Kiss in the Mist by Elizabeth Brady (8)

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Exactly twenty-one minutes earlier, Julian found himself upon the front steps of… where in the world was he? He’d come by way of the cemetery and around the corner to—he very subtly adjusted his stance so that he could read the small brass plaque affixed beside the door:

№ 16.

Wherever it was, Julian didn’t want to be standing here and he certainly didn’t want to be standing next to the gentleman beside him. Mr. Charles Abercrombie chatted cheerfully, oblivious to his unreceptive audience. Julian was not here to pass the time of day. He was only here out of duty. Out of obligation.

His life was obligation.

Today, it annoyed him.

But not as much as the other gentleman’s cloying cologne.

Could the man not discover a more pleasant combination?

He smelled like a forest.

Julian supposed it might be nice… if someone enjoyed his nostrils being assailed by all the sylvan goodness of moss and sickly sweet decaying leaves combined with sharp pine and eye-tingling sap. All he needed was a dash of fungus or tree bark.

But after the absolutely dismal, dreary weather they’d had this year, he really didn’t want to be reminded of mold and fungus while trapped on the porch with a man who wore a cologne that made one want to collect mushrooms.

Which made little sense, but the footman still hadn’t opened the door and Julian really wasn’t a very patient man.

Anymore.

The lanky buck beside him jauntily rocked back and forth on his heels. Why not burst into whistling song while he was at it? Even though Julian felt the restlessness crawling under his skin, he maintained a stiff posture.

“Beautiful weather today, wouldn’t you say, Denbigh?”

“…”

“Make no mistake, I do agree the summer hasn’t been up to snuff, but today is lovely. And quite a charming lady with lovely assets we’re here to see.” Abercrombie chuckled as if sharing a joke.

Julian remained silent, staring at the closed door. But his hand was far less restrained. It twitched and tightened, threatening to bunch into a fist. His finger flicked, expecting and missing the comforting presence of fur. Instead it hit his pant leg, brushed off the lawn fabric, and curled into his palm so tightly the crescent of his fingernail dug into his flesh. (Mitigated by his gloves, thankfully.)

How dare any man call himself a gentleman and bring up a lady’s virtues upon her doorstep? Hinting at her physical attributes…

Julian may not even remember the chit’s face, but he wasn’t about to go harking of her curves to the world. And he was the one who had his hands wrapped all around them!

Which isn’t where he wanted his thoughts to go, either. But his thoughts ran rather rampant these days.

There was a rustle behind the door, as if someone didn’t quite know how to turn the knob. Then it swung open with such force Julian worried the poor footman might be squished behind the weight.

But it was not a footman or maid who had thrown the door open with such alacrity.

It was the butler himself. The stately elder man stood grandly, tall and proud, with the slightest curve to his upper back. It gave the impression of a vulture, head bent down to examine its carrion prey. While a lesser man (such as the lump of flesh beside him) might feel uncomfortable and fidgety under the beady stare, Julian handed over his card promptly.

The butler’s lip gave a near imperceptible twitch and he nodded, his over-large proboscis like a beak on his bobbing head.

“If you’ll follow me, my lord. Sir.”

He led them to a modestly furnished drawing room. To Julian’s amusement, Mr. Abercrombie took the most comfortable, plush-looking armchair. Julian, on the other hand, was used to standing. Sitting forced a man to lug himself upright when the fairer sex entered; then it caught him in that awkward limbo, hovering like a fool until the woman took her place and he could be seated yet again. He may be a stickler for protocol, but standing was much more practical than a cushy chair when awaiting any female. Bypassing the couch, Julian settled into a looming stance by the front windows, hands locked behind his back. Thus he waited, examining the room at his leisure and comfort.

He was happy to see that any mud stains had been scrubbed efficiently from the carpet—though the carpet itself was beginning to show signs of wear. Surreptitiously, he kicked back the corner. An imitation Turkey rug. Serviceable, not sumptuous furniture, it clearly came with the house. Someone had taken time to make the room inviting, but it was obvious that the family had pockets to let.

