curtain closed, then faced her and said warmly, “You are even lovelier than I had remembered, though I’m not certain how that can be possible as I’d remembered you lovelier than Venus herself.”

Caught off guard, Antiqua stammered a reserved disclaimer.

He slid onto the cushion beside her and tried unsuccessfully to capture her hand. “I’m a rogue to say such unprincipled things, I know, but you’ll have to own I’m given great provocation by your beauty.”

Antiqua did not know the art of playful dalliance. Instead of batting her eyelashes or coyly tapping his wrist with her fan, she inquired unsteadily, “Can it be—is it possible, my lord—have you not learned the fate of your brother?”

His expression was hidden as he stared down at his hands. Seeing his bowed head, his slumped shoulders, her heart ached for him. At last he raised his head and his cats’ eyes were dimmed with sadness.

“I do not know by what means you have learned of Thomas’s death,” he said heavily, “but knowing, you must also know something of the nature of it.”

She nodded and gave him the hand she had withheld a moment before. “I’m sorry, my lord.”

He kissed her palm. “Thank you, my dear. I cannot tell you what it means to be able to share my sorrow. It is on orders from the highest officials that his death not be disclosed, and so, you see, I am forced to play the part of the unconcerned man about town. My grief must be kept to myself . . .”

“How dreadful for you, my lord! Had I but known of your relationship in Calais, I could have spared you what must have been an appalling shock in Amiens!”

“You knew even then? I cannot express how severe the blow was when I arrived in Amiens. Added to my loss was the outrage I felt over knowing his death had been in vain. His mission, my dear, was a failure.”

“Oh, but it wasn’t! At least, not
then
.”

His clasp upon her hand tightened. He eyed her with first puzzlement, then cautious uncertainty. “How do you come to know of all this? How did you learn of my brother’s death?”

“I—I spoke with him on the night he died, my lord. We were staying in the same hotel. We had traveled from Calais in the same coach—though then I thought him to be a tutor—and after he was shot, he came to me for help.” Here, Antiqua could no longer meet the intensity of his lordship’s amber gaze. Her own fell to her lap. With difficulty she continued, “I am sorry, but there—there was nothing I could do to save him.”

”You must not blame yourself, my dear!” Placing his fingers beneath her chin, he raised her head and searched her face. “Thomas knew what he was doing. He knew the risks. In fact, he delighted in them! A tame life, a tame death would not have suited him at all. And if, as you say, he did not after all die in vain, then you must believe he is truly at peace.”

The soothing tone, the bracing words brought tears to her eyes. That he should comfort her touched Antiqua deeply. “Your brother did not die in vain, my lord,” she assured him. “Before he passed away he told me some of his history and he gave into my keeping—”

The soft swish of silk arrested her speech. Guiltily, she looked toward the opening. Standing there, one shoulder leaning casually against the frame, was Jack Vincent.

“Your over-vivid imagination at work again, Miss Greybill?” he inquired lazily.

Her mouth worked, but no sound was emitted.

Viscount Balstone, however, rose and said harshly, “You are acquiring the distressing habit of interrupting me, Vincent.”

As if such confrontations were daily doings, Vincent merely smiled. “Have I, Balstone? I can’t think how such a thing would become a habit with me, when seeing you at all is so . . . distasteful.”

Balstone’s intake of breath was an audible hiss. His amber eyes narrowed, his stance stiffened. Vincent ignored him, his gaze grazing past the Viscount to rest on Antiqua. He lingered over the scalloped neck of her gown, and she suddenly felt as if the neckline were much too low.

She leaped up in anger. “Will you kindly leave us at once!”

He did not appear disposed to do so.

She barely refrained from stamping her slipper as he stood smiling at her with that smile that bore little resemblance to a smile. She tried again. “You are not, Mr. Vincent, as you seem to believe, my keeper. And I’ve no wish for your company here. Now please go!”

“I can quite see that I am very much . . .
de trop
, shall we say? But whatever you may think of me, or how little you may think of your own reputation, Miss Greybill, I will not allow anyone who is living under my sister’s protection to be the least cause for scandal.” He straightened and held out a hand. “I suggest you allow me to return you now to Lady Julianne’s side.”

Antiqua raised her chin and stared haughtily at the open palm. She thought her heart was going to burst from overwork in the fractional seconds she awaited his reaction.

But it was not Vincent who ended the stalemate. Balstone stepped forward, saying, “Perhaps, Miss Greybill, you should accompany Mr. Vincent to his sister. There is little, after all, that he could do to harm you in such a public place.”

“I’m not at all afraid of him,” she said mendaciously. “It is merely that I do not choose to go with him.”

Vincent’s soft laughter incensed her.

Only the Viscount’s hand upon her arm restrained her from giving vent to her violent feelings. “It is obvious, my dear,” he said, “that the autocratic Mr. Vincent chooses otherwise. If you will give me leave to call upon you in the morning, I shall say goodnight.”

“Of course, my lord, I should be happy to receive you at any time,” she said prettily, refusing to notice Vincent’s evident amusement over this exchange.

Bending over her hand, Balstone whispered, “I’ll call upon you to discuss the packet my brother gave you.” More loudly, he said, “Until tomorrow then.”

The instant the Viscount had brushed past Vincent to vanish into the crowded card room, Antiqua rounded upon her companion. “How dare you! As if you’ve some right to continue to interfere in my affairs!”

“Affairs?” he murmured with an insinuating inflection that deepened the scowl on Antiqua’s face.

“Just stay out of my business!” she demanded. “You have no say in what I do or who I see or—”

“Are you trying to create just such a scene for the gossipmongers as I have been trying to avoid?” Vincent interrupted with deceptive calm. “Your voice needs but the slightest increase in pitch to achieve it.”

She realized there was not the least use in protesting. He always twisted everything to suit his purposes and that he did so with such maddening ease and confidence only added to her sense of injury. She arranged the draping of her shawl with great deliberation, then made him wait further while she smoothed the folds of her gown. At last she sailed from the alcove, her head held high, and her cheeks so warm she knew they must be crimson.

No words passed between them as Vincent escorted her to a large drawing room where knots of people were clustered in every corner. But, as always, Antiqua was distinctly aware of the closeness of his disturbing presence. She tried to tell herself that it was the heat of the crowded room that caused her breath to catch, but her thudding heart told her otherwise. Only once had he cast so much as a glimpse at her and in that brief, intense moment, Antiqua felt as if a heated brand had seared her skin.

Near an elaborately painted satinwood commode, on which rested a crystal decanter and several glasses, Lady Julianne watched the approach of Miss Greybill in the escort of her brother. Her fair brows were raised slightly, but she merely remarked, “I’d no idea you’d returned to town, Jack. I trust you found Father well.”

“He was as impassioned as ever,” Vincent replied. “After dressing me down severely for staying away so long, and wanting to know what the devil I was doing back, he received me with all the fervor any son could want. I shall recount the details of my visit at another time, my dear. For now, I must take my leave. Miss Greybill, your servant.”