Kiss in the Mist by Elizabeth Brady (10)

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The butcher. The baker. The candlestick maker.

She’d interviewed the whole lot.

Shelby had been up one street and down another. She’d poked her nose into alleys and talked with each and every gutter urchin. She had blisters on three toes and a stone in her shoe.

So far, this is what she’d gathered: the man in question wasn’t local (which she knew). From her description of Victor, he sounded like a foreign gent who lived round abouts years ago. He also sounded like cousin Matthias—currently in the clink. Or the new vicar. The haberdasher’s son. That questionable carpetmonger whose wool bled dye onto the streets when it rained and left part of the cobbles a very pretty greenish, purpley, whitish-blue…

Oh, and the neighborhood cat. Since this last bit of information was gathered from the neighborhood loon, Shelby wasn’t too keen on the tip, but it was about as good as the others she’d received, so she kept it out of a perverse obstinance.

The well she’d tried pumping for secrets had long gone dry. No one had seen anything, the man looked like everyone, and he could have been from anywhere.

This did not stop Shelby.

Her entire family’s fate rested on answers, she would get them. Did anyone know how hard it was to secure a decent position when a girl’s kin were accused of a variety of murders?

Shelby certainly knew. It was hard.

How was a cook to get work as a cook when she was accused of poisoning her last two husbands?

Rory, on the other hand, had a variety of offers—all of an unsavory sort. There were any number of people who wanted to hire a man who would stab another in the middle of a crowded pub without fear of repercussion. If only it were true, he could have taken them up on their offers…

Since she’d been trained as a lady’s maid and had such sterling family recommendations, it was almost obvious that Shelby’s previous employment was at a factory wherein she’d nearly lost three fingers and an arm. She considered her options: unsavory or unsafe occupations with her family scattered across the country, or a slightly-more-savory and moderately-safer position with her family close at hand.

Shelby wasn’t bottle-head stupid.

So, she’d root out some answers. Since keeping her ear to the ground hadn’t worked, she’d use someone else’s.

Which is why she stood hidden behind a corner, nibbling at a delicious meat turnover, staring at the back of a set of broad shoulders.

She had been following Principal Officer John Lowe for the better part of the day. If she knew what he knew, John Lowe might lead her straight to Sir Sinister. Shelby usually spent her half-days wandering little bits of wilderness, but in this case she did not feel her day wasted. Especially if each place he stopped gave samples of the most delicious treats she’d ever had—since mum’s biscuits, of course. She was thankful trailing the man took her all over London, otherwise her waistline might suffer.

She’d had the idea to follow him early in the day. He was always nearby, anyway. He’d been at the butcher when she was at the baker. He was at the tailor when she’d been at the cooper. When she was questioning the milliner, he was at the haberdasher. He hadn’t seen her, at least. She’d been sneaky as Pete.

So now she stepped where he stepped. He’d meandered in a methodical way, entering few stores, speaking with specific people. The shortcuts he’d used were some of the most interesting alleys, all rather pretty in their way—one ran between a section of the old Roman walls and an interesting curio shop backed up to a small garden. Whither he wandered, she wandered too. After he left the baker’s she had entered. And discovered Heaven.

“Oh, dearie, try some of this pie, the last of our batch of samples!” The cheerful, round proprietor called.

Shelby hadn’t known there was such a thing as a sample. Now that she knew…

Buttery crust flaked around the most savory mixture of beef and herbs, basil and thyme, and what was she thinking, she had questions to ask!

Which is how she discovered that the baker had informed the nosy Principal Officer John Lowe that the vague description reminded him of a Frenchman.

She’d next followed him to a confectionary, where they gave little samples of mouthwatering toffee. (That’s where she learned about the resemblance to cousin Matthias.)

It was when the waiter at the coffee house approached her with a small cup of flavored brew, gratis, that she became suspicious. Her eyes darted to that set of broad shoulders currently speaking to a cobbler across the street.

Play her for a fool, eh? Not Shelby Cooke!

Shelby thanked the waiter very nicely, politely took the coffee from him, and stormed towards those broad shoulders.

One hand upon her hip, she thrust the steaming cup under the man’s nose (as he was in the middle of a sentence), “What is the meaning of this?”

