Nicola and the Viscount (15 page)

Nicola paused beneath the archway leading back to the main assembly room, her expression inquisitive. “Yes, my lord?”

The viscount sighed and, looking down at his slippers, grumbled, “Why do you have to make everything so complicated?”Then, looking up, he said, “Fine. All right. Yes, there was some talk of having you declared insane—”

“Committed?” Nicola squeaked, in true alarm.

“Right. To an institution. Then your uncle would be able to take over your business affairs—”

“He's
not
my uncle,” Nicola interrupted sharply.

“But,” Lord Sebastian continued as if she hadn't spoken, “my father was able to talk him out of such a ridiculous scheme by pointing out that you've got enough friends—the Sheridans, and all—who would be likely to come out and swear to your sanity, that he'd never make it stick. So he abandoned that plan.”

Nicola, her face clouding over with anger, said through gritted teeth, “I should hope so! Mad! Me! I've never heard anything so ridiculous in my life.” Then, narrowing her eyes, she said, “Well, go on. That can't be all. I imagine there was a secondary plan, should the first fail.”

“Oh, come, Nicola,” Lord Sebastian said with some impatience of his own. “The whole world does not, despite what you evidently believe, revolve around you. I think your uncle's quite given up on the idea of ever getting hold of Beckwell Abbey.”

Nicola narrowed her eyes even more. “Why don't I believe you?”

“Nicola, I swear!” Lord Sebastian looked annoyed. “Yours isn't the only property in Northumberland they were looking at, you know. The fact that you won't sell will hardly put a halt to their plans of expanding. They'll simply lay the railroad around Beckwell Abbey, instead of through it, and that will be an end to it.”

Nicola wasn't about to trust a young man who had, only a week ago, been perfectly willing to marry a girl with whom he was not in the least in love. But she had to admit, the viscount looked truthful enough. He seemed quite fed up with the conversation, which was proof enough he probably wasn't lying to prolong it.

“Nicky?”

They both looked up to see Nathaniel Sheridan standing in the archway, his back ramrod straight, and his jaw set…a little dangerously, Nicola thought. That muscle she'd noticed once before was drumming a steady beat there, as well.

Lord Sebastian noticed it, too. But he seemed to mis-interpret it, if his next words were any indication.

“Don't worry,” the viscount said with some disgust in his tone as he brushed past Nathaniel on his way through the archway. “She's all yours.”

Nicola felt her cheeks go crimson.
It's not like that
, she almost cried.
It's not like that at all!
She and Nathaniel were friends, and that was all.

But Nathaniel, rather than denying the implication in Lord Sebastian's tone, said nothing at all. Instead, he stepped out of the other young man's way. Then, once the viscount was gone, Nathaniel turned to Nicola and held out his hand.

“Come on,” he said. “Let's go home.”

And suddenly—though it didn't make the slightest bit of sense—Nicola began to wish Lord Sebastian had been right…that she and Nathaniel
were
more than simply friends.

But that, of course, was ridiculous. Nathaniel Sheridan was nothing to her, except the elder brother of her most bosom friend. And a fairly annoying elder brother, at that, who was forever putting down her love for romantic poetry and dress patterns. She could not possibly wish that there were anything more between them….

Or could she?

Dear Nana,
wrote Nicola.
I hope this letter finds you and Puddy well. Quite a lot has happened since I last wrote you. I am very sorry to have to tell you that I was forced to break my engagement to Lord Sebastian. It turns out that he—

Nicola paused in her letter writing to nibble on the end of her quill. How, she wondered, was she to put this next part, exactly? She didn't want to upset Nana, but she didn't like to lie, either.

…was not all that I thought he was
, Nicola settled for writing.
But you mustn't fear that I am unhappy. Well, I
was
unhappy—desperately so—but I have since come to realize that sometimes these things happen for the better. So, while it looks like I shan't be a viscountess anymore, I am pleased to say that I am still your, and yours alone, Nicky.

There, she thought, as she read the letter over. That was just the right tone, too, not too sad, but not too silly, either. She would just add a few things about the Sheridans—especially Nathaniel, who had been so kind to her lately. Not, of course, because she suspected that someday he and Nana might meet. Far from it! Nathaniel was about as likely to propose to Nicola as he was to walk upon the moon, given the way the two of them bickered nearly constantly.

Stealing a glance at Eleanor's brother as he sat across the morning room, reading the newspaper, Nicola wondered how, after all the glowing things she'd written about the viscount, she could ever get Nana to believe that she suspected she had never loved Lord Sebastian in the first place. Oh, certainly she'd been infatuated with him! There was no doubt about that. But how could she ever have thought she loved him, when she had never even really known him? Why, she didn't have the first idea how Lord Sebastian liked his tea, or what his opinions were on the Decree of Fontainebleau, or whether he thought Mozart a genius or an opportunist.