Everything teetered on the border of respectability: location, house, furnishings, staff. Having the butler instead of a footman open the door indicated staff was limited. They likely strained to handle even routine duties. Twelve servants—possibly as few as eight—might be adequate for a respectable house this size. Julian would be surprised if they had six.

These were little items of which he took note. Not important in the grand scheme of things. But as he noted that the gentleman with whom he’d shared a porch was plush in his own pockets (a new and luxurious ruby cravat pin), habitually gambled (he absently bounced a sixpence across his fingers like a counting chip), and was an over-reaching toadeater (self-apparent), Julian took a bit of pride and effort in his observations. It was important to exercise his mind.

He had a feeling it wouldn’t receive much opportunity in the next hour or so. Especially given his current company. So, he stood quite comfortably, watching as the younger man fidgeted through his nerves.

Within minutes of their arrival, the butler returned with another guest. While Mr. Charles Abercrombie was a pompous dandy, George Henry Ruthven, Lord Darvel was also a pompous dandy—though twenty-five years older so the dandified look for him was rather overwhelming. Blue vest, yellow breeches, maroon coat, he looked like a glorified peacock. (Though he, at least, did not smell like a forest.)

Nose in the air, he tendered a brief acknowledgement to the other gentlemen in the room, tossed back his coattails, took a seat on the couch, and began conversation. Julian was in no mood to talk. Or, to listen, rather. Lord Darvel didn’t require another person to engage. Like other dandies, he enjoyed the sound of his own voice, especially the way he formed his Rs.

He’d begun with a monologue on horses. Then the growing unrest in Greece (his Rs rolled softly). Now haberdashers. Besides an abundance of Rs, what one had to do with the other Julian wouldn’t dare to guess—the man’s mind worked like a London city roadmap. Back to livestock. Oh! Sir Humphrey Davy’s lamp… Finally, something of interest!

Apparently, Lord Darvel had investments and his source for china clay had collapsed with the mine. Explosions in shafts were a universal and serious problem due to sparks igniting unseen gas pockets. Julian had his own concerns on the subject and actually opened his mouth to venture an opinion on Davy’s versus Stephenson’s designs for firedamp safety when Mr. Abercrombie switched the topic—back to horses.

Julian snapped his jaw shut.

It slightly surprised him that Abercrombie failed to continue the subject. The man had penned one or two (flawed) scientific treatises. Horses, however, gave Abercrombie a safer opening. Both men were avid sportsmen. It was Julian’s unfortunate bad luck that they immediately bonded through a mutual love of fox hunts. Julian enjoyed hunting. He did not enjoy the hunt. Mounted cavalry chasing down a solitary, herded prey—it was a sorry imitation of war for sport. Of that, he would never approve.

So he stood in stony silence, letting their words wash over him without acknowledgement, waiting to complete this responsibility. Though, in his determination to play nursemaid, Julian had neglected one very important detail in its pursuit—he had no idea whose house he was in. Who lived at Number Sixteen?

It hadn’t mattered much to him at the time. Nor this morning as he ate a quick breakfast. Nor during the carriage ride or brisk walk through the cemetery. The only thing that occupied his thoughts was fulfilling his obligation.

Now, it mattered. He hadn’t returned to Town long enough to differentiate one flighty miss from another, but he could make some deductions. The pair of gentlemen before him gave him contrary clues as to the girl’s identity. The young, flush dandy indicated pursuit of a debutante whose beauty (or connections) would outweigh any financial difficulties.

But an older baron who had received recent strains (if Julian wasn’t mistaken—Darvel’s coat was newer, but everything else was carefully refashioned to current mode) hinted at someone of inconsequential beauty with a much greater income who could overlook many things in exchange for a title.

So which was she? Beautiful, homely, well-connected, or desperate? Neither gentleman had done him the courtesy of dropping her name.

Julian dreaded begging introduction to the very person upon whom he was calling. Not only was it gauche, it offended his pride. Again, his finger twitched at his side. He’d felt so awkward lately, he might as well inure himself to the sensation. He loathed the impending arrival, but he also wished he could simply get it over with. Considering that his house call was specifically to ascertain wellbeing, he’d rather hoped she would be on time.