Calm, hazel eyes glanced at the cup, then her face. “I thought you might be thirsty.”

Thirsty.

She was torn between laughter and rage. Rage won out. “I’ll have you know, Principal Officer John Lowe, I do not appreciate being led upon a merry chase.”

Truthfully, until she’d realized his ruse it had been a delightful day. She’d enjoyed peeking in the quaint shops, nibbling away, smelling roses as she passed a quiet garden. And the scent wafting from the cup in her hand was enough to set her mouth drooling. But no one made a fool of Shelby Cooke.

The runner watched her in his calm way, causing the steady heat of irritation up the back of her neck to warm a degree.

She huffed.

“Excuse me,” he told the gaping tradesman, “I’ll return in a moment.” He took her by the elbow and was able to march her three steps down a side-street before she shrugged free. Manhandling her, now! She opened her mouth to bombast him, but he managed to speak first.

“Miss Cooke, the last time we met you were not exactly forthcoming.”

Shelby sniffed. “I answered all your questions.”

Those hazel eyes pierced her. “Not thoroughly.”

“Don’t you try to make me whiddle secrets, you bamboozler!”

“You have such a great many secrets to tell? Miss Cooke, you’re playing a very dangerous game. I’ve already told you there’s a murderer afoot. I don’t know what secrets you think to hide, but I will uncover them, mark my words. It would be in your best interest to tell me what you know. Stop this dodgy pursuit. If I know what you’re about, it’s certain there are others—much less concerned for your well-being—who do, too.”

“Is that why you’ve had me on a wild goose chase, tromping around the streets of London, questioning outlandish people, going into insignificant shops, and asking meaningless questions with equally worthless answers?”

“I’ve found some of them quite reliable.”

“Officer Low—”

“You do get flustered.”

“Officer L—”

“Call me Jack.”

Jack!

“Jack!” Jack. Pft. The cheek! “I will call you a trickster is what I will call you.”

“Miss Cooke, call me anything you’d like. But do take care. It would break my heart should something happen to you, especially if I could prevent it.”

Shelby’s lungs appeared to have stopped working. She couldn’t breathe.

So she raised the cup in her hand, swallowed its contents (robust, rich, and delectable), and handed him the empty container.

“Thank you for the drink.” She turned to walk away. Then she paused and added over her shoulder, “And the meat pie, the toffee, and the lavender shortbread.”

“Don’t forget the apricot delights,” he said, the barest hint of a smile rounding his cheeks.

“I’d enjoy more of those.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, next time.”

 

Amanda had a plan… a weak plan. Very well, it was a miserable plan, but what else was she to do? It was all fine and good if Shelby discovered a perfect suspect in the alleys and styes of London. They’d drag him to the Old Bailey, there’d be a trial, and justice served. But if what if Amanda were correct? That was a tad more difficult.

While her maid hounded the runner hither and yon across London, Amanda had a similar plan of attack (however weak and miserable), though hers was across a much more reasonable scope—a ballroom. The watch and handkerchief had led nowhere (though they’d hinted at Lord Denbigh, which had to count for something!). However, the voice in the hallway led directly to Lord Denbigh. Lord Denbigh might not be Sir Sinister, but he might know who was. So she would use that very great opportunity her family had provided, the Season, to work to her advantage. She would follow him.

Which possibly explained why Amanda was sneaking from potted plant to potted plant in the middle of a ballroom.

Well, no. That didn’t explain why she was sneaking from plant to plant. But it was some of the reasoning behind the action. After all, she didn’t want to be caught following the man. That would be disastrous.

The problem was that Amanda had never realized how difficult it was to sneak around a ballroom. She’d always supposed that one could easily disappear into the crowd, meld through the sea of strangers without much notice. Her current efforts proved her theory flawed.

Firstly, it was crowded—which she’d incorrectly assumed to be a good thing—such a crush that one had to squeeze between people (in a highly improper and personal way) in order to move about. Secondly, everyone was looking for everyone. It was like the opera; the entire point of going was to see and be seen. Now, thirdly: when one combined points first and second, the entire ballroom was a hodgepodge of people looking for other people which made it quite impossible to disappear in order to look for a person!