She knew Nathaniel Sheridan's opinion on all three matters, as well as many, many more. Why, she knew that Nathaniel liked plays, but hated opera. That he enjoyed fishing, but disliked fish. That he could read the whole of a book in a single evening—even a very long, dull one— but could be just as happy to spend that evening instead assisting his younger brother in making a fortress out of the dining room chairs and his mother's best tablecloths.

As if he sensed Nicola's gaze on him, Nathaniel lowered the paper he was reading and regarded her questioningly, that dark lock of hair falling over, as it often did, his right eye.

“Have I grown horns of a sudden, Miss Sparks?” Nathaniel asked in a dry tone.

“No,” Nicola said quickly, and ducked back over her letter, as much to hide her flaming cheeks as to avoid having to meet his penetrating gaze.

“Horns,” said young Phillip Sheridan with a chuckle, as he played with one of the dogs. “I should like to see
that
.”

“Nathaniel,” Lady Sheridan, bent over a letter of her own, said in a warning tone. “Leave Nicola alone.”

“Gladly,” Eleanor's brother said as he turned a page of his paper.

Stuff and bother
, Nicola thought, as she bit the end of her quill.
Now he probably thinks I'm in love with him. And I'm not. I'm
not
.

Only…

Well, Nathaniel Sheridan
did
look very nice in an evening coat. This could not be denied. Could she write that, she wondered, in her letter to Nana? Or was it more important to mention that Nathaniel had received a first in mathematics from Oxford? Which would impress Nana more favorably in his favor, in the event that the two of them ever did happen to meet? The evening coat, or the first in mathematics? Or should she mention neither, and write instead that the eldest Sheridan had eyes the color of the river Tweed in autumn?

The Sheridans' butler entered the morning room with a letter on a silver salver.

“This just arrived,” Winters intoned dully, “for Miss Sparks, madam.”

Lady Sheridan waved the butler away, being absorbed in a long letter to her sister describing why now was not the best time for a visit from her and her seven children.

Winters bowed, and presented Nicola with the salver. As Nicola did not, as a rule, receive many letters by special delivery, she was conscious of both Eleanor's as well as her brother's gazes upon her as she tore open the seal and read the following:

It was all Nicola could do not to rush at once from her chair. She had always known she liked Sir Hugh, but this…well, this forever sealed for him a place in her heart. Imagine, a man so much in love that he remembered a one-month anniversary! And wished to mark the occasion with a shawl! Never mind that such a personal gift would surely be confiscated by Lady Sheridan, who, being old-fashioned, thought the only acceptable presents between men and women who were not married were flowers, candy, and books.

And how sweet that Sir Hugh should recognize that, of all people, Nicola really was the most appropriate to appeal to when purchasing a gift of clothing. For who knew more about clothing than Nicola? No one in the whole of London.

“I hope it isn't bad news, Nicky,” Eleanor said worriedly from the chair in which she sat reading.

“You can tell by her face that it isn't,” Nathaniel said with some amusement. “She looks like a cat that's got into the creamery.”

Casually, Nicola folded the letter, slipped it into her sleeve, and rose.

“Oh,” she said, in a tone she hoped they'd consider airy and unconcerned. “It's from Stella Ashton. She's in fits over what to wear to the theater tonight. She wants me to come to her house and help her decide.”

Eleanor, nodding, turned back to her book. “Well, that's hardly surprising. After all, if it weren't for you, she'd still be wearing that dreadful yellow.”

“You aren't actually going to go, are you?” Nathaniel asked, looking astonished.

“Of course I am,” Nicola said. “She quite needs me.”

“To help her get
dressed
?”

“Of course not,” Nicola said scornfully. “She has a maid for that. She needs me to help her decide what to put on in the first place.”

Astonishment changing to disgust, Nathaniel put down his paper, stood up, and, with a shake of his head that seemed clearly to say,
Women
, left the room.

Nicola, thinking that Nathaniel might learn a thing from Sir Hugh, who was now her ideal of all that was manly, asked, “May I go, Lady Sheridan?”

“Of course, my dear,” Lady Sheridan said, not looking up from her letter. “But do be home in time for luncheon.”

“I'll be home long before luncheon,” Nicola assured her. And then she went to fetch her bonnet and gloves.

Her escape secured, Nicola was somewhat at a loss as how to proceed once she'd reached the street. For Sir Hugh had said nothing of how she was to get to Grafton House. Young ladies did not, as a general thing, go about London—even the fashionable parts—unescorted.

But there seemed to be no help for it. Sir Hugh would doubtless drive her home, but it was up to Nicola to find her own way to the shop, which fortunately wasn't far from where the Sheridans lived.

Still, Nicola did not think that a girl in her position—with a recently broken engagement—could very well afford to be seen walking alone along the street. Snide comments might be made by those who were already all too willing to find fault with the behavior of a girl who would slight so esteemable a personage as the Viscount Farnsworth.

And so, after having examined the contents of her reticule, and finding in it money enough to hire a hansom cab, Nicola decided to do just that.