Julian admired punctuality.

And having to spend any more of his time listening to inane comparisons of horse strides as the minutes ticked relentlessly…

“Well, gentleman, good morning!” A whirlwind of a woman burst into the room, trim and blonde, clad in a ruby dress with matching turban. She held a cane aloft in one hand while the other managed to encompass the whole scene.

Mr. Abercrombie was still struggling to stand (to Julian’s perverse delight) as she continued, “Please, do forgive our tardiness. Lord Darvel, it is good to see you this morning! It’s been an age. Lord Denbigh, what a surprise! I understand you rode today, Mr. Abercrombie, and such perfect weather for it.

“What are we still doing cooped up indoors? It’s a delightful day, let’s spend it al fresco! In this blighted year, we should relish a rare moment of sunshine! First a tour, perhaps? Come, gentleman and I shall show you the rest of the house.”

Julian was very rarely taken aback. This woman… he recalled that he had met her and her niece the previous evening—Newgate? No, he was rubbish at names anymore. Ludwell? Mrs. Celia Lidgate, that was it—this woman could have squashed Napoleon’s armies with her incessant speech! Her mere presence commanded attention and the barrage of words from her lips assailed a man like cannonballs. They pounded one after another, unrelenting as volley fire.

Mrs. Lidgate was accompanied by her niece this morning too, though the she was practically hidden behind her blustering aunt’s gaudy ensemble. Both women were striking in their resemblance with their fair skin and remarkable golden hair. But there had been something about the niece—Anna, wasn’t it? Anna Pruett. He tried shifting his weight to his right foot for a better angle, but still couldn’t get a good view around Mrs. Lidgate’s high turban.

The temperature rapidly increased and his collar felt unusually tight. He tried his left foot, but that position afforded no better view. It was all because… well, Julian had surprised himself last night. He’d taken notice. And now, to his further surprise, he found himself almost impatient to see her.

After slugging through a dismal round of whist with his first partner, frustration had flared his paper-thin patience into ashes. Mrs. Lidgate’s niece, however, had calmed him. She’d shown spirit, intelligence, and strategy. She had a quick wit and spine—she’d put up with him, for starters. He’d found himself watching her. Well into the night, he’d remembered her stormy eyes that had laughed at him over the playing cards.

Now, if only Mrs. Lidgate would move that upside-down strawberry perched atop her head, he could see her.

Mrs. Lidgate’s niece.

Oh, Damnation…

The connection hit him in an instant.

If Mrs. Lidgate and her niece lived here, in this house, at Number Sixteen… that meant the foolish chit who’d followed the equally foolish boy into the cemetery was the same feisty woman he’d partnered at whist?

Impossible!

She’d seen him clearly across the card table and there was no recognition. She hadn’t shown the slightest sign that she knew who he was!

Then again… he hadn’t recognized her, either.

Was he supposed to have memorized her features? Julian inwardly cursed.

It had been bleak, clouds filtered the moonlight, mist swallowed them, the house was shuttered and dark with the staff all abed… Halfway through his folly, he’d sobered (helped by the torrential rain), so by the time her misshapen form wrapped in an oversized coat had come upon him, he was wet, tired, and angry. Then she’d gone and hurt herself, entirely due to his provocation, adding concern to the emotional mixture. And it was dashed difficult keeping one’s footwork steady carrying a body through mud—not to mention while maintaining a steady stream of scolding for an irresponsible boy. He knew he still had to refill a grave and repair whatever havoc Remus had wrought wherever the mutt had run off to. In truth, he’d been too preoccupied to pay much regard to the girl’s features.

Unless it became customary in a London drawing room to make introductions by lifting ladies into one’s arms and tossing them about like a ragdoll, Julian wouldn’t have recognized her. Perhaps, during a dance, he might have thought the curve of her hip unusually familiar, but at the time he hadn’t noted much other than how her uneven weight distribution affected his stride in seeping, mucky earth.

Though he hadn’t been too busy last night.

Julian vividly remembered cheeks which blushed with charming ease and a pair of laughing eyes mixed grey and blue like a churning sea. She’d anchored him while he floundered.