Amanda knew only a handful of souls in London and somehow all of them were positioned at equidistant locations and each one beckoned.

“Oh look, there are the Frasers! I do think I see that delightful Colonel What’s-his-name over by the punch. Colonel Campbell? Cowell? Drat, now it will plague me all evening. Is that Sir Robert dancing that quadrille? Wave, child, why aren’t you waving? You won’t be noticed if you don’t make yourself noticeable. Ah, and Lord Darvel standing next to Lord Stourton. How is my hair? I thought I felt a curl drop loose. Hmm. Well, no matter. Your hair is still apiece, at least, for all the good of that flighty maid. Lady Worthington, my dear Mary, how are you?”

Great-Aunt Celia greeted the other woman with both hands outstretched, pausing in the crush with Amanda in tow. The two women immediately fell to conversation which left her further opportunity to examine her flawed theory.

Let’s see, where was she? Ah, yes. Fourthly, though they were somehow able to manage to find every single person of her limited acquaintance in the crowded ballroom, she couldn’t catch sight of her quarry, so there was little point in trying to hide or sneak in the first place! (Nigh on impossible with Great-Aunt Celia, now that she thought about it. Amanda would position herself behind the best potted plant and her Great-Aunt would pull her right back out again.)

Finally, this was her first ball and she was supposed to be enjoying herself.

Which she was! The glittering candelabras, sparkling jewels, beautiful ladies, handsome gentlemen… She could ignore the haze of perfume barely masking body odor and simply appreciate the splendor.

Now if she only knew the location of one gentleman in particular!

“…which is the only way I managed to convince Lord Denbigh to come tonight.”

That caught Amanda’s attention. “So he is here…” She thought she muttered to herself, but the sharp look from Great-Aunt Celia revealed she’d spoken a little too clearly.

In fact, Lady Worthington had heard her as well. The kind-hearted lady didn’t make a fuss, she simply nodded and said, “Yes, my nephew can be exceedingly stubborn sometimes.”

Nephew? They were related? Amanda really must find that Debrett’s.

“I quite thoroughly know the feeling,” Great-Aunt Celia said in sympathy. Though to what, exactly, she was referring… Amanda was never stubborn. She hoped she could be reasonable without being implacable. Simply because she refused Geoffrey’s attempts to help hunt down a murderer—though no one need know about that.

“It’s all very well if he wants to hole up in the country on his own time, but this is the Season. He has duties, both familial and for his sovereign. Duties which lay not on the battlefield.”

She broke off, an uncharacteristic flush to her neck.

Great-Aunt Celia pat-patted her arm. “I know it was such a straining time. I wish I could have done something more to assist you…”

“Make you come all the way from Brighton? Absolutely not. Oh, there was nothing you could have done. Candace was inconsolable. Denbigh was twice as bad.” She broke off, attention grabbed by something over Amanda’s shoulder. “Oh dear, is Lord Auburn attempting a jig? His poor madam. I must track her down. Between the two of us we usually manage to keep him out of trouble…” Lady Worthington quickly left them, slipping through the throngs as easily as a water droplet slid down a window pane.

“You must watch yourself!” Great-Aunt Celia hissed as she took Amanda by the elbow. “It is exceedingly unwise to show such preference in a gentleman! You are fortunate it was my good friend who heard your interest—though she is his aunt!”

Gracious. She hadn’t wanted to be caught following the man, but here she was caught whispering over him. “Not an interest! A misunderstanding. He is the only person I have met in London that I haven’t yet seen. I will try to better reign my thoughts and keep them inside my head.”

That seemed to mollify her, though Celia wouldn’t be doing her duenna duty if she didn’t add a bit of admonishment. “You school that tongue of yours, otherwise there might be more than a misunderstanding. Those don’t bode well for either party, believe you me. Oh, there are the de Mowbrays! They have three daughters about your age.” Amanda heard they also had an eligible son. “Come, let me introduce you.”

She took Amanda’s hand and began to cane her way through the crowd—it was amazing how an accidental whack to shin with a solid piece of wood could clear an easy pathway. The crowd began to part before them like a rosy body of water.

Then, abruptly, Great-Aunt Celia stopped short.

“What is it? Are you unwell? Is your leg troubling you?”

“Limb, child, limb! Using such words in public! And to bring up such nonsense! I am perfectly sound, mind and body.” Both were questionable. “No, I just thought I would pause for a moment. Take in the scenery.”

Great-Aunt Celia had the grace to flush. (Though it might have been due the crowd.) The scenery currently consisted of a very tall, broad gentleman’s back and Mrs. Rowe’s rather garish puce-colored gown.

Then Amanda caught sight of a handsome figure heading their direction. Sir Robert’s dark eyes connected with hers even with the throng between them. Thank you, Aunt! That was it! Great-Aunt Celia was playing matchmaker! She’d subtly paused here, in this decidedly unscenic spot, to give him time to approach.

A little thrill tickled her. When he asked her to dance this time, Amanda could pretend they were in the Worthington’s empty ballroom…

“Mrs. Lidgate, Miss Pruett, good evening.”

The voice came from behind her. But Amanda was still watching Sir Robert’s approach.

And it was deep. Gravelly. Not rich and smooth.

She turned. He was so close in the crush, the first thing Amanda saw was the deep claret waistcoat. Her focus travelled up, past the crisp white cravat, over the strong jaw, to settle on a pair of shuttered sapphire eyes.

Lord Denbigh.

Ugh. What a messy web she’d weaved.

And from her smile and face-fanning, Great-Aunt Celia thought she’d done a favor. She thought Amanda was interested in the Viscount. Which she was, but not in the way her aunt had hoped. Well, at least she now knew the location of that one particular gentleman.

“Lord Denbigh, such a delight!” Great-Aunt Celia said into the ensuing silence.

Amanda already knew the regular, acceptable topics were wasted on Lord Denbigh. So, she said the first thing she thought might interest him. “I found my father’s epistolary.”

She was met with a blank stare. “His wha—oh, oh the epistolary, of course.”

“Since you had taken an interest, I thought it might be helpful to actually have the book in hand.”

Was that a smile?

“Indeed.” He looked… awkward. His stance was stiff (more so than simply a military bearing) and his brow furrowed. “It was actually upon the subject of books that I came to speak with you.”

Since that was the longest sentence Lord Denbigh had yet spoken to her, Amanda was intrigued. Since she could see Sir Robert still approaching, she was torn. Should she politely enter into a conversation which could delay Sir Robert’s chance to ask her to dance, or should she find a way to delay the conversation?

Great-Aunt Celia took advantage of her hesitation.

“Hmm. Well now, the music’s started. You can discuss books and whatnot while stepping lively just as well as standing still. Why don’t you two run along and dance?”

Amanda’s eyebrows rose in shock. Lord Denbigh made a choking sound. Great-Aunt Celia, for all her talk of propriety, looked as if there were nothing wrong in manipulating the couple to the dance floor.

“Shoo, go on, now. I feel the need to rest my leg and what better chaperone for my dearest niece than the entire ballroom.” Amanda noted she did not use the word limb. “I will be right over in that comfy-looking chair. Deliver her to me there, will you?”

She hobbled off before they could say a word. Amanda noted that her limp was exaggeratedly pronounced, though she used her cane more like the prow of a boat to part the crowd than an actual instrument of support.

Lord Denbigh’s jaw had clenched so tightly, Amanda didn’t know how the words, “Shall we?” escaped his lips.

She put her hand upon his sleeve. “It looks as though we were properly maneuvered. So, I shall be delighted, my lord.”

At that, his eyes unshuttered for a moment. There was a glint of humor and his lips twitched.

She counted it as a point to her.

As they walked to the floor, Amanda caught sight of Sir Robert. He gave her a small nod of concession and disappeared into the crowd. Amanda sighed a little, but she was certain they would get another chance.

Music filled the air as they took their positions. It was a paired country dance with slower movements and a great number of turns. Relief washed over her. She hadn’t wanted nerves to sabotage her first dance in society and a slow country dance was the perfect stepping stone.

Her partner, however, looked as though he’d rather be anywhere else—chewing glass, the midst of a bombardment of cannon fire, anywhere. The tension she had noticed in him earlier now practically radiated from his person. His shoulders were stiff, his spine ramrod straight, and his lips were pressed together so tightly they formed a solid white line. He made the first turn with perfect precision, but he stood so rigid and brittle that a single misstep might make him shatter.