Fortunately there was one coming her way that appeared to be empty. Indeed, as Nicola held up her hand to signal to it, the driver slowed down his horse. She was in luck.

Accepting the driver's help into the hansom, Nicola settled upon the leather seat and said crisply, “Grafton House, please.”

“As you wish, miss,” the driver said, and he chirruped to his horse.

Nicola leaned back and thought to herself how surprised Eleanor was going to be when she received her shawl. For even though Nicola had not yet seen the shawls between which Sir Hugh was apparently trying to decide, she already knew precisely the one Eleanor was going to get: a bright yellow one of Chinese silk, decorated with blue and green peacocks. The two girls had already seen and exclaimed over it the last time they had been in the store. It was monstrously expensive, but Sir Hugh, Nicola thought, could afford it. Besides, he would want to get Eleanor the best, wouldn't he? And the peacock green would bring out the emerald in Eleanor's hazel eyes.

It was as Nicola was imagining a pleasant scenario in which Nathaniel, having observed the great joy of his sister as she opened her gift from her beau, turned to Nicola and said, “Well, how about it, Nicky? Should we give it a go, as well?” that she realized she did not recognize her surroundings. They were not heading toward the part of London where Grafton House was located. In fact, Nicola could not even say what part of London she was in, save that it was not a part to which she had ever been before.

“I say,” Nicola said, leaning forward to speak to the driver. “Perhaps you didn't understand. I said Grafton House. You do know where that is, don't you? Because I don't believe you're going the right way.”

To which the driver's only response was to whip his horse into a canter.

Nicola, jolted by the sudden increase in speed, fell back against the seat.
Good Lord!
What was happening? Was the man drunk? It would be just her luck to have hired a drunken hansom cab driver.

“Sir,” Nicola cried as the unfamiliar—and not very nice-looking, for they seemed to be growing seedier with every acre—houses whizzed past. “I think there has been some mistake. I said Grafton House. Grafton House!”

But the driver paid not the slightest heed.

Nicola, for the first time, began to feel a little afraid. Wherever was he taking her? And why? She could not help thinking about a story Martine had once told her about a man who'd lost his wife, and missed her so much that when he happened to chance upon a woman who resembled her, he kidnapped her and brought her to his home, and ordered her about as if she were his wife in truth. The girl had gotten away in the end, but only after suffering the indignity of having to do the entire family's laundry.

Nicola did not want to do this man's laundry—or anyone's laundry, for that matter. How positively odious!

Then, as the houses they passed grew ever more questionable, it began to occur to Nicola that the driver might have something a good deal more nefarious in mind than forcing her to do his laundry.

And so she leaned forward—difficult given the speed with which the carriage was hurtling down the narrow streets—and did the only thing she could think of, which was to jab her fingers into the driver's eyes.

Only her valiant action did not have the desired effect. For instead of howling in pain and pulling up on the reins, forcing the cab to slow down and affording Nicola a chance to escape, the driver, with a curse, reached up and pushed Nicola, by the face, unceremoniously back into her seat.

“Any more of that,” the driver snarled at her, “and I'll bind and gag you. See if I don't!”

This was alarming information, to say the very least. Nicola lay where the driver had pushed her, her bonnet irreparably dented, and her reticule quite lost. But she gave no particular thought to these two incidentals. All she could think was,
Why, I am being kidnapped! Kidnapped, in broad daylight!

She thought about screaming, but remembered the warning about him gagging her. The last thing that Nicola wanted was some foul-smelling article of the driver's clothing being stuffed into her mouth. She knew it would be foul-smelling because the man's hand, as it had flattened across her face and shoved her, had smelled quite bad. She highly doubted he possessed, much less carried with him, a clean handkerchief. And so undoubtedly the object that would be used to silence her would be a nasty, dirty one. Nicola would not have been able to abide anything of the sort.

Besides, Nicola thought bleakly, as the carriage thundered down the twisting, narrow road, it wasn't very likely that, even if she did get out a few screams, anyone in this neighborhood would come rushing to her rescue. The few people she happened to glimpse looked about as seedy as the houses did. She was most certainly not in Mayfair anymore, where a woman's scream would bring a Bow Street Runner, and very likely a half dozen stalwart footmen, running. More likely, in this neighborhood a scream would bring a throng of onlookers, eager to witness the murder of a young society miss.

And if she were to jump? Make a spectacular leap from the carriage, and to safety? She would surely dash her brains upon the cobblestones below, if she managed to avoid being trampled to death beneath the hooves of the horse, or cut in half by the vehicle's wheels.

Oh!
And what, Nicola could not help wondering, were her chances of being rescued? Quite small, actually, as no one had the slightest idea where she'd gone. There was a chance that Sir Hugh, when she failed to show up to meet him, would go to the Sheridans' to investigate. But who was to say, given the current circumstances, that Sir Hugh really had written that note? It could easily have been forged. Nicola was not at all familiar with the handwriting of Eleanor's fiancé. How could she be?