Well, now at least he was saved the embarrassment of begging introduction.

Damn.

What had he done to deserve this?

The same girl he’d carried home.

And, despite what he’d just discovered, now that he’d thought of her eyes, he was actively trying to catch her gaze.

Finally! The red turban moved along with a flourish of skirts and, for once, Julian wished he’d been sitting.

Her eyes were too communicative, easily betraying her emotions. Turbulent grey swirled when she was upset, fiery blue took over in joy. He’d seen brilliant turquoise flash last night each time she took a trick.

Now, her gaze swept over the three gentlemen in the room. A hint of grey disappointment shown—due to the slim pickings, or the particular assembly? Julian stiffened.

That’s when she caught his fervent gaze. Her eyes widened. She blushed, took a little breath. When she inhaled, all the air sucked right from his chest.

She quickly dropped her gaze.

It was a reaction, certainly.

Though he couldn’t have said what reaction he’d desired, or why he even cared. But he’d swear her eyes had been more blue than grey.

“Let me show you the library first, gentlemen,” Mrs. Lidgate decreed, “then we shall cut via the library to the terrace where I’ve arranged for some refreshments.”

She turned and clipped down the hallway at a rapid pace, nearly matching the speed of her tongue. Since her niece was at her heel, Julian had no choice but to obediently follow.

Mrs. Lidgate remarked upon the molded ceilings and inlaid floor, pointing out little details until, “…from here you’ll see the excellent prospect of the gardens.” The grand dame flung her arms wide to encompass… a decidedly barren library. “Observe the fine woodwork detailing upon the shelves. Though, since the move still progresses, do forgive the deficit of furniture.”

The two other gentlemen took the empty room in stride, seemingly blind to the family’s obvious retrenchment, accepting Mrs. Lidgate’s word that the furniture was forthcoming. Julian knew it was not. The house was let, furbished, and minimal.

Did the family truly have nothing left of their own?

He immediately tamped down the tug he felt at his gut.

Julian felt a presence at his elbow.

“No furniture, though there is excellent space for Father’s collection,” Miss Anna added, pertly.

It took a moment before Julian realized she had surprised a smirk from him. He consciously relaxed his mouth to find that, yes indeed, the left corner of his lips had indented his cheek into a dimple.

These two women understood the precarious situation: they clearly had minimal resources but still were forced to entertain a society mesmerized by the material and monetary. Yet they rallied—with wit and a captivating charm. Julian always appreciated humor in the face of grim circumstance.

Their tour guide would not be derailed. “Indeed.” Mrs. Lidgate shot a sharp glance in her niece’s direction. “Lord Edgbaston has some fine tomes including an epistle assortment from several philosophizers. I believe he has a custom cabinet in mind to display them. The room itself offers a lovely entrance to the terrace and was influenced, of course, by Brown and Miller. There’s a charming Greek folly by the gate…”

Mrs. Lidgate ushered the other gentlemen through the door to the terrace, indicating points of architectural interest with her cane. Her niece trailed behind. Julian found himself lingering as well.

He hadn’t visited to pick up another stray nor pay court to some poor female on the fringe of society with unrealistic dreams. He had come to see to her wellbeing, and he had done that. She was fine, fit as a fiddle, dancing eyes and all. His conscience eased, his culpability erased. He could walk away now, duty done.

But he found himself staying in library. Not for the girl who’d hit her head because of him. Not for duty, no. He stayed for the girl with the stormy eyes and he wondered. He wondered about the lack of books on the shelves and the imitation Turkey rug and the outlandish reticule and the phenomenal whist playing. He wondered. Heaven help him, he wondered what color her eyes would be if she met his gaze again.

He listened to Mrs. Lidgate’s banter trickling through the terrace door with half an ear. And since there was nothing else left in the room to observe, he observed her (though he made a great show of squinting at the woodwork on the empty shelves).

She was likely accustomed to wearing her hair differently—she kept patting the soft, golden curls with a tentative hand. She had paused in the center of the room, an expectant energy about her as if waiting for him to exit so that she could stay, unnoticed. Julian obliged and averted his attention, running a finger and seemingly his focus along the ornately engraved shelving. As soon as she saw her moment, she bent down to pick up something from the floorboards. She wiggled it back and forth before it released from the wood.

For a brief moment the night before, they had actually clicked. They’d been synchronized. Someone other than his family had understood his intentions without being told. It was a fleeting moment. She’d gone back to smiles and flirtations as soon as the last card was captured. But that connection had meant something to him. He wasn’t yet certain what.

Which is probably why he felt an urge to say something to make her smile. To repair her impression of him as an utter, stiff clod. And likely the reason the inane words slipped from his lips: “The epistolary is not here.”

No. Of course not. There was nothing there. What a miserable way to hack through the solid block of ice between them. How in the world he thought a reminder of the lack of a book would make her smile…

Yet she did.

She looked up, a bit startled to find herself with company. Then she smiled. And he saw her eyes change. Grey clouds fled to the outer rims of her irises leaving nothing but blue. The temperature spiked again. His cravat was impossibly tight. He couldn’t look away.

“No, I believe my father left it in his rooms. ‘A philosopher at night is a bedtime’s delight.’ I could fetch it if you’d like…”

“No.” He was brusque.

Abrupt.

What he’d liked to have said was more along the lines of: What a charming sentiment. Please, don’t go to the trouble for my silly fancy. What came out of his mouth? No.

He tried again. “You found something?” He motioned to her closed hand.

The smile disappeared. Clouds returned to a stormy sky. She retreated a step, her arms came about herself.

Fool. Point out the one thing she’d taken pains to hide!

“A bit of glass,” she said.

There was no place for her to put it, nowhere for it to be concealed. He’d made her uncomfortable, her shoulders hitched and rounded. If there were a loud noise, she might buck like a startled animal.

He opened his mouth (likely to make matters worse), when she thrust out her hand. There, in her palm, a small sherd of clear glass.

She stared at it, then placed it in the middle of an empty shelf. “Dangerous for someone to tread upon. Possibly overlooked while clearing the room. Things have a tendency to break in a move.”

A simple enough answer. But there was something more to it. Something deeper. She’d paled when she looked upon the sherd in her hand. She was uneasy. She’d tried to keep it a secret, why? Did she break something that upset her? A valuable? An heirloom? Unlikely. There was nothing in the room to shatter and he doubted there had been.

He almost asked when something in his brain finally switched on. She won’t like it if you probe…

No, she wouldn’t.

“Miss Anna…”

She smiled, a little blue returning. “Amanda,” she corrected, gently.

Julian’s neck burned, the skin tightening in an ugly flush. Thank fashion for cravats and high collars. He grimaced and bit back the curse upon his lips. Details. Details! Such a fool.

He took a breath, then forced the words out. They came more gruffly than he’d intended, but he did ask, “Miss Amanda. Show me the gardens?”

“Of course,” she smiled, wary. Still, she rallied. “There is a lovely entrance to the terrace and you might recognize the influence of Brown and Miller…”

This time, Julian identified his smirk immediately. He even let it sit on his face and rest for a while.

The bright sunlight blinded him as they stepped into the gardens. The yard wasn’t big or extravagant, the hedges grew rampant, but it was rather nice as far as gardens went. Remus would decimate the daisies and demolish the daffodils, but it had enough space for a good stretch of legs. Flowers fell about each other in a happy disarray. His sister Tibby would adore it. His mother would bring out snips to trim the bushes and prune the trees.

Though why he imagined his family’s reaction to the small square, he didn’t know. He supposed he felt… comfortable.

A surprisingly lavish spread awaited them with tea, cakes, and savouries. Mrs. Lidgate hovered a teapot over a plain, white cup. “Lord Denbigh, do you take sugar?”

He did. But Julian took one look at the huge chunks and said, “No, Madam.”

A blonde maid skittered across the lawn delivering plates of delicious-looking pastries with flaky crust. The girl was full of nervous energy, clearly unaccustomed to guests. So far, she was only the second servant he’d seen. He hadn’t bumped into anyone else when he’d deposited Amanda upon the sofa and fled—besides her brother, of course.

Her brother.

Who would be able to recognize him as the hulking brute who’d caused his sister’s injury.

Which could cause any bit of embarrassment for both parties if the boy blurted out their inappropriate first meeting in front of strangers—or even Amanda herself! She hadn’t recognized him and Julian didn’t particularly desire her to know that he was the one who had manhandled her. If he could find the lad quickly enough, he’d warn him before such events occurred.

“Where is your brother?” he blurted out.

She blinked, taken aback. “I did not know you knew him, my lord. But, of course, you must have heard something of him last night. Daniel is on his Grand Tour. He had the opportunity to attend the Congress in Vienna last year and was to make a leisurely progression home. Unfortunately, there was an accident…” She broke off as her voice cracked. “My parents have gone to care for him, but we’ve yet to receive further word.”

Was he to touch upon all the uncomfortable subjects?

“You have another brother, I believe?”

Brilliant, Julian. Interrogate her before offering any sort of sympathy.

“Geoffrey?” Now she was surprised that a viscount she’d just met would mention a brother who wasn’t yet old enough to be noticed. “Indeed, Geoffrey is… well, where is he?”

“My dear companion Miss Heatly has taken it upon herself to instruct the boy while his parents are away,” Mrs. Lidgate answered, smoothly. “It does boys no good at all to be idle, wouldn’t you agree? Miss Heatly excels at occupying youth at serious pursuits. Those of us a bit more advanced have the grace and mental fortitude to indulge in leisure without running to vice. Though I still maintain that one should not be idle!

“Ah! What a brilliant plan for a day like today. Lad! What’s his name, there? The lanky wiry one? Rory? Step lively, now, and set up the hoops for a game of pall-mall! A bit old fashioned perhaps, but I’m vile at trucco. It’s still whacking a ball around the lawn.”

 

Julian stood, ready to make his excuses. Mrs. Lidgate’s companion was obviously not the only lady of the house who excelled at keeping others busy—disguised as leisure or otherwise. But Julian had seen that Miss Amanda Pruett’s health was sound. He’d learned her actual name. He had absolutely no intention of getting dragged into an awkward game of ground-billiards during which he’d have to suffer small talk. He’d already made her squirm under curt questioning, there was no telling what harm a little talk about the weather might do.

A movement from the back of the house made him pause. He raised his eyes. There, in the second-story window, was the boy about whom he’d just asked. Amanda’s brother, Geoffrey.

Perhaps he hadn’t seen him.

Well, what did it matter, anyway? He hadn’t recognized Amanda in broad daylight, nor had she known him. It was highly unlikely the boy would do any better. Especially at this distance…

Their gazes locked.

Geoffrey’s eyes widened.

In recognition.

Julian did the only thing he could think. He put his forefinger to his lips and mouthed, “Shhh.”

The boy’s round face relaxed. Then burst into a grin. He nodded.

The boy wouldn’t out him as a cemetery-lurking, maiden-terrorizing creeper. A surprising weight lifted from Julian’s shoulders. He was safe. For the moment, at least. He didn’t feel like pressing his luck.

He returned the boy’s nod, gratefully.

Then, he addressed his hostess: “Mrs. Lidgate, I’m afraid I cannot do this today.”

Amanda sharply turned her head Julian’s direction. Her spine stiff, her entire posture alert. Was she actually hoping he’d stay? Or was she annoyed that he’d leave before the festivities?

Hell, he had no desire to find out. Suddenly annoyed with her, annoyed with himself, his hand clenched into a fist. Jaw tight, he said, with as much civility as he could manage, “I must say good day.”

“Oh, Lord Denbigh, surely you might be able to stay a while? It is still early.”

Amanda glanced at him. When their eyes met, she quickly turned away. Her eyes were grey, not a trace of blue to be seen. Well, he’d brought up every unpleasant subject and was now refusing to play in their games. If all he could expect was a cold shoulder, it was past time to leave.

“Alas, madam, I must go. Thank you, but I bid you adieu.”

He had little idea as he passed the garden’s lovely terrace, admiring the clear influences of Brown and Miller, that with his simple statement he had just become the primary suspect.