“If I may be so forward…” There wasn’t any way to say it but to say it. “You don’t look comfortable, my lord.”

Lord Denbigh’s eyes darted to her, as if he’d forgotten her presence. “I’m not.”

So eloquent and informative. How like him. His brow furrowed and his hand clenched at his side. Then, amazingly, he elaborated: “I haven’t danced in well-over three years.”

Good Heavens above!

The man was nervous!

She fought her initial reaction—a shocked laugh of surprise would not go far in helping him to relax. She tried the blandest, most reassuring smile. Something which would not seem to mock. Flattery, her aunt had said. “Then this will be a first dance for us both. Though your steps have fooled me. You dissemble quite well.”

He relaxed very slightly. Not enough.

“Even so, your posture is a bit stiff.” She let her smile warm to take the sting out of her critique. Lord Denbigh shrugged his shoulders. It softened his appearance about as much as rain sprinkled on granite. “Anyone spectating might get the silly notion that you didn’t even ask me to dance.”

He laughed.

An actual laugh. Certainly, it was one syllable Ha! exclaimed abruptly, but it did the trick. He looked anything but comfortable—his shoulders maintained their strict posture—yet they’d thankfully lost the brittle edge. He no longer looked about to break.

While his dancing improved, conversation was like drawing blood from a stone… buried in a landslide.

“You said you wanted to speak with me about books?”

“I did.” He paused. This time he wasn’t simply being curt. From the wrinkled brow, she could tell he was choosing his words carefully. “It must be difficult awaiting books to fill your library. I had hoped you would allow me to offer a few selections from my own collection for your brother and his tutelage.”

Well!

My word!

Amanda recalled him examining their empty bookshelves, but this generosity was unexpected. (As were the two, complete sentences back-to-back!)

“That… that is very kind.”

And surprising. She’d made the stony Lord Denbigh laugh, he’d shared with her an almost vulnerable side, and now he could almost be… charming. Perhaps there was hope for him after all!

He nodded, brusquely. “Good. I will have them sent.”

“I am certain Geoffrey would like to thank you in person for such a thoughtful consideration. If you deliver them, we could arrange a nuncheon—”

“That is unnecessary.”

“Oh.” Hmm. Well.

That was that, then.

The surly, unreasonable gentleman would bestow a kind and generous gift and accept no sort of remuneration. He’d leave them beholden to his condescension.

Why did that kind and generous gesture irritate her so very, very much? It didn’t matter that this was her first dance and any number of people might be watching, Amanda wanted to stomp on his toes.

Perhaps he sensed her change in mood. “You played tolerably well the other night.” A conciliatory compliment?

“I thank you for the high praise,” she said.

He nodded.

Nodded! As if her statement had not dripped irony. She tried again. “Not all of your partners received your good grace.”

There. His brow crinkled just enough for her to know he recognized and felt her rebuke. “It is… frustrating when people take no effort in methodology.”

“It is hard to strategize when one’s partner is breathing down one’s neck.”

“If cards were laid in any plan, in any logical sort of manner—” He sputtered. “How is a man to respond if his partner plays in such a chaotic frenzy giving no indication of her thoughts?”

“Perhaps someone should invent a system of communication other than grunts and huffs so that one partner can know the other’s bidding.”

“A trail of breadcrumbs might be nice! That would at least be some guide to follow the track of a woman’s mind. If one of your sex simply knew what you were about, or took any time to learn a bit about the game—” Amanda choked back any response. Whist was not the study of artillery! Or calculations of astronomical movements! It was a baker’s dozen cards in four suits! “—but all feminine kind charge into things without a thought in head for stratagem or safety! Take you, for example.”

“Me?” When did safety become an issue in whist?

“You take unnecessary risks!” He said this with such passion and vehemence it nearly caused Amanda to trip. She recovered her steps quite gracefully. She hardly called finessing a queen a risk, necessary or otherwise. The only unnecessary risk she had taken lately involved following her brother into a cemetery and nearly being clobbered to death by tombstones, but he couldn’t know about that.

He was not Mr. Diggs.

Geoffrey had told her so.

Well, there was also the little matter of chasing down a murderer, but he couldn’t know about that either. Other than those minor and completely unusual circumstances, Amanda generally avoided anything resembling danger. She was practical!

Which did not make her sound boring at all.

She huffed.

He puffed. After two turns in silence, he sighed. “I think we started out on the wrong foot.”

“Your right, my left.”

“That’s not what I was referring.”

“Oh, I do understand. Unlike cards, I can follow a conversation.”

“I mean… What I’m trying to convey is… that you… you annoy me.”

Amanda gasped. She stared up, past the claret waistcoat and starched cravat and solid chin. Blue eyes stared back, though they weren’t shuttered. They sparked. The man didn’t have the grace to look embarrassed. He had the gall to look rather angry, actually. She was the one who should feel angry. And she did.

She annoyed him?

He annoyed her! At least she was lady enough not to mention it out loud!

“I annoy you?”

“Greatly. I am greatly vexed.”

So she could see. A flush of heat peeked from the rim of his high neckcloth.

“Then I’m happy to announce an ease to some of your troubles, sir. The music is stopped. Our dance is done.”

He dropped his arms and glanced around them as if completely unaware of their surroundings. Dutifully, he offered her a stiff arm. They walked through the crowds in silence and, as requested, he deposited her at Great-Aunt Celia’s cushy chair.

“Lord Denbigh, how kind of you to see my nei—”

In the middle of her sentence, he gave a curt bow, turned his back, and stalked away.

“—niece safel… what happened, child?”

Amanda was furious. So furious, she blurted: “Am I annoying?”

“Annoying?” A laugh from behind her. Male. Rich, smooth. Good Heavens, he heard me! Sir Robert stepped into her circle of vision, his bright smile lighting his expressive eyes. “Not a whit! I find you quite charming and delightful. Tell me who told you so and I shall set him right!”

There. See?

Sir Robert thought her delightful!

“Charming.” She repeated. “Why?” At his shocked and rather blank expression, Amanda laughed. “Do forgive me. It is my turn for unfair questions. I simply wonder how, given similar circumstances, one person can lean to one extreme and another the reverse.”

Sir Robert’s roguish smile returned. “Simply a matter of taste. Some people have it, others don’t. I, of course, am brimming with taste, so you can take my word as pat.”

She smiled back at him.

“Now Miss Pruett, I have been waiting my turn quite patiently to ask: might I have this dance?”

They were the same words he’d used in the Worthington’s ballroom. And they melted her heart in precisely the same way. Her circulatory organ puddled somewhere near her feet and her brain must have melted with it, for it took a good three squishy beats before she murmured, “Of course.”

Her second dance of the evening was nothing like the first. She floated across the floor as if in a dream, the world around blurred into a cloud of nothing. Just as she imagined, everything drifted away. They were back in the Worthington’s empty ballroom. Sir Robert with his dazzling smile was the only thing she saw.

The smile permanently affixed to her face threatened to slip only when she focused on one minor imperfection.

Lord Denbigh glowered from the sidelines.

But when she looked again, he had gone.

The dance finished and Sir Robert led her back to where Great-Aunt Celia chatted with the Fosters. Amanda greeted Sophie in a daze, though the other girl’s subtle pinch woke her a little from the dream. Sir Robert remained by her side, charismatic and affable, and left only after a respectable period.

Sophie leaned in immediately.

“You must tell all.”

So Amanda did.

The carriage ride home from the ball passed much as the ride home from the Worthington’s—Great-Aunt Celia snoozed while Amanda’s mind wandered. Yet, despite the warm and rather tingly sensations floating around her chest like butterflies at the thought of Sir Robert, her mind kept pulling her into an unfinished argument with her first dance partner.

She should have stomped on his foot!

She should have called him rude. Obnoxious. Oafish! A lout!

She was staring out the carriage window, contemplating her choice of epithets, when she caught sight of Number Sixteen.

“Aunt Celia… Aunt Celia wake up—”

The older woman grunted, “The carriage hasn’t yet stopped, child. What nonsense are you about?”

“Aunt Celia! The house has been vandalized